It was well into deep evening outside the study window.
Carl sat in the armchair, leaning back against the high backrest, staring at the scrap of paper in his hand. Just three words, written in someone else's unfamiliar handwriting:
"Completed successfully."
He read them for the third time. The fourth. The words didn't change.
Successfully. That meant Lyra was alive. That meant Corvin hadn't fallen into enemy hands. That meant Aina had done what she was sent to do.
His fingers trembled slightly—and he forced them to stop. Fatigue. Just the fatigue of the last few days, washing over him in the silence, when he no longer needed to keep his back straight before servants and wife.
Whether he could come to an agreement with Corvin was another question.
Carl set the note aside, rubbed the bridge of his nose. Embers were dying in the fireplace, casting warm glimmers on the walls. Somewhere in the house, it was quiet—Eleonor was probably still working on the figures, Amalia was in her tenth dream. And he sat here, watching the fire, running through his mind what he knew about this mage.
In his past life, Corvin had appeared in the capital two years from now.
Carl remembered those reports—dry, official, full of omissions. "An unknown mage broke into the Academy... offered fierce resistance... neutralized on site..." But behind the dry lines lay something else: a half-mad man with different-colored eyes, screaming his mentor's name and burning everything around him.
Corvin had been an orphan. In childhood, his Source had awakened—a rare gift, the very nature of which made his studies a game. Knowledge came to him as easily as breathing. By fourteen, they called him a genius; by seventeen, a junior mentor. For such students, the Academy made exceptions gladly. Talent outweighed birth.
And then came his "friends." Fabricated evidence. Burned reputation. The Source seared away. Left empty.
But Corvin survived. He knew magic not only by blood—he knew it with his mind. One becomes a conduit through training and knowledge, and he had more knowledge than any of those who betrayed him. He could no longer draw power from within, but he could channel it from without. A Source mage deprived of his Source—it sounded like a mockery, but it worked.
This time, he would live. If he agreed.
Carl shifted his gaze back to the fire. The flame licked the last embers.
He forced himself to stop thinking about the mage. There was something else now, no less important. Perhaps even more important.
Lyra.
He had thought about her these past days—in snatches, between reports and conversations with Eleonor. The girl from the rooftops, who clutched the silver raven in her pocket and looked at him as if he were offering not a job, but salvation for her soul. What would she see upon returning? What would she take away from this mission?
The plan that had formed in his mind was insane. So insane that he had pushed it away for three days, trying to find another way. He hadn't found one.
The Royal Academy.
Carl knew more about that place than any other person outside its walls. Knew because in his past life, he had spent years trying to understand how to get inside, how to pull his daughter out, how to break through the armor of rules, traditions, and royal will.
The Academy accepted only nobles. Only those of earl rank and above. No servants, no retinue, no contact with the outside world—rare letters, strict censorship, no visits. Studying there was considered an honor, but that honor was a golden cage.
And in that system, there were no loopholes. Except one.
What if an older sister went with the younger?
The thought hadn't come to him now—it had been maturing for years, back in that other life. Then, he had dismissed it as absurd. He had no older daughter. Didn't even have a younger one—Amalia was gone, and thinking about "sisters" was pointless.
But now...
Now he had Lyra. A girl who could be dressed, trained, presented to the world.
And he had a legend.
Ten years ago, Carl had an older cousin. Few remembered his name—a quiet, unassuming man, living in a distant estate with his wife and little daughter. And then a tragedy happened—a carriage plunged off a mountain road, rain, sodden earth, a dark night. Bodies found three days later. His. Hers. The child—not found.
They searched. A month, two. Then she was declared missing, presumed dead. Distant relatives, tangled family branches—who could sort out where truth ended and rumors began?
If she agreed. If she could manage. If she didn't fail at the very first exam. If no one dug too deep. If Eleonor...
Too many "ifs."
Carl sighed heavily. The last ember died in the fireplace, and the shadows in the room thickened, clinging blackly to the walls.
"One step at a time," he said aloud. His voice in the empty room sounded hollow, as if it belonged to someone else.
He stood. The chair creaked slightly, releasing him. His legs obeyed poorly—the long day, the long evening, the long life he carried on his shoulders had taken their toll.
