Ein guided the carpet toward the estate once belonging to House Karhile. From the air, the place already looked exhausted—like a thing trying to remember what it once was. Stone walkways were cracked. The trees were overgrown in one section and missing entirely in others. And as the carpet settled on the dead grass before the entryway, the estate exhaled dust, as if sighing in relief someone had returned.

To be polite—it was dilapidated.

The staff loitering near the front didn't seem to notice us at first. When they did, they regarded us not with fear or curiosity, but something between disinterest and fatigue.

Nine.

I counted nine staff members total. Just nine.

I checked the dossier on my gloss. The Karhiles only listed three non-staff residents living here at their peak. So then… what exactly was this territory used for?

"Sir," came a voice, slightly hoarse, slightly formal.

A man approached. Late fifties, maybe early sixties. Salt-and-pepper hair combed back, and a suit that had clearly once been respectable. Age had not been kind to the fabric—or the tie, which was frayed and half-loosened, like it had given up halfway through a decade ago.

"Please forgive the girls," he said, bowing with practiced weariness. "We're used to being overlooked here. I am Isaac. Head statesman. Not officially the head butler, but… in the absence of better structure, that's me."

I gave him a nod as V and Cordelia disembarked behind me.

"V. Cordelia. Ten," I began, before blinking. "Ten? You weren't even on the carpet. How did you get here before us?"

Ten stood near the cracked archway, chains hanging loose from her ankles like extra limbs, her eyes unreadable.

"Ran," she replied.

That was it. One word. No breathlessness. No follow-up. Just fact.

I stared for a beat. Then shook my head and moved on. There were skillcubes that allowed enhanced movement, but even so…

"V, Cordelia, Ten—survey the estate. I want a working map of the grounds, including service paths and any adjacent holdings."

Cordelia had her gloss out before I finished the sentence. "Understood," she murmured.

"Cordelia, also message my uncle, my parents, and my siblings. Inform them of my appointment, and that I've taken possession of this estate."

She nodded once.

"Isaac, gather yourself and the remaining staff. We're having a meeting. I want to know what state this place is actually in. Fractal—" I tilted my head toward her, and the shimmer of her feathers caught the light—"take to the skies. Record what you see in your gloss. Focus on locating any arable land: grass, sand, anything potentially viable."

My adjutants moved with practiced purpose. Isaac hesitated only briefly before turning and gesturing to the nearby servants. They came without complaint, though some looked more confused than anything.

Isaac himself had the bearing of a man who had been capable, once. Before time and neglect had slowly hollowed out his confidence.

But it was the staff he called forward that caught my interest.

The first two were clearly a pair. Identical height, identical features—rich caramel skin, short stature, black hair worn in simple knots. They stood close, unconsciously mirroring each other's posture. The only thing that gave away that they weren't the result of an Arte—some mirrored duplication or clone—were the moles on their faces. Small, faint, but mismatched. Not reversed. Not rotated. Just… different.

They were twins. Naturally. Not artificially.

The third maid was something rarer. Alf blood—if not a full Alf, then at least half. Jagged ears and slit-pupil eyes. She lingered behind the fourth maid, clearly trying to stay unnoticed, but her features were too distinct for that. Still, the shyness was real. A quiet, poised grace clung to her movements.

The woman she hid behind was older. Mid-fifties by my guess, though she carried herself with the gravitas of someone who had once commanded attention. And possibly still could. The rest of the maids instinctively deferred to her—watching her, not Isaac, for guidance. Interesting.

The remaining four maids stood together, uniformly dressed, and strangely similar. All pale, all black-haired, all red-eyed. Somewhere between their twenties and early thirties in appearance. None of them gave off the sense of a Shell, or Truth. No Arte signature I could feel. Not weak, necessarily—but untested. Dormant.

Once everyone had gathered, I turned to Isaac.

"I'd prefer not to have this meeting in the entry hall," I said, glancing at the cracked tile beneath our feet. "Is there a room more appropriate?"

Isaac glanced toward the older maid, who gave him a small nod before addressing me herself.

"The estate is… unwell, Master Alizade," she said carefully. "The drawing room collapsed two winters ago, and we've yet to repair it. The upstairs tea room is intact. A bit dusty, but it should hold the eleven of us."

"That'll do."

"Right this way, sir," Isaac said, bowing slightly and leading the way.

As we followed him deeper into the estate, past walls that whispered of better days, I couldn't help but feel the echo of possibility stirring beneath the ruin. A ghost of a home waiting to be rewritten.

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

And I was here to give it a new chapter.

***

Much to my surprise—the tea room was in perfect condition.

Or so I wished.

In truth, the tea room was as forgotten, as neglected, as every other corner of this tired manor. The wallpaper curled like old petals. Dust claimed every surface. A chandelier hung overhead like a rotting skeleton of better days, its crystals dulled by time. The only reason the room could even pretend to host a meeting was because the chairs lining the walls—though worn—were the closest thing this estate had to "intact."

I took a seat near the fractured window. It was broken, clouded with dirt, yet shafts of sunlight still managed to pierce through, scattering pale beams across the floor. There was something poetic in it—light refusing to be forgotten.

Isaac took the chair to my left. The older maid settled to my right, her posture straight, eyes forward. The others trickled in with no particular order, no symmetry to their seating. Yet one thing was clear: they had waited for me to sit first. A small gesture. But deliberate.

