Chapter 61: The Grand Duke Reads a Name (2)

William closed his eyes briefly.

Ah. There it was.

A child giving warning to other children because adults had become the monsters in the room.

How utterly vile.

I folded my hands together and smiled.

My smile must have been unpleasant because Bernard turned pale.

"Spiro," I said. "You are doing very well."

He looked up at me, uncertain.

"I know this is difficult."

"I can continue," he said quickly.

"I know."

His mouth closed.

"You are brave," I continued. "But bravery does not require you to bleed every memory out at once. We will proceed carefully."

His shoulders lowered, though his eyes shone faintly. He was holding back tears with the determination of someone who had learned tears were expensive.

They were not. Not anymore. And certainly not here.

I reached across the table and tapped the paper where Ansel’s name was written.

"This name appeared in a palace record connected to the Crown Prince’s childhood rite."

Spiro blinked.

"The Crown Prince?"

"Yes."

His expression changed from fear to confusion. "But Ansel was from the orphanage."

"That is precisely the issue."

Bernard placed a copied document on the table. "Young Master, this is a duplicate record from the imperial archives. It lists several children from unnamed charitable institutions who were examined for mana resonance during the same period as His Highness’s rite."

William’s voice was calm when he added, "Most were not identified by family name. Only given names, estimated ages, and resonance values."

I looked at the record.

Ansel. Male. Approximate age twelve. Resonance compatible. Transferred for auxiliary stabilization assessment.

Auxiliary.

How clean and bureaucratic. They were quite vicious with their sanitation.

"What does auxiliary mean?" Spiro asked.

No one answered immediately.

He was not stupid. The longer we hesitated, the more frightening the silence became.

I made a decision.

"It means they were used to support the rite."

Spiro stared at the paper.

His face emptied.bNot dramatically. Not with gasps or cries.

It was worse than that.

Something quiet inside him stepped back.

"Used," he repeated.

"Yes."

His fingers curled slowly. "Like tools?"

I did not soften the truth.

"Yes."

His lips pressed together. "Did Ansel die because of it?"

"We do not know yet."

"But he did not come back again after that," Spiro said. "The dean said he was sponsored permanently."

There were many ways to describe death to children.

Sponsored permanently was among the more offensive I had heard.

A sharp crack sounded.

Bernard had snapped the pencil in his hand. He froze, horrified by his own reaction.

"Forgive me, Your Excellency."

"Do not apologize for having a proper response."

He bowed his head, jaw tight. Spiro looked at the broken pencil. Then at Bernard. Then at me.

It seemed that seeing an adult angry on his behalf was a new experience.

It was pitiful and enraging.

Abi moved from the doorway and crouched beside Spiro’s chair. His violet eyes were unusually calm.

"Little one."

Spiro looked at him.

"Do you remember if Ansel had a mark on him after he returned?"

Spiro thought for a moment, then touched the inside of his wrist. "Here. It looked like a bruise. But it had lines. He told me not to look at it."

Abi’s gaze flickered to me.

The same location as Spiro’s erased slave mark.

The same place where certain bloodline and ownership marks were often placed.

"How many children returned with such marks?" I asked.

Spiro swallowed. "Some."

"How many?"

"I don’t know."

"More than three?"

"Yes."

"More than ten?"

His face paled. "Maybe."

I inhaled slowly.

Patience. Patience. Patience.

Important things need to be said thrice because if not, I might leave this house, march to the orphanage, and demonstrate to its dean the many creative uses of a swordmaster’s aura in administrative discipline.

"You did well," I said.

Spiro’s lips trembled. "But I don’t remember enough."

"You remembered plenty enough."

"But not where they took them."

"We will find that out."

"But what if they are already..."

He could not finish.

I reached out and placed a hand over his small clenched fists.

His fingers were cold.

"Spiro."

He looked at me.

"This is not your fault."

His eyes reddened instantly.

"There were older kids," he whispered. "They said we should keep quiet. If we were quiet, we could stay. If we caused trouble, we would be sent away. I was quiet. I was always quiet."

Ah. So that was it.

The cruel arithmetic of survival.

The child believed silence had saved him at the cost of others.

What a foul lesson to carve into someone so small.

"You were a child," I said. "You survived because surviving was the only task you had."

His face crumpled. Only a little. But it was enough.

"I should have remembered earlier."

"You remembered when you were safe enough to do so."

The tears finally slipped.

He looked ashamed of them.

Ridiculous.

I stood, rounded the table, and gently pulled him into my arms.

The room went still.

Spiro froze first. Then his small hands slowly gripped the front of my coat.

"I’m sorry," he whispered.

"There is nothing to apologize for."

"I’m sorry, Father."

"I said there is nothing to apologize for."

His shoulders shook once.

Then again.

Quietly. Painfully quietly.

This child even cried politely.

How unbearable.

I looked over his head at William.

The old butler’s face remained composed, but his eyes were sharp enough to skin a man alive.

Good.

I looked at Bernard.

He had gone pale with fury.

Also good.

Then Abi.

The Jinn’s expression was unreadable, but the violet pressure around the library darkened.

Excellent.

At least everyone in this room understood the assignment.

After a while, Spiro’s trembling eased. I did not rush him. Clothes could be washed. Schedules could be rearranged. Dignity, mine especially, could endure a damp patch of tears from a child.

