The afternoon light filtered through the windows of my Academy office, casting long shadows across the desk where I sat with a stack of paperwork that had accumulated over the week. Reports from the royal elite guard on the assassin's interrogation. A memorandum from the Hall of Companions requesting updates on their children's progress. A letter from the Emperor, brief and formal, asking after Reynolt's conduct. I signed each document with the same measured precision, the quill moving across the parchment in steady strokes.
The knock came at the door just as I set aside the final report. Three raps, deliberate and unhurried. I recognized the rhythm before the door opened.
Professor Daevan.
Chairwoman Zeria von Grion Igmit stepped into my office without waiting for an invitation. Her silver-grey robes were immaculate, her chestnut hair pinned in an elaborate style, her hazel eyes bright with the particular sharpness that meant she had found something entertaining. In her hands she carried a wooden board, worn smooth with age, and a small box that I recognized before she opened it.
I found something in the archives, she said, setting the board on the corner of my desk. A game. Do you know it?
She opened the box, revealing black and white stones, polished to a gleam, their surfaces catching the light. The board was old, the lines carved deep, the wood darkened by decades of use. It was a go board.
I looked at it for a long moment. The last time I had seen such a board was in another world, in another life, in a cramped dormitory room where I had played against a roommate who always beat me and always offered to teach me again. That was before the system, before the white void, before I became Daevan von Erevos Astherion. That was Kim Ji-hoon's memory, not mine, but it settled in my chest with a weight that was not unpleasant.
I know it, I said.
She smiled, settling into the chair across from my desk. Wanna play?
I rose from my desk and moved to the chair opposite her. The board sat between us, a battlefield of empty intersections and waiting stones. I reached for the white stone container.
I take white, I said.
She raised an eyebrow. Confident.
I do not make moves I cannot defend.
She laughed, a genuine laugh, and took the black stones. The first move was hers, a stone placed in the upper right corner with the confidence of someone who had played many games. I responded with a stone in the lower left, mirroring her placement, establishing my territory.
The game unfolded in silence. Stone by stone, the board filled. Her opening was aggressive, a pattern I recognized from old matches, a strategy that sought to control the center early. I played defensively, building walls, creating space, waiting for her to overextend.
On the thirty-second move, she spoke. Your student. Rosalind Valenridge. Her birthday is this Sunday, I hear.
I placed a stone, closing off a line of attack she had not seen. I am aware.
She studied the board, her brow furrowed. You are twenty-five, Professor. She placed her stone, a counter I had anticipated. Why are you not married?
The question was not unexpected. Zeria collected information the way others collected art, and a man of my position, unmarried at twenty-five, was an anomaly she would not ignore. I placed my stone, extending my territory further.
What if I sent a marriage proposal to your house? I said, not looking up. Would you agree?
She laughed again, louder this time, the sound filling the small office. Absolutely not. Her stone joined the board, a move that was more aggressive than her previous ones. I do not marry men who spend their weekends writing textbooks for children who tried to kill them on the first day.
I placed my stone. Then the question is answered.
She was quiet for a moment, studying the board. Her position was weakening. She had committed too much to the center too early, and my walls had closed around her, leaving her stones isolated and vulnerable.
You know, she said, her voice softer now, if you actually did that. Sent a proposal. What you said. I might agree.
I looked up from the board. Her expression was unreadable, her hazel eyes holding mine with an intensity that was not quite the sharpness she usually wore. I held her gaze for a moment, then looked back at the board.
That is a hypothetical I am not prepared to test, I said.
She smiled, but it was a different smile now, something quieter beneath the usual sharpness. Perhaps not.
The game continued. Her center crumbled under my walls, stone by stone, until she had no moves left that were not surrender. On the seventy-eighth move, she placed her stone and sat back, studying the board with her head tilted.
I concede, she said. You play well for a scholar.
I began gathering the white stones. I play well for a man who learned in another life.
She raised an eyebrow but did not ask. She never asked the questions that would require her to reveal more than she intended. Instead, she rose from her chair, smoothing her robes.
