Morning came but Eliza didn't.
James sat at the kitchen table, watching the door, counting hours. Six since they'd taken her. Eight. Ten.
Miranda arrived before noon, entering through the front door this time instead of the window, a statement of solidarity that would cost her family if anyone noticed.
"Any word?" she asked.
"Nothing."
They sat together in silence, waiting for news that didn't come.
By afternoon, James couldn't sit anymore. He paced the small house, mind cycling through scenarios. His mother was being questioned. Just questioned. They'd release her once they verified she wasn't planning sedition. She'd come home angry but safe.
Or they'd find some excuse to hold her longer overnight for 'formal processing.'
Or they'd charge her. Conspiracy. Aiding sedition. Whatever legal fiction that would let them keep her.
His telepathy strained toward the garrison, searching for her thoughts. Too far. Always too far when it mattered.
"We should eat something," Miranda said around four o'clock.
"Not hungry."
"You need to eat anyway."
James ignored her, staring at the door like he could will it to open.
Evening arrived. Fourteen hours since they'd taken her.
"They would have released her by now if they were going to," James said quietly. "Questioning doesn't take this long."
"Maybe there's processing. Paperwork. Bureaucracy takes time—"
"Stop." James's voice was flat. "Stop pretending this is a normal delay. They're keeping her. Either formally charging her or holding her without charges. Either way, she's not coming home tonight."
Miranda had no response to that.
As darkness fell, James made a decision. "I'm going to the garrison."
"James, no—"
"Not to break her out. Just to get information. To confirm she's actually there and not—" He stopped. Couldn't finish that sentence.
"Then I'm coming with you."
"Miranda—"
"I'm coming or I'm following you. Pick one."
They walked through cold streets toward the garrison, arriving just after the night shift change. Guards at the entrance, lanterns burning, the building a monument to official power.
James approached the entrance guard, deliberately keeping his body language young and scared. It wasn't hard, he mostly didn't have to fake it.
"Please, sir. My mother was brought here yesterday for questioning. Eliza Aldric. Can you tell me if she's still here?"
The guard looked uncomfortable. "Kid, you need to—"
"I just want to know if she's okay. That's all. Please."
The guard glanced at his partner, who shrugged. "Hold on."
He disappeared inside. James and Miranda waited in the cold, breath forming clouds.
The guard returned with an officer, an older man, tired eyes, the look of someone who'd seen too many situations like this.
"You're Grayson Aldric's son?" the officer asked.
"Yes, sir."
"Your mother is being held for questioning pending formal charges. She's not injured. She's being provided food and water. That's all I can tell you."
"When can she come home?"
"I don't know, son. That's above my pay grade." The officer's expression softened slightly. "Is there someone who can stay with you? Family? Friends?"
"I'm eleven, not helpless."
"That's not what I asked."
James met his eyes. "I can take care of myself."
The officer studied him for a long moment, then sighed. "Go home, kid. There's nothing you can do here."
"Can I see her? Just for a minute—"
"No. Prisoners awaiting charges aren't allowed visitors." The officer hesitated, then added quietly: "Go home. Stay out of trouble. That's the best way to help your mother right now."
They walked away from the garrison and James's jaw clenched so tight it ached.
"Pending formal charges," he said once they were out of earshot. "They're going to charge her. Tomorrow, maybe the next day. And then—"
"Then we figure it out," Miranda finished. "But tonight, you need to sleep and finally eat something and I have to get going, my parents are probably worried."
James lay awake in his parents' bed that night. The mattress still carrying his mother's scent, the emptiness beside him a physical presence.
His plants had taken over the house now, growing wild in response to his emotional state. Vines covered walls. Flowers bloomed in impossible places. The whole house looked like nature was reclaiming it.
James didn't have the energy to control it. And when morning of the second day came, there was still no word.
James went to school because not going would trigger institutional concern he couldn't afford. He sat through classes in a daze, absorbing nothing, his mind elsewhere. Not like it mattered anyway. The teachers were a waste of tax in his opinion.
At lunch, a territorial official arrived, asking to speak with him in the headmaster's office.
The official was a thin woman with spectacles and a ledger full of names. "James Aldric. I'm here to verify your current living situation."
"My living situation is fine."
"Your father is imprisoned. Your mother is in Crown custody pending charges. You're eleven years old, living alone." She consulted her ledger. "That's a child welfare concern."
"I'm managing."
"You're a minor. The law requires adult supervision." She made notes. "If your mother is formally charged and detained, you'll need to be placed with a guardian. Do you have relatives locally?"
"No."
"Then you'll be assigned to institutional care pending tribunal review of your case."
The words landed hard on him. Institutional care. Government custody. Complete loss of autonomy.
"My mother will be released," James said carefully. "The charges are baseless. Once the tribunal reviews her case—"
"If she's released, this conversation is moot. If she's not..." The official closed her ledger. "We'll revisit this in seventy-two hours. That's how long you have to arrange alternative guardianship. After that, I'm required to place you in protective custody."
She left, taking with her the last illusion that James had any control over his situation.
Miranda found him after school, sitting under a tree in the yard, staring at nothing.
"They're going to take me," he said straight up. "If Mother is charged, I become a ward of the state. Three days."
"There has to be—"
"There isn't. I checked regulations. Minor children of convicted or detained seditionists become Crown wards automatically. For 'protection and proper guidance.'" His voice was hollow. "They have taken everything."
"What if you ran? Before they can place you?"
James pulled at grass absently. "Running would mean leaving Mother. If she's released and I'm gone, it'll break her."
---
Morning of the third day brought news.
A messenger arrived with official documents for James to sign, which he did.
NOTICE OF FORMAL CHARGES: Eliza Aldric, citizen of Blüthaven, Neutral Territories, is hereby charged with Conspiracy to Commit Sedition, Obstruction of Crown Justice, and Willful Defiance of Lawful Orders. Tribunal date: pending. Status: detained pending tribunal.
Three charges. All carrying prison time.
James read the document three times, each word confirming what he already knew.
His mother wasn't coming home.
The second document was worse:
NOTICE OF WARD STATUS: James Aldric, minor child of convicted seditionist Grayson Aldric and detained suspect Eliza Aldric, is hereby classified as Crown Ward requiring protective custody. Placement will occur within 24 hours. Cooperation is mandatory.
Twenty-four hours.
James sat in his kitchen, surrounded by official paperwork declaring him government property, and felt Victor Morningstar's helplessness merge with James Aldric's fury.
The rage that followed wasn't hot. It was cold and calculating. The anger of someone realizing that playing by rules written by tyrants was just another form of surrender.
He pulled out his journal and wrote:
Mother charged. Won't be released. Will be convicted like Father. Maybe five years. Maybe more.
I have twenty-four hours before they take me. Put me in institutional care. Monitor me. Eventually discover what I am.
Miranda is still right. I can't fight the garrison. Can't break out my parents. Can't challenge the system openly.
But I don't have to accept this either.
Whatever happens next, at least I chose it.
He closed the journal as evening fell on what would probably be his last day of freedom.
Tomorrow they'd come for him. Tomorrow his home would be seized and his life absorbed into the bureaucratic machinery of Crown custody.
Unless he wasn't here tomorrow.
He looked around his overgrown house, at the plants that had reclaimed every room in response to his grief and with a gesture, they all receded with the exception of the ones in his bedroom.
One more night. Then everything would change one way or another.
***
A/N: If you've been following this so far, donate a power stone. Your support means something to me and keeps me motivated.