Viktor couldn't sleep.
The pastry sat on his desk where he'd left it, apple filling dried and crusted. Hours had passed since Emeline walked out. Hours of sitting on his floor, staring at nothing, feeling the hollow space where her warmth used to be.
The map lay spread across his lap. Charles's neat handwriting marked the route through Eisenholm's upper district. Simple. Straightforward. Professional.
His hands wouldn't stop shaking.
He tried to focus. Traced the path with his finger for the hundredth time. Past the merchant quarter. Through the noble estates. To the Farrow property. In through the unlocked window. Destroy the sculpture. Out the same way.
Simple.
The walls pressed closer. His room felt too small, the air too thick. He couldn't breathe right.
Three days.
Viktor stood abruptly. The map slipped from his lap and crumpled on the floor. He didn't pick it up.
He needed space.
The third-floor study was dim when he pushed open the door. Only two oil lamps burned—one on the desk nearest the fireplace, one by the windows.
Sabine sat at the near desk, hunched over a ledger. Seventeen, with their father's sharp features and a focus that never seemed to break. Her quill scratched steadily across the page, numbers and calculations filling the margins. She didn't look up when Viktor entered.
By the fireplace, Felix had fallen asleep on the floor, his sketchbook still open beneath his cheek. Eleven years old and small for his age, dark hair falling across his face. His pencil had rolled away toward the hearth.
Neither of them acknowledged Viktor. Not hostile. Not welcoming. Just... indifferent.
He was a ghost to them. The phantom.
Viktor chose the desk farthest from both of them and spread out his materials. The capital city map. Charles's schematic. The blank paper he'd brought for notes he'd never actually make.
His hands were still shaking.
Sabine's quill continued its steady rhythm. Felix breathed soft and even by the fire. The grandfather clock in the corner ticked.
Normal. Safe. Separate.
Viktor stared down at the Farrow estate map.
He wasn't ready.
The thought crashed through him like ice water. He wasn't ready. He'd never broken into anywhere before. Never stolen anything. Never destroyed someone's property on purpose. He was ten years old and small for his age and everyone knew it.
He was going to fail.
His chest went tight. The map blurred in front of him.
If he failed, Father would know. Would see that Viktor was exactly what everyone already thought he was—weak, useless, the phantom who barely existed. The test would be over and Viktor would have proven nothing except his own inadequacy.
Charles would look at him with that cold disappointment. Leopold would laugh. His mother would give him that sad, knowing look that said I tried to tell you.
And Father... Father would stop looking at him entirely.
That was worse. That was worse than anything.
Viktor's throat felt raw. His hands pressed flat against the map, trying to stop the trembling.
He could back out. Could tell Charles he'd changed his mind. Could apologize to his mother and admit she'd been right. Could go back to being invisible, spending his days with Aldwin and Emeline and his books, pretending that was enough.
Could stay the phantom forever.
His stomach twisted.
No.
No, that was worse than failing. That was worse than dying.
Because if he didn't even try, then what was he? Nothing. Less than nothing. The youngest son, the weakest son, the one who didn't matter. The one whose mother wasn't even a wife. The one who barely registered when he walked into a room.
At least if he tried and failed, he'd have tried. He'd have been brave enough to attempt something real. Something that mattered.
But if he backed out now—if he let fear win—he'd confirm everything. Every dismissive look. Every time someone forgot his name. Every moment of being invisible.
Father had given him a chance. An actual, real chance to prove he was worth something. Worth noticing. Worth keeping.
Viktor stared at the map until his eyes burned.
He was terrified. The kind of terrified that made his whole body shake and his stomach hurt and his thoughts scatter like birds.
But he was going anyway.
Because the alternative—being nothing, mattering to no one, disappearing entirely—that was more terrifying than anything that could happen at the Farrow estate.
His father's approval wasn't something he wanted.
It was the only thing that made him exist at all.
Three days.
He'd go. He'd do the mission. He'd destroy the sculpture.
And maybe—maybe—Father would finally see him.
Behind him, Sabine turned a page in her ledger. Felix stirred in his sleep. The clock ticked on.
Viktor rolled up the maps with trembling hands. He'd need to sleep. Needed to prepare.
Needed to be ready.
Even if he wasn't.