Sunday, she said. Rosalind's birthday. You should consider a gift, Professor. A book, perhaps. Something academic.
I placed the last stone in its container. I will consider it.
She walked to the door, then paused. Good game, Daevan.
I inclined my head. Good game, Zeria.
She left. The door closed behind her with a soft click. I sat in the silence for a moment, looking at the board, at the empty intersections where our stones had been, at the patterns we had woven together and then dismantled. Then I rose, returned the board to the shelf where it would wait for another game, and gathered the reports for the Emperor. There was work to do. There was always work to do.
---
The night settled over the mansion like a blanket, the corridors quiet, the rooms dark except for the lamps that burned low in the corners. In Crown Prince Reynolt's room, the light was brighter, the curtains drawn, the voices low enough that they would not carry beyond the door.
I do not know what to give her, Reynolt said, pacing between the bed and the window. His dark purple hair was loose, his formal robes exchanged for simpler clothes, his expression more open than it ever was in daylight. The Crown Prince was gone. In his place was a young man who had spent the evening staring at a blank sheet of paper, trying to think of words that would not come.
Aldric sat on the edge of the bed, his silver-blonde hair disheveled, his amber eyes bright with amusement. He was not trying to hide it. The sight of the Crown Prince, the heir to the empire, pacing over a birthday gift was the most entertaining thing he had witnessed in weeks.
You have known her your whole life, Aldric said. You have attended every ball, every banquet, every formal event. Surely you have observed something she likes.
Reynolt stopped pacing. She likes books. She likes swords. She likes things that are practical. Things that have purpose. Not flowers. Not jewelry.
Theron, who had been sitting in the chair by the window with a book open on his lap that he was not reading, closed the cover. A sword is too personal, he said. A gift from a Crown Prince to a Lady of a Hall of Companions family would be read as something it might not be.
Reynolt's face, barely visible in the lamplight, colored slightly. I am aware.
Aldric leaned back on his hands. What about a book? Something rare. Something she would not find in the Academy library.
Theron nodded slowly. There is a shop in the lower city. The owner deals in old texts, manuscripts, things that have been out of print for decades. I found a treatise there once. On summoning circles.
Reynolt looked at him. You think she would like something like that?
I think she would appreciate something that required effort to find.
Aldric grinned. The Crown Prince, hunting through the lower city for a rare book. The newspapers would pay gold for that story.
Reynolt threw a pillow at him. Aldric caught it, laughing.
Theron set his book on the table beside him. The birthday is the day after tomorrow, he said. Tomorrow is Saturday. We should go to the market. In disguise.
Aldric's laughter faded. His expression shifted, something flickering in his amber eyes. Wait, he said. The day after tomorrow. Sunday.
Reynolt looked at him. Yes. What of it?
Aldric sat up straighter, his earlier amusement replaced by something that looked almost like panic. Mirielle's birthday. It is also this Sunday. The same day.
Reynolt stared at him. How did you forget your own childhood friend's birthday? The girl you have known since you were both in leading strings?
Aldric ran a hand through his hair. I did not forget. I just. I was thinking about the market, about the book, about. He stopped. I did not think about what I would give her.
Theron raised an eyebrow. You were planning to let the Crown Prince find a gift for Lady Valenridge while you stood beside him empty-handed when the birthday of the girl you have known since childhood is the same day?
Aldric's face was red. I was going to find something in the market while we were there. I just. I did not realize until now that it was the same day. It slipped my mind.
Reynolt looked at him for a long moment, and then, despite himself, he laughed. It was a quiet laugh, surprised out of him, but it was real. You are hopeless, Aldric.
I know, Aldric said miserably.
Theron picked up his book again, a small smile on his face. We will find something for both of them, he said. The market is large. And we have all day tomorrow.
Reynolt nodded. The book for Rosalind. And something else for Mirielle. Something she would like.
Aldric thought for a moment. She likes sweets, he said. There is a shop near the main square. They make chocolate. The expensive kind. She has mentioned it before.
Then that is what we will find, Reynolt said. A book for Rosalind. Chocolate for Mirielle.