Light burned in Eleonor's study. She wasn't asleep.
Carl knew this before he even reached the door. Knew by the thin line of light beneath it, by the quiet rustle of paper, by how the smell of lavender permeated even here, in the corridor.
She was waiting for him. Perhaps not intentionally. Perhaps she was just working on the figures he'd given her. But a part of her—that very part that sensed him from a mile away—was waiting.
Carl stopped before the door. Raised his hand to knock, and froze.
What do I tell her?
"My dear, my cousin's daughter died ten years ago, and I found a girl who looks like her, and I want to adopt her so she can go to the Academy with our Amalia, because I know the future but can't explain how"?
He smirked in the darkness. The smirk was bitter.
One step at a time, he repeated to himself. First one thing. Then another. For now—just go in and be with her.
He knocked—three short knocks, their private signal.
"Come in," came from behind the door.
Carl opened the door and stepped into the warmth.
The moment he entered the study, Carl frowned.
Eleonor sat at the table, immersed in papers and calculations. The quill raced across the parchment, leaving even rows of figures; she muttered something under her breath, consulted some notes, and wrote again.
"Wait a minute," she tossed out, not even raising her head.
Carl stopped at the threshold.
Her mop of auburn hair was gathered in a neat braid—during the day, she usually wore it loose, but for work, she gathered it so it wouldn't get in the way. Small glasses in a thin frame sat on the bridge of her nose, making her look like either a strict schoolteacher or a very young royal official pretending to be grown. Her refined profile, elegant fingers stained with ink—she was beautiful in this concentration.
But Carl frowned not because of his wife's coolness.
He frowned because of the cold in the room.
The window was wide open. Eleonor couldn't stand stuffiness—said that in a closed room, thoughts got tangled, figures danced, and she needed fresh air to see clearly. Spring was only just beginning; the sun still warmed during the day, but in the evenings, an icy dampness seeped in.
And she sat there in a light dress, absorbed in her calculations, not even noticing how cold her fingers were getting.
Carl strode to the chair by the fireplace, grabbed a blanket—warm, soft, she had chosen the fabric herself last autumn—and crossed to the window in three steps. Slammed the shutters shut. Turned around.
Eleonor looked up, opened her mouth to say something—to protest, probably, that he was interrupting her work—but didn't have time.
Carl gently but decisively pushed the papers aside. She blinked, not understanding. He draped the blanket over her shoulders, wrapped her up like a child, and before she could utter a word, scooped her up, blanket and all.
"Carl!" she breathed, astonished.
Without a word, he carried her to the armchair by the fireplace, sat down himself, and settled her on his lap, holding her back against his chest. Adjusted the blanket to cover her legs. Only then did he allow himself to exhale.
Eleonor sat frozen on his lap, stunned. Looked up at him with wide eyes, in which surprise, mild indignation, and something very warm mingled.
Carl gazed down at her darkly, trying to maintain a stern expression. Decided to freeze, did you? Catch a cold. Forget you promised to take care of yourself.
He lasted exactly three seconds.
"You promised..." he said, and his voice treacherously wavered, slipping from stern to almost helpless.
Eleonor blinked. Then the corners of her lips twitched.
"I'm sorry," she said quietly, and in that word was so much warmth that all his sternness crumbled to ash.
She leaned up and kissed him.
Briefly. Lightly. But so that for a moment, he forgot where he was and why he had even come here.
When she pulled back, laughter danced in her eyes.
"Better?"
Carl sighed. It was impossible to resist her.
"Better," he admitted.
Eleonor smiled, took off her glasses, set them on the small table beside her, and settled comfortably against his shoulder, burying her nose in the crook of his neck. The blanket covered them both. The embers were dying in the fireplace, but the room was growing warm—not from the fire, but from the two of them.
They sat in silence. A long time. The way only they could—not because they understood each other without words, but because they both loved this silence. This peace. The chance to simply be near, without explaining, without justifying, without playing roles.
Somewhere in the house, a floorboard creaked—Frederick, probably making his rounds before sleep. Somewhere far off, a dog barked. But here, in the small study, it was quiet and cozy, like a fortress.
