Three days had passed in a blur of sleepless nights and nervous preparation.
Now the evening sun painted Eisenholm gold, and Viktor stood in his quarters fastening the last button on his tunic.
It wasn't his usual clothes. Charles had provided these—a formal tunic in deep navy with silver threading, well-made but plain. No crest. No identifying marks. The kind of thing a minor noble's son might wear to a spring gala. Anonymous.
It fit perfectly. That somehow made it worse. Like wearing someone else's skin.
Viktor's fingers found the locket at his throat and tucked it beneath the tunic collar. The metal pressed cold against his skin—his mother's, always with him.
The invitation sat on his desk. Thick paper, elegant script, the Farrow seal embossed in silver wax. Viktor slipped it into his inner pocket. The coin pouch Charles had given him—for bribes or emergencies, his brother had said—settled heavy against his ribs.
Everything was ready.
His throat felt tight.
He took one last look at his room. Books scattered across the floor. The window where afternoon light used to pour in when Emeline brought him pastries and teased him about Leopold.
She hadn't come by in three days. Not since he'd used that cold voice. Since he'd said "princely business" and watched something break in her eyes.
Viktor swallowed and left without looking back.
The palace corridors were quiet in that lull before evening meals. Servants moved through the halls with trays and linens. Somewhere distant, someone was practicing violin—notes drifting through open windows.
No one stopped Viktor. No one asked where he was going.
The main gates stood open for evening traffic. Spring air flowed in—warm and fresh, carrying the scent of the flowering trees that lined the palace approach. Supply carts rumbled through. Officials on horseback. Servants on errands.
Viktor walked toward the gates like he belonged there.
"Your highness."
The voice stopped him cold.
One of the gate guards—younger, maybe twenty, with a private's insignia—had stepped forward. He looked uncertain. "Prince Viktor? Are you... should someone be with you?"
Viktor's heart kicked against his ribs. His mouth went dry.
The guard wasn't being hostile. Just confused. A ten-year-old prince, alone, leaving the palace at dusk. It didn't make sense.
"I'm..." Viktor's voice came out too high. He cleared his throat. Tried to sound like Charles. Confident. Like this was normal. "I'm expected somewhere. A family... a family matter."
The lie tasted wrong in his mouth.
The guard's brow furrowed. He glanced at his partner—older, grizzled, who barely looked up from his post.
"Let the boy through," the older guard said, bored. "Princes can do what they want. Not our business."
The younger guard hesitated, then stepped back. "Of course. Be safe, your highness."
Viktor nodded—too quick, too jerky—and walked through before anyone could ask more questions.
His heart hammered so hard he could hear it in his ears.
Behind him, the palace gates remained open. No alarm. No one chasing after him.
He was really doing this.
The Inner Ring of Eisenholm spread before him in the dying light. White stone buildings glowed amber in the sunset. Spring blooms overflowed from window boxes—purple and gold and deep red. The air smelled clean. Perfect. Like power felt when it didn't have to try.
The sounds were quieter than he'd imagined. Carriage wheels rolled smooth over marble streets. Water burbled in fountains shaped like imperial eagles. Somewhere, a clock tower chimed the hour.
Viktor walked past government buildings with their crests carved into facades. Past mansions with iron gates and gardens where servants trimmed hedges into geometric shapes. Everything was ordered. Controlled.
Ahead, an Imperial Guard checkpoint blocked the main thoroughfare. Three soldiers in polished armor inspecting a merchant's wagon, checking papers with mechanical efficiency.
Viktor's stomach clenched. He'd have to walk past them.
He kept his pace steady. Didn't run. Didn't slow. Just a boy in nice clothes, walking through the capital.
The sergeant glanced up as Viktor approached. His eyes swept over Viktor—the expensive tunic, the silver threading, the way Viktor carried himself.
Rich. Young. Alone.
The sergeant's gaze moved on. Dismissed. Back to the wagon.
Viktor passed them without a word.
Invisible.
The feeling settled strange in his chest. Part of him felt relief—no one would remember seeing him. No one would tell Father where he'd gone. Part of him felt that familiar hollow ache. Even here, walking through the capital for the first time in his life, he didn't matter enough to notice.
The world didn't see him. But his father had. Werner had looked at him and seen strength. Had given him this mission. This chance.
Viktor's hand touched the invitation through his tunic. The paper crinkled.
This was his only chance to matter.
The architecture shifted as he moved deeper into the city. The pristine white stone gave way to practical grey—guildhalls and merchant houses, narrower streets that smelled of river water and fresh bread and smoke from evening cook fires. Music spilled from tavern doorways. Merchants called final prices as they packed up stalls laden with spring vegetables and flowers.
And people stared.
Not the way the guards had—dismissive, uninterested. These stares were different. Sharp. A boy in expensive clothes, alone, clearly out of place.
Viktor pulled his cloak tighter and kept his head down. His heart pounded. This wasn't like Leopold's threats. This was new. Unknown. Dangerous in a way he didn't understand.
He walked faster. Followed the route Charles had shown him, turning down streets that climbed back toward the higher district.
His legs ached. His nice shoes—made for palace floors, not city streets—rubbed blisters on his heels. The sun sank lower, painting everything orange and purple. He'd been walking for nearly two hours.
Dusk was coming fast.
But ahead, the grey stone shifted back to white. Back to iron gates and manicured lawns.
The noble district.
The Farrow estate rose before him like something from a storybook.
Three stories of white stone with tall windows blazing with lamplight. Music poured from inside—strings and laughter and voices layered over each other. Carriages lined the circular drive, letting off nobles in silk and jewels who were announced at the door by servants in formal livery.
Some guests arrived on foot. Viktor joined them, his pulse roaring in his ears.
Charles's instructions ran through his mind. Enter with the crowd. Find the main hall—the sculpture would be on display. Wait for the right moment. Use your ice. Destroy it. Leave before anyone notices.
Simple.
Except his hands were shaking. His throat felt tight. He couldn't quite catch his breath.
This wasn't practice. This wasn't training with his mother or studying with Aldwin or Charles explaining things on paper.
This was real. He was about to walk into a duke's home and destroy something valuable. Something Father wanted destroyed. Something that would prove Viktor was useful. Strong. Worth keeping.
If he succeeded.
If he didn't fail.
If he didn't get caught.
His stomach twisted. Cold sweat gathered at the back of his neck. The world felt too bright and too loud and too close.
Viktor's hand found the locket beneath his tunic. Squeezed it. Felt the familiar cold metal, the ice beads his mother had strung around it.
He could turn back. Could walk home. Could tell Charles he'd changed his mind.
Could stay invisible forever.
No.
No, that was worse.
Viktor pulled the invitation from his pocket with trembling fingers and joined the line of guests approaching the entrance.
This was happening.
There was no turning back.