Aldric looked at him, something in his expression softening. You would help me with that? After I forgot?
Reynolt picked up the pillow Aldric had thrown at him and tossed it back. That is what friends are for, he said. Even foolish ones.
Aldric caught the pillow. He did not throw it back. He held it against his chest, and for a moment, none of them spoke. They sat in the lamplight, three young men who had come to this place as strangers bound only by bloodlines and obligation, and something had shifted. Something had become different.
Tomorrow, Theron said, breaking the silence. Early. Before the crowds.
Reynolt nodded. Tomorrow.
They left him then, closing the door behind them. Reynolt sat on the edge of his bed, looking at the blank sheet of paper that still lay on his desk. He picked up a quill, dipped it in ink, and wrote three words before setting it down again.
*For Rosalind. From Reynolt.*
He looked at the words for a long moment, then blew out the lamp and lay in the darkness, waiting for morning.
---
The cafe was quiet when I arrived, the morning light filtering through the windows, the scent of fresh coffee and bread filling the small space. I ordered a cup, black, and settled into a chair near the back where I could watch the street. It was a habit, watching. Two years as the Eye of the Empire had made it instinct.
The door opened. Three young men entered, their movements nervous, their eyes scanning the room with the particular furtiveness of people who were not used to being in places where they might be recognized. Their clothes were plain, their hair darker than it should have been, their features subtly altered by magic that was clever but not clever enough.
I recognized them before they reached the counter. Aldric's illusion work was competent. His ear for accent, less so. The Crown Prince, whose hair had been changed from dark purple to common brown, kept adjusting his collar as though it were strangling him. Theron, whose sharp gray eyes were unchanged despite the brown hair that now fell across his forehead, was trying very hard to look like someone who had never studied the history of this city in exhaustive detail.
They ordered coffee. They sat at a table near the window. They did not see me.
I rose from my chair and crossed the room. Their conversation stopped when my shadow fell across their table.
Gentlemen, I said. This is an unexpected meeting.
Reynolt's face went pale. Aldric's hand moved instinctively toward a spell he was not fast enough to cast. Theron simply closed his eyes, resigned.
Professor, Reynolt said. We were. That is. We did not.
I pulled a chair from the neighboring table and sat. Your disguises are good enough for the street, I said, but not good enough for anyone who has spent the last week watching you. What is this matter?
They exchanged glances. Reynolt, after a moment, spoke. Rosalind's birthday. It is this Sunday. We were searching for a gift.
Aldric nodded quickly. And Mirielle's birthday is also this Sunday. The same day. We thought we would find something in the market.
I looked at them. Three young men, heirs to the most powerful families in the empire, sitting in a cafe in the lower city, disguised by magic, their hands wrapped around cups of coffee they had not yet drunk. They were nervous. They were trying. They were, despite everything, becoming something I had not expected them to become.
You have until the market closes, I said. I will accompany you.
Their relief was palpable. They did not need to say thank you. It was written in the way their shoulders lowered, the way their hands steadied around their cups, the way they finally drank their coffee without looking over their shoulders.
We finished our drinks and stepped out into the street. The morning market was already crowded, stalls lining the cobblestones, merchants calling out their wares, the smell of bread and spice and fresh flowers filling the air. The three heirs walked close together, their disguises holding, their eyes wide at the chaos of the market they had never been allowed to experience.
We had walked three stalls when the voice came from behind us.
Well, well. What have we here?
Zeria von Grion Igmit stepped out of the crowd, her silver-grey robes exchanged for a simpler dress, her chestnut hair loose, her hazel eyes bright with the particular sharpness that meant she had known exactly where we would be. She looked at the three disguised heirs with an expression of pure delight.
Chairwoman, Reynolt said, and his voice cracked.
She laughed. So this is where you have been hiding. The Crown Prince, hunting for gifts in the lower city. The newspapers would pay handsomely for this story.
I stepped between her and the heirs. Zeria.
She waved a hand. I am not here to ruin their fun. I am here to help. She looked at Reynolt and Aldric. Have you decided what you are giving them?
Reynolt shook his head. We have not found anything suitable.