Barely. But it could.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes were swollen, and he looked mortified.

I took out a handkerchief and wiped his face with more care than skill.

"Father," he mumbled, embarrassed.

"Stay still."

"I can do it."

"I am aware. I am doing it anyway."

Abi made a soft sound. I glared at him.

He lifted both hands in surrender, though his lips were suspiciously curved.

After Spiro was sufficiently cleaned, I handed him the handkerchief. "You will rest now."

"But the names..."

"Can wait."

"What if I forget again?"

"You will not be forced to carry them alone anymore. That is the point of having adults who are not garbage."

Bernard choked faintly.

William cleared his throat in a manner that sounded suspiciously like agreement.

Spiro looked down at the paper. "Can I keep writing later?"

"Yes. Later."

"Will you read them?"

"I will."

His fingers tightened around the handkerchief.

"Then I will remember properly."

I almost sighed.

This child really knew how to stab people in delicate places without holding a knife.

William escorted Spiro back to his room after that, despite the boy’s visible reluctance to leave the documents. I instructed two knights to remain nearby and one maid who was skilled in children’s care to bring warm milk and something sweet.

Sweets were not a cure for trauma. But they were a decent support soldier.

Once Spiro left, the room’s air changed.

The softness drained away. What remained was cold. Bernard placed another document before me.

"Your Excellency, there is more."

"Of course there is."

Bad news never traveled alone. It preferred a procession.

He pointed to the record beneath Ansel’s name. "There are seven auxiliary children listed in the rite connected to His Highness’s seventh year. Three names overlap with the orphanage list Young Master Spiro began. Ansel is one. Neria is another. Bell may correspond to Bellen, though the handwriting is unclear."

"Status?"

"Unknown. No death records. No adoption records. No transfer logs after the rite."

"How convenient."

"Yes, Your Excellency."

Abi leaned over the table. "This was not done only once."

"No," I said. "It became a system."

The room was silent.

I looked at the copied rite diagram again.

A prince at the center.

Children around him.

A mark beneath the formation.

A mouth that remembered names.

A hidden suppression in the Crown Prince’s life force.

And a substance called Vita’s Tears sitting in my ring, waiting like a punchline from a spiteful author.

I closed my eyes briefly.

When I opened them, my decision was already made.

"Bernard."

"Yes, Your Excellency."

"Find the dean."

His face hardened. "Alive?"

"For now."

"How discreetly?"

"Enough that the court does not hear him scream."

Bernard bowed. "Understood."

"William will assist you after Spiro sleeps."

"Yes, Your Excellency."

"Also, send word to Fate."

Abi’s brows rose. "The Black Market owner?"

"Yes."

"What for?"

"I bought Vita’s Tears from her. Now I need information on every recent purchase of temple incense, preservation salts, child transport papers, old ward stones, and ritual-grade bone."

Bernard looked uneasy. "Those are rather specific, Your Excellency."

"Criminals with rituals are always specific. That is their weakness."

Abi smiled. "And if Fate asks for payment?"

"Tell her I may be willing to discuss anima crystals again. She will know what I mean."

Bernard inhaled sharply.

Abi laughed.

I smiled.

"I bet she will come running."

The Black Market owner was clever. Greedy, yes, but clever enough to understand that the dear customer who bought Vita’s Tears was the ruler of the East. And when the Grand Duke of Sonomi dangled a second chance at anima crystals, one did not walk. One sprinted gracefully.

"Are you bringing the Crown Prince into this?" Abi asked.

I tapped one finger against the rite record.

"Not yet."

"He is involved."

"But he is also watched."

"He may know something."

"He may also be bait."

Abi tilted his head. "You suspect the palace?"

"I suspect everyone."

"That sounds exhausting."

"It is what it is."

I stood and looked toward the window.

The Capital glittered beyond the estate grounds. Beautiful. Rotten. Heavily perfumed, as I had told the prince.

Somewhere in that city, a mouth slept beneath stone.

Somewhere in the palace, a prince carried a suppressed life force tied to rites performed with stolen children.

Somewhere in an archive, Marcellus arranged papers like graves.

And somewhere, perhaps in a respectable chair behind a respectable desk, an orphanage dean still breathed.

How offensive. It displeases me greatly.

"Abi," I said.

"Yes, brother?

"

"If anyone attempts to enter this estate without my permission..."

He smiled, bright and terrible. "I know."

"No. You do not."

His smile faded slightly.

I looked at him.

"If anyone reaches for Spiro, do not play with them."

For once, Abi did not laugh.

"Understood."

Good.

I turned back to Bernard.

"Begin."

He bowed and left with quick, silent steps.

Abi watched the door close behind him. "You are very calm."

"I am."

"You are not."

"No. But I am behaving as if I am. That is the important part."

He studied me for a long moment.

Then his lips curved faintly. "What will you do after you find the dean?"

I smiled.

A polite smile.

A beautiful smile.

The kind my mother had carved into me until it could survive war, scandal, and homicidal intent.

"I will ask questions."

Abi’s eyes gleamed.

"And after that?"

I looked down at Ansel’s name.

A boy who taught smaller children how to count.

A boy who returned cold, marked, and hearing songs.

A boy who may have been used to keep a golden prince alive.

My smile remained.

"After that," I said, "I will decide how much of him is still necessary."