Evan woke to sunlight and the sound of something shattering.
He sat up so fast the bed groaned in protest—not a collapsing groan, thankfully, just the sound of a piece of furniture questioning its life choices. His heart hammered against his ribs as he scanned the room for threats, for danger, for whatever had broken.
Instead, he found a servant frozen in the doorway, a tray of breakfast on the floor, and a teapot in pieces surrounded by a spreading pool of something that had probably been tea.
The servant—a young man with terrified eyes and hands that trembled visibly—was staring at the wreckage like it had personally betrayed him.
"My apologies, milord!" The servant dropped to his knees, starting to gather the pieces with shaking hands. A shard of porcelain sliced his finger, and he didn't even flinch. "I... I don't know what happened! The tray just... leaped from my hands! I've never—I've been serving for ten years and nothing like this—I'm so sorry, milord, I'll clean it up immediately, I'll—"
Evan sighed, running a hand through his hair. "It's not you. It's me. Things... happen around me."
The servant looked up, confused. Blood dripped from his cut finger onto the broken porcelain, mixing with the tea. "But I was across the room, milord! You were still sleeping! You weren't even looking at me!"
"Doesn't matter." Evan swung his legs out of bed. The floorboards groaned but held. "My influence has... range. And apparently, it works even when I'm unconscious. Which is concerning on multiple levels. Also, your finger is bleeding."
The servant looked at his hand like he'd never seen it before. "Oh. So it is."
Evan crossed the room and knelt beside him, ignoring the servant's protests ("A lord shouldn't—I can't let you—please, milord, it's not proper—"). He took the bleeding finger gently, examined the cut. It wasn't deep, but it was bleeding steadily.
"Hold still," Evan said.
He didn't focus. Didn't intend. He just... wanted the cut to heal. Wanted the servant not to be hurt because of him.
The bleeding stopped. The skin knitted together. In seconds, the cut was gone, replaced by smooth, unbroken skin that looked healthier than the surrounding finger.
The servant stared. "What... how...?"
"I improved it," Evan said, because that was the only word that fit. "Accidentally. I'm sorry about the teapot."
The servant looked from his healed finger to the broken teapot to Evan's face and back again. His expression cycled through several emotions—fear, confusion, awe, more fear—before settling on something that might have been acceptance.
"You... healed me," he whispered.
"Just your finger. It was a small cut. The teapot's still broken, though. I can't fix that." Evan looked at the shattered porcelain. The pieces, he noticed, had arranged themselves into a neat spiral pattern on the floor, as if trying to be artistic about their own destruction. "See? They're making art now. My magic has opinions about aesthetics."
The servant followed his gaze. "That's... actually quite beautiful."
"It's also very broken. Here, let me help you clean up."
"You can't—a lord shouldn't—"
"I'm going to." Evan started gathering pieces. "You can either help or watch. Your choice."
They cleaned up together in silence, the servant occasionally shooting glances at Evan like he was trying to solve a puzzle. When they were done, the young man hesitated at the door.
"Milord," he said quietly. "They said you were dangerous. That's all I heard—dangerous, unpredictable, stay away." He looked at his healed finger. "But you... you helped me. You didn't have to."
"I broke your teapot. It was the least I could do."
"The teapot was old. The finger is mine." He bowed—a real bow, not the mechanical kind—and fled before Evan could respond.
After the servant fled (with promises of a new breakfast that would be "delivered from a safe distance by someone with good reflexes"), Evan dressed. The court clothes from yesterday had been cleaned and laid out, looking even more intimidating in the morning light. The sapphire in his signet ring glowed softly, casting blue shadows on the wall. His boots had stopped glowing, thank goodness, but they still seemed to hum faintly when he put them on.
There was a knock at the door. "Evan? You decent?" Emma's voice.
"Define decent."
The door opened. Emma entered, already dressed in court finery that somehow managed to look both elegant and like she was about to start a fight. Her gown was deep green, embroidered with silver leaves that actually rustled when she moved. Her hair was piled in an intricate arrangement that probably had its own name and lineage and possibly a small staff to maintain it.
"You look... fancy," Evan said.
"You look like you're being dressed for your own execution." She circled him, adjusting his collar, straightening his cuffs. "Stand up straight. Shoulders back. Try to look like you're not contemplating jumping out a window."
"I'm not contemplating jumping out a window," Evan said. "I'm contemplating turning into a bird and flying away. It's more efficient. Windows aren't involved."
"Same difference." She examined him critically. "Remember what I told you. The queen likes directness. But not too direct. Confidence, but not arrogance. Intelligence, but not enough to be threatening. Also, try not to break anything during the actual audience. The throne room has a lot of expensive things in it."
"That's not contradictory at all."
"Welcome to court politics." She stepped back, satisfied. "You'll do. Try not to let your magic do anything... creative during the audience."
"What if it happens accidentally?"
"Then make it look intentional. Confidence is nine-tenths of not looking like a walking disaster." She paused. "Also, if you feel something building, try to point it at something cheap. The queen has a lot of ugly vases she'd probably appreciate being improved."
There was another knock. Steward Armand stood in the doorway, looking even more polished than yesterday if that were possible. His outfit had so much gold thread it was practically armor. "Lord Carter. Her Majesty will see you now."
Evan took a deep breath. The air in the room seemed to thicken, the sunlight taking on a golden, honeyed quality.
"Right," he said. "Let's go offend some royalty."
***