She considered this, tapping her chin. A book, perhaps. Something academic. The professor's suggestion, I imagine. Her eyes flicked to me. Dull. Predictable.
I said nothing.
How about this, Zeria said, turning back to Reynolt. Instead of a gift you buy, you make something. Homemade cookies. I will provide the recipe. The Empress has a kitchen. She will be delighted to help.
Reynolt looked at her, uncertain. Cookies?
Homemade, she said. From the Crown Prince himself. A gift that requires effort. A gift that shows you thought about her. Not something you bought in a shop.
I stepped forward. Since you have agreed to this foolishness, I said, when you require advice for that certain matter in the future, come to me. Do not approach this silly woman again. I pointed at Zeria, who made a sound of mock outrage.
Silly? She pressed a hand to her chest. I am wounded, Professor.
You will survive.
Reynolt looked between us, something like hope in his expression. You think she would like that? Cookies?
I think, I said, that the effort will matter more than the gift.
He nodded slowly. Then we will do it. Cookies.
Zeria clapped her hands. Excellent. I will send the recipe to the palace this afternoon. And you, Professor, she said, turning to me, will taste them before they are delivered. To ensure quality.
I looked at her. That is not necessary.
It is absolutely necessary, she said. What kind of gift would it be if they were inedible?
She did not wait for an answer. She turned and disappeared into the crowd, her laughter trailing behind her. The heirs stood in silence for a moment, and then Aldric began to laugh, and Reynolt followed, and even Theron smiled.
I watched them for a moment, these children who had come to my classroom with arrogance and left with flour on their hands, and something in my chest that I had thought long buried stirred with something that was not quite warmth.
Come, I said. We still need to find chocolate for Mirielle.
They followed me into the crowd.
---
The imperial palace kitchens were not designed for baking. They were designed for feasts, for banquets, for the elaborate meals that accompanied state functions and formal receptions. The ovens were large enough to roast entire animals. The counters were long enough to prepare meals for a hundred guests. The ceiling was high enough that the smoke from the fires drifted up into shadows that the torches could not reach.
Reynolt stood at the center of it all, his sleeves rolled up, flour dusted across the front of his shirt, a look of intense concentration on his face as he measured sugar into a bowl. Beside him, Aldric was doing something to a ball of dough that was not quite kneading and not quite punching. The dough, which had started the morning as a promising mixture of butter and flour and sugar, had become something that looked like it might be alive.
You are overworking it, the Empress said.
She stood at the end of the counter, her silver-blonde hair pinned back, her violet eyes bright with amusement. She had arrived an hour ago, drawn by the commotion, and had not left. Reynolt had discovered that she was a surprisingly patient teacher. He was also discovering that she was incapable of hiding her amusement at his complete lack of skill.
Your mother is right, Zeria said from her position by the oven. She had been directing operations since they arrived, her recipe spread out on the counter, her instructions precise and her patience, unlike the Empress's, decidedly finite. You are overworking it. The dough should be smooth, not lumpy.
Aldric looked at his hands. They were covered in something that might have been dough and might have been glue. It is lumpy, he admitted.
The Empress laughed, a warm sound that filled the kitchen. It is very lumpy.
Zeria walked over and looked at the dough with an expression of professional assessment. It is not ruined, she said. But it needs more flour. And less punching.
Reynolt added flour to his bowl, measuring carefully, trying to remember the steps. The recipe had seemed simple when Zeria handed it to him that morning. Flour, sugar, butter, eggs. Mix. Shape. Bake. He had not anticipated that the mixing would require a judgment he did not possess, a feel for the texture that came from experience he had never had.
You are doing well, the Empress said, moving to stand beside him. She looked at his bowl, at the flour dusting his hands, at the earnest concentration on his face. You look like your father did, the first time he tried to do something for me.
Reynolt looked up. Father?
She smiled, a distant smile that held memories he could not see. He was not always the Emperor, she said. Once he was a young man who had lost everything. He did not know how to cook either. But he tried.
She touched his hand, leaving a smear of flour on his wrist. That is what matters, Reynolt. That you try.