"Tell me," Eleonor finally said, not changing her position. "How was your day?"
Carl smirked. She knew he would come. Knew he needed to talk. And she gave him time to gather himself.
"Ordinary," he answered. "Papers. Reports. The stewards arguing again about meat and coal prices."
"And you listen to them?"
"Sometimes. When they don't argue too loudly."
She snorted.
"Amalia showed me her drawings today," she said. "A whole album. Dragons, knights, and for some reason a chicken wearing a crown."
Carl smiled, looking at the ceiling.
"The chicken in a crown—is that her drawing us?"
"I don't know," amusement sounded in Eleonor's voice. "But if so, I'm the chicken. You're the knight."
"Makes sense. You lay golden eggs in the form of budgets."
She laughed quietly, and that laugh resonated warmly in his chest.
Then they talked of other things. About the steward from the eastern estate asking for money for a new mill roof. About the neighbors, Baron Madl, sending an invitation to a summer celebration—they'd need to reply. About Amalia asking for a new dress, because the old one was too small, and she was growing by leaps and bounds.
Carl found topics. One after another. Clung to them like straws, just to keep talking, just to avoid getting to the main thing.
Eleonor listened. Responded. Sometimes corrected, sometimes agreed. But with each passing minute, Carl felt her gaze becoming more attentive, quieter, more penetrating.
She knew.
She always knew.
"What do you want to tell me, Carl?" she asked suddenly.
He stopped mid-word. Froze like that—mouth open, sentence about needing to check last month's accounts unfinished.
She turned her head, looked up at him. Gray-green flecked eyes regarded him calmly and steadily. There was no pressure in them. Only readiness to listen.
Carl smiled crookedly.
"Do I hide it that badly?"
"You hide it well," she replied. "From everyone. Except me."
He sighed. Looked at the ceiling. At the fire. At the top of her head. Anywhere but meeting the truth with his eyes.
"I've been having the same dream lately," he said at last.
His voice sounded hollow, as if not his own.
Eleonor was silent. Waiting.
"As if I... lose you." He swallowed. "I don't know how to explain. It's not just fear. It's... knowledge. As if I've already lived through it once. As if I've seen how..."
He faltered. The words wouldn't come. How do you tell your wife you've seen her die? That you held her hand as she faded? That you searched for your daughter and never found her?
"Carl." Her voice was quiet, but it broke through his thoughts. "Look at me."
He looked.
She looked directly at him. Calmly. Steadily. And in that gaze, there was no pity—only the strength he had always admired in her.
"I'm here," she said. "We're here. Amalia is asleep in her room, I'm sitting on your lap, and if you tell me right now that you're afraid—I'll understand. But don't hide behind dreams. Speak."
Carl was silent. A long time. A very long time.
And then he spoke.
Not everything. Not about the future, not about death, not about a second life. But about Lyra. About the plan. About the Academy. About a girl who had survived where others died, and who might become their last chance to protect Amalia from what he feared most in the world.
Eleonor listened. Didn't interrupt. Only occasionally stroked his hand, resting on the armrest.
When he finished, the room fell silent again.
"You want to adopt her," Eleonor said. It wasn't a question.
"Yes."
"And send her to the Academy with Amalia."
"Yes."
"And if she refuses? If she can't manage? If..."
"I know," he interrupted. "Too many 'ifs.' I know."
Eleonor was silent. Then she looked up at him.
"You believe in her."
Again, it wasn't a question.
Carl met her gaze.
"Yes."
She nodded. Simply. As if he'd said something self-evident.
"Then I want to meet her," Eleonor said. "Before any decision is made."
Carl exhaled. He hadn't even noticed he'd been barely breathing all this time.
"Alright," he said.
Eleonor smiled—that very smile for which he had once built her the orangery.
"And now," she said, settling more comfortably, "close your eyes and be quiet. I want to sit like this a little longer."
Carl closed his eyes.
The embers died in the fireplace. Outside the window, the cold spring wind blew. Somewhere in the house, their daughter slept, unaware that her life was about to change.
And they sat in the armchair, holding each other, listening to the silence.