A sense of relief washed over Bart as he approached the Allston estate.

  Nestled in a wealthy neighborhood within Oldgate, the roads were narrow and the nearest trolley was a faint sound in the distance. Like most of the estates in this part of the district, the grounds were flanked by neatly trimmed hedges and towering oaks while a finely crafted stone wall marked the border between the grounds and the street. Ornate iron gates regulated access to most of the houses, providing both a foot path and a moltar paved drive to the front of the house.

  The Allston estate included a driveway with a modest circular roundabout and a carriage house. Both were typically vacant, as Bart's father preferred the simplicity of public transportation, often opting for trolleys or walking rather than flaunting his family's wealth.

  The wrought-iron gate creaked slightly as it swung open, admitting Bart as he hobbled on his crutches along the long cobblestone path. The air was crisp, tinged with the faint, earthy scent of rain-soaked stone and freshly cut wood. The estate loomed ahead, a sprawling structure of worked stone and smooth timber, its facade unadorned but impeccably maintained. Tall, narrow windows permitted the escape of the artificial lights from within their rooms.

  The manor exuded an old-world charm, its architecture a testament to generations of Allstons who valued function over ostentation. The stone walls, weathered yet resilient, bore the weight of history, while the dark wooden beams that supported the structure gleamed with a subtle luster, evidence of meticulous care. The front steps, broad and worn smooth from years of use, led to a grand but simple doorway framed by solid columns that spoke of strength and permanence rather than grandeur.

  As Bart crossed the threshold, familiar scents of the house enveloped him—aromatic traces from the kitchen where Mrs. Weber was likely preparing stock from leftovers, mingling with the rich scent of leather-bound books and aged paper from the adjoining study.

  The interior of the mansion was a symphony of muted colors: deep mahoganies, rich leathers, and the soft glow of brass fixtures. The floors beneath his feet were a mosaic of marble and dark wood, their surfaces cool and smooth, reflecting the soft light that spilled from intricately designed wall sconces. The quiet hum of the large grandfather clock echoed through the halls, a steady heartbeat that underscored the tranquility of home.

  For a fleeting moment, Bart allowed himself to breathe, to feel the weight of the day lift from his shoulders. This was his sanctuary, a place where the outside world's chaos could not touch him.

  That was, until...

  "Bartholomew?"

  The fragile peace shattered the moment he heard her voice.

  "Bartholomew?" Floria called out again. Her tone was sharp, precise, like a blade honed to perfection. "I'm in the drawing room. Come."

  Bart's heart sank. The warmth of home faded, giving way to a familiar unease that settled in his chest. He knew better than to make her wait. Steeling himself, he made his way to the drawing room, each step slowed by the supports and his injured leg. His footfalls echoed off the marble floors like a countdown to an inevitable confrontation.

  Floria sat poised in an elegant yet understated gown, the kind that whispered wealth rather than shouted it. Her dark hair was meticulously styled, cascading in smooth waves down her back, while a handmaiden fussed over the final touches. But it was her eyes, those piercing, deep brown eyes, that truly commanded the room. They flicked up from the embroidery in her lap and narrowed the moment they landed on Bart's disheveled appearance.

  "Bart," she said, her voice a mix of incredulity and reprimand. "What on earth happened to you?"

  Bart shrugged, trying to mask the swirl of emotions: guilt, frustration, and an undercurrent of defiance. "Just a little trouble at school," he mumbled, hoping to downplay the incident. Before she could press further, he hurriedly changed the subject. "What are you doing home? And where are Father and Mother?"

  Floria saw his tactic, placing the embroidery off to the side and looked sternly at Bart, and then his splinted leg and the crutches. But, there would be time for that later. Instead, she chose to meet Bart's question, a slight smirk playing across her face. "You sound as if you're not happy to see your older sister."

  "No, uh, of course I'm happy to see you, Floria. But I thought—"

  "Father had business in Dahn Toll." Floria's gaze didn't waver, the way she held that serious look unnerved him. "And Mother accompanied him. They sent for me; I arrived this afternoon." She paused, letting the news settle before she zeroed back in on Bart and his appearance.

  "Trouble? At school? You know better than to get involved in anything that could reflect poorly on our family." Her eyes darted to the satchel slung over his shoulder. "And what's this?"

  Suddenly, Floria stood, the abruptness of her movement sending a ripple through the serene atmosphere of the room. The handmaiden jerked back in surprise, dropping the silver hairpin she had been meticulously weaving into Floria's dark locks. The delicate pin clattered against the wooden side table, its sharp sound echoing in the otherwise quiet space. Floria, however, seemed entirely unaffected by the disturbance, her posture rigid and commanding as she took a single, deliberate step forward.