Zeria clapped her hands. Enough sentiment. The cookies will not bake themselves. She turned to the Empress. You, stir the chocolate. It is burning.
The Empress laughed again and moved to the stove, and the kitchen filled with the sounds of their work. The bowl scraped against the counter, the whisk clinked against the pot, the ovens ticked as they heated. Reynolt measured and mixed and shaped, his hands learning the texture of the dough, his mind letting go of the weight of the Crown Prince and becoming simply a young man making cookies for a girl he had known his whole life.
The door opened. Daevan von Erevos Astherion stepped into the kitchen.
He stood in the doorway for a moment, surveying the scene. The flour dusting the counters. The chocolate staining the Empress's fingers. The dough that Aldric was now shaping into approximations of circles. The cookies that Reynolt had arranged on a baking sheet with the precision of a military formation.
You are making a mess, Daevan said.
Zeria turned from the oven. We are making progress, Professor. There is a difference.
He walked to the counter and looked at the cookies Reynolt had shaped. His expression did not change, but there was something in the set of his shoulders that was almost approval.
The spacing is uneven, he said. They will spread as they bake. Leave more room between them.
Reynolt moved the cookies. Daevan watched, and when Reynolt had finished, he nodded once.
Better.
He moved to Aldric's station, looked at the dough, and without a word reached past him and added a small amount of flour, working it into the mixture with two quick motions. The dough, which had been sticky and uncooperative, became smooth.
You were using too much pressure, Daevan said. The dough does not need to be forced. It needs to be guided.
Aldric stared at the dough. How did you know that?
Daevan did not answer. He moved to the stove, where the Empress was stirring chocolate, and looked at the pot.
It is ready, he said. Take it off the heat.
The Empress raised an eyebrow but did as he said. The chocolate, which had been on the verge of burning, cooled to a perfect gloss.
Zeria was watching him with an expression that was almost smug. The professor, she said, is full of surprises.
Daevan turned back to Reynolt. The first batch is ready. Put them in the oven.
Reynolt picked up the baking sheet. His hands were steady. His heart was not. He opened the oven door, slid the sheet inside, and closed it again.
How long? he asked.
Zeria consulted her recipe. Twelve minutes. No more, no less.
They waited. The kitchen filled with the smell of baking dough, of sugar and butter and the faint sweetness of vanilla. Reynolt stood by the oven, his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes fixed on the window.
The Empress came to stand beside him. They will be fine, she said.
I know, he said. But his voice was tight.
When the timer rang, Zeria opened the oven door. The cookies were golden brown, the edges crisp, the centers soft. They were not perfect. Some were thicker than others, some thinner, some slightly misshapen. But they were cookies. They were real.
Reynolt looked at them. He did not speak.
Zeria reached past him and picked up one of the smaller ones, the one that had spread too much, the one that was more shape than circle. She bit into it.
Her expression did not change. She chewed. She swallowed.
They are edible, she said. That is more than I expected.
Reynolt let out a breath he did not know he had been holding. Aldric laughed. The Empress smiled.
Daevan picked up a cookie and examined it. The texture is inconsistent, he said. The sugar distribution is uneven. The edges are overbaked.
He bit into it. He chewed. He swallowed.
But they are acceptable, he said.
Reynolt looked at him. Acceptable?
Daevan met his eyes. For a first attempt, they are more than acceptable.
Something in Reynolt's chest loosened. He looked at the cookies on the cooling rack, at the flour on his hands, at the chocolate stains on his mother's fingers, and he smiled. It was a small smile, tentative, but it was real.
They worked through the afternoon. The second batch was better than the first, the third better than the second. By the time the sun began to set, they had two dozen cookies, arranged on plates, wrapped in paper, tied with ribbon. One for Rosalind. One for Mirielle.
Reynolt stood in the doorway of the kitchen, the plates in his hands, and looked out at the palace gardens where the last light of the day was painting the leaves gold. Tomorrow, he would give them to her. Tomorrow, he would see her face when she opened the box.
He hoped she would like them.
He hoped she would understand.