"Alright," I began, letting the quiet stretch just long enough to settle. I nodded to the older maid. "As you've already addressed me as such, I'll assume the estate was notified of my appointment via Gloss."

They listened.

"My Marr name is Alexander Duarte. As of today, by continental law, I have been granted the name Alexander Duarte-Alizade. If you must address me formally in the absence of a Bastian noble, I will accept the titles Prince, Walker, or if you still prefer the courtesy form, Kevkebyem Lekvedyem Benyeyr." My gaze swept across them, watching closely. "Or if you'd rather speak in the common tongue, you may use the title I was given by the Clouddancer, the High Queen, Star-Writer."

I let that sit in the dust-heavy air.

No one laughed. No one scoffed. But I saw what lingered in their expressions—uncertainty. Hesitation. Quiet dread.

"Allow me to be clear," I said, voice low but firm. "I know nothing of ruling a territory. I know nothing of building one. Politics, noble intrigue, land titles, guild relations—these are unfamiliar terrain. What I do know—what I have lived—is betrayal. Is loss. Is the quiet, suffocating weight of failure."

I met each gaze, one by one, not letting them slip away.

"I know nothing of being a Prince. But I do know how to survive. I do know how to rebuild from ashes. I know what it means to have nothing—and to claw meaning out of that void."

I pointed to the window. The broken light falling in soft streaks.

"This estate was discarded. Forgotten. Like all of you. Pawns in someone else's game. I don't know what the Karhiles used this land for—what secrets it buried, what corruption it enabled—but I can see what it became: neglected. Disrespected. Not treasured." I placed a hand over my chest. "This land—this manor—will be my treasure."

I exhaled. The weight of it all still pressing into my lungs. But I wouldn't let it crack me. Not now.

Should I tell them about the crystallization? About the effects of my Shell on the physical realm around me?

No. Not yet. Not in those words. There was another way.

"My skillcube path is public knowledge. You can confirm it on your own. To grow stronger, I must consume treasure—objects of significance—converted into waxing bronze coins, tied to my soul's realm. That is the tax of my Shell. And let me be transparent with you all…"

I held out my hands. Empty.

"I am in poverty. Utterly and completely. I am the poorest person in this room. I cannot afford to pay you. I cannot even afford to pay my companions. I have lived for a year under the charity of the state, suspended in medical stasis. And yes—that charity came from a state many of you may revile. But it was charity nonetheless."

I clenched my fist, grounding myself in the moment.

"What I do have… is an Arte. One that can build. That can turn words into weapons. Books into engines. Stories into structure."

"I cannot offer you wealth today. I can offer you only a choice."

I paused. Let the weight of it settle.

"If you wish to leave—do so now. No shame. No bitterness. I will arrange safe travel. You will be given letters of release and recommendation. But…"

"If any of you are willing to gamble—to rise from forgotten ruins, and build something new—then stay seated. Help me turn this husk into a place of commerce, of life, of pride. Let us carve a place on this continent not just for me—but for all of us."

The silence was heavy now. But not dead. It breathed.

Hope was always a quiet thing when it was born.

The silence stretched, heavy like the dust hanging in the air.

For a moment, no one moved. Just the groan of the wind through the cracked window and the soft shifting of light across the floor.

Then, the older maid to my right placed her hands on her lap and gave a slow, measured nod. Her face was lined by age, yes, but more by duty left unrecognized. "You see the dust," she said, her voice rough like dried lavender, "but call it treasure. That… is new." She paused, then added more quietly, "That might be enough."

A soft murmur ran through the room—barely audible.

One of the younger maids, maybe no older than me, glanced at the others before speaking. "I—I've only worked here two seasons. But I've never been called to the tea room before." Her eyes darted to the older maid, then to me. "If you're really going to rebuild this place… I want to see it become something worth serving."

Another maid, lean with sleeves rolled and fingers calloused from work, tilted her head. "You say you're poor," she said, direct, voice unadorned. "So are we. But you've named the land a treasure." She gave a small, sharp nod. "That's more than anyone's done in years."

Near the back, two maids sitting side by side exchanged glances—sisters. The same freckled cheeks and mirrored expressions of quiet calculation. One of them finally spoke. "We've heard empty speeches before. Lords pretending to care. But they, and you, never mentioned our names. You… at least noticed the window."

A slight chuckle broke the tension—wry, sardonic—from one of the dark-haired women standing near the edge. "A prince who admits he knows nothing? That's either honesty or madness. But it's refreshing." She folded her arms. "I'll stay. At least until I figure out which."

Isaac said nothing—he didn't need to. His gaze stayed on me, unwavering.

The youngest of them, barely more than a girl, sat forward, hands balled in her lap. "Will there be flowers again?" she asked, voice featherlight. "Out in the orchard?" The question seemed childish—until I saw the hope laced beneath it.

And finally, the last of them—a dark-haired woman with eyes that saw far more than she let on—stood.

Not in defiance.

In solidarity.

One by one, the others rose too. No grand speeches. No cheers. Just quiet movement and the sound of feet on warped wooden floor.

None left.

They chose to remain.

Isaac leaned closer to me, voice low. "Looks like they're willing to gamble."

I nodded once. My throat was tighter than I expected.

I stepped forward and laid my hand on the table, steady.

"Then let's not waste that gamble. Bring me a book of myths."

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