  Bart concealed his panic as best as he could. What did she see? He'd cleaned up after the nightmare fight, changed out of his bloodstained uniform, and the healing magic had dealt with his cuts and bruises. He thought he'd done a decent job of erasing any evidence of the battle he and Lowell had fought just hours earlier.

  The attendant, flustered and desperate to correct her mistake, scrambled to retrieve the fallen pin. She moved to resume her task, her hands fluttering nervously around Floria's shoulders, attempting to realign the strands of hair that had come loose. But Floria's attention was no longer on the handmaiden or the carefully styled coiffure.

  With a casual flick of her hand, not unkind but cool and indifferent, she waved the attendant off, her gaze fixed elsewhere. The young woman hesitated, unsure, before finally bowing slightly and retreating from the room, her footsteps muffled against the plush carpet.

  Floria's full attention snapped to Bart's bag.

  Bart's stomach dropped as Floria's fingers closed around the strap of his bag, lifting it from his shoulder with effortless authority.

  One moment it had been slung against his side, and the next it was dangling from her grip like a prize she'd claimed without challenge. The weight of her scrutiny was palpable, her eyes narrowing as she traced the rip in the leather with surgical precision. The frayed edges of the torn leather looked even worse under her critical gaze.

  But it wasn't just the bag she was examining. It was a silent judgment of Bart's decisions, each fray and tear a testament to his carelessness. The room seemed to grow colder under her critical gaze, the warmth of home fading into the shadows of her disapproval.

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  "I dropped it when I was... avoiding a group of students," he muttered, his voice low and evasive. The weight of her silent disapproval pressed down on him, heavy and suffocating, as he rubbed the back of his neck in a futile attempt to mask his discomfort.

  But her silence was worse than any rebuke. She held the bag aloft, her gaze tracing every imperfection, every scuff and tear, as if cataloging his failures. She was not truly concerned with the bag. It was the message it conveyed: Bart Allston had been careless, and in Floria's world, carelessness was unforgivable.

  Floria's expression darkened, her lips thinning into a line of disapproval. "Those students wouldn't happen to be Klein Cambridge and his entourage, would they?"

  Although the lesser of the two encounters of the day, he still had no intention of sharing the details of the fight with Klein's thugs in the park.

  At least, not with Floria.

  Not with her eyes examining him as intently as she did the tattered strap.

  Bart's silence was all the confirmation she needed.

  She handed him back his bag, her voice low and sharp. "You know better than to get into a fight with Klein Cambridge. His family is not just powerful. They're dangerous. Our reputation could be irreparably damaged by your recklessness."

  "Precisely!" Bart shot back, unable to contain his frustration. "Our family's reputation was at stake. I couldn't let Klein win."

  Floria's gaze hardened, her eyes locking onto his with an intensity that made him shift uncomfortably. He knew she was right, but the sting of being cornered by Klein's group still burned. He'd been pushed around long enough.

  Floria looked to the door of the drawing room, still open, and strode across the room. The clicking of her heels echoed across the room's polished wood floors. With gentle elegance, she closed the door. The soft click of the door latching hung in the air, fading until only the tension between the siblings was left in its wake.

  She turned to Bart, her eyes sharp but her tone softening just enough to suggest a sliver of concern. "Listen, Bart. I know you're eager to make a name for yourself, but you need to be strategic," she began, pacing slowly back across the room, this time over the rug that muffled her footsteps. The ornate fireplace lay dormant, faint embers from an earlier fire still glowed, but their warmth was fading.

  "Father isn't here to clean up your messes, and Mother..." Her voice wavered slightly, the rare flicker of vulnerability flashing across her otherwise composed face.

  Her stride had taken her to one of the drawing room's windows, where she paused.

  Staring out upon the street beyond the estate, she watched people as they passed underneath the lamps that bathed the sidewalk as if gathering her thoughts. "Mother isn't in the best state of mind lately," she finally admitted, her voice dropping to a near whisper.

  The weight of those words settled in silent judgment over the room, mingling with the unspoken fears that neither of them dared to voice. The absence of their parents was more than just a logistical inconvenience; it was a growing chasm that Floria, with all her poise and ambition, couldn't quite bridge alone.

  "It wasn't anything like that," Bart spoke up finally. "I'm not trying to make a name for myself, Floria! I'm trying to defend our family's name! I won't let Klein or anyone else lie about our family!"

  Sensing his discomfort, Floria's critical mask slid back into place. "Never mind that now," she said briskly. "What I want to know is why you thought it was wise to confront the Klein? Alone."

  Bart opened his mouth to explain further, but Floria raised a hand, silencing him. She had asked it rhetorically. "No. No explanations. Just promise me you'll be more careful in the future."

  He nodded reluctantly, knowing enough when to drop the subject. A familiar sense of disappointment washed over him. He knew Floria was only trying to protect him and their family, but it still stung to be treated like a reckless child.

  "There is another matter that's been brought to my attention," she said, her attention shifting as she stepped gracefully toward the grand mirror above the fireplace. "A failed delivery?"

  Her eyes drifted toward a crate in the corner of the room, its presence subtle yet conspicuous. Bart followed her gaze, a knot of unease forming in his stomach. Did Floria know about Lowell's sword? Was she aware of the story he'd concocted?

  Floria let the subject stall, hanging in the air, her attention shifting as she stepped gracefully toward the grand mirror above the fireplace.

  She always does this. Bart protested silently. One subject, then another. It was Floria's favorite tactic: keep her opponent off-balance, never let them get comfortable.

  At least that's how Bart saw it.

  She checked her reflection in the mirror, adjusting a stray strand of hair with meticulous care. "I'll be out this evening. There's an event Father and Mother were invited to. I'm attending in their place."

  Bart's brow furrowed. "What event?"

  "A gathering in honor of Arryn Cambridge," Floria replied without hesitation, checking for blemishes before being satisfied.

  Bart's reaction was immediate, his voice rising in disbelief. "You're attending an event for the Cambridges? After everything that's happened, including today? Are you out of your mind, Floria? Aren't you the one who is being reckless now?"

  Floria's sharp look silenced him instantly, her eyes narrowing into slits of cold steel. She crossed the room in measured steps, her presence overwhelming despite her delicate appearance. "Reckless?" she echoed, her voice low and steady. "No, Bart. Strategic."

  She stopped just short of him, her gaze unyielding. Bart shrank back a little bit from her intensity. "Arryn Cambridge isn't just a rival from our family's past. He's a significant donor to both Arclan and Orus Guild Academies. His influence reaches far beyond petty family squabbles. Ignoring him would be foolish."

  Bart clenched his fists, the tension radiating off him, but he held his tongue. Floria's words, as always, were laced with a harsh truth he couldn't deny.

  She continued, her tone softening only slightly. "We can't afford to let emotions dictate our actions. If we want to maintain our standing, we need to be calculated. This isn't just about pride, Bart. It's about survival in a world that doesn't forgive missteps."

  "Floria," he said, matching her calculating tone, "does Father know you're attending?"

  She took a step back, her expression carefully controlled. No hint of whatever was running through her mind before she responded. "He does not. And he does not need to."

  "He declined that invitation on principle, Floria." Bart took a beat before he reiterated himself for effect. "On principle."

  "You and Father," Floria sighed, "you're too much alike. Father would be just as happy to live in guild housing in Essengard. But this?" She gestured to the manor. "Everything you know? Everything you take for granted? We can no longer afford to operate as we have been. Changes must be made."

  Bart blinked. He was sure he wasn't going to like the answer to his next question. "What do you mean?"

  "I'll be acting on Father's behalf and leading the Trade Collective. He will, of course still be guild master. For now."

  "For now." The words echoed in his mind. Floria's planning a coup within the guild. Bart couldn't deny that she was more than capable of leading it. She had a sharper business sense than their father and a cleverness he couldn't overlook. Their father had often said that Floria reminded him of their great-grandfather, Dietrich Allston, the man who had originally founded the Trade Collective alongside Magnus Cambridge.

  "They aren't coming back from Dahn Toll anytime soon, are they?" The realization hit him like a physical blow, harder than any of Robbie's kicks or Werner's punches.

  Floria pursed her lips, then said flatly. "No."

  The room felt colder now. Bart swallowed hard, the weight of her words sinking in, but the knot of unease in his stomach only tightened.

  She gestured to the crate with Lowell's sword in it. "That will be sent to my office. There are certain papers that seem to be missing accompanying that 'order'."

  She glided to the door and opened it, looking back at Bart. "I expect you have studies to attend to?" It was a Floria's subtle way of saying that they were done, for now.

  As he exited the drawing room, Floria's voice followed him, softer this time, almost an afterthought. "And Bart?"

  He paused, glancing over his shoulder.

  "Next time, think before you act. The world doesn't forgive impulsive mistakes, and neither do the Cambridges."

  The weight of her words lingered long after he'd closed the door behind him, settling over him like a shroud.