The command tomb throbbed with the noise of seventy-five domestics crammed shoulder to shoulder. Whispers ricocheted off the stone walls, sharp and nervous. Julian stood on the long table in the center, still flanked by his two attendants.

  Everyone had been summoned, even non-exprite footmen like Peter—yet, only he stood apart. In the crush of bodies, the others leaned into each other, shying away from him. Beyond that, they all wore appropriate uniforms, whereas he had stripped off his shredded coat and shirt, leaving him bare-chested and covered in dust.

  He searched the crowd for a familiar face. His expression lifted when he saw Sicco, weaving towards him—then faltered when he noticed the butler’s hand.

  Shriveled and black, Sicco held his stiff arm tight to his body.

  “What happened?” Peter blurted as his teacher stopped at the edge of his leech radius.

  Sicco smiled. “Got hit with one of the spider’s stray curses. Should have worn my gloves.”

  Peter’s gut lurched at the sight of the dead limb. “Oh. They can heal it … right?”

  “This is a first for our healers.” He shrugged casually. “It’ll make an interesting case study.” An edge to his voice betrayed the truth. His words were a coping mechanism; he needed that hand. He was a master pulsist, and without it, he couldn’t compress Waarhied.

  “Sicco,” Peter whispered, voice tightening in sorrow.

  Sicco sighed, forced, and tight. “It’s exciting, really. Think I’ll finally get some time with the family now.”

  “Attention!” Julian’s voice cracked through the chamber, and the murmur died like a snuffed wick. “I bring news from Nyamar.”

  Peter fixated on Julian, trying to get a read. Before his trip, he had been a bundle of uncertainty, carrying a burden he could never hope to hold high. Now, his words rang with a new, unshakable certainty

  “Domari, I wish to introduce you to my new friends.”

  He shifted to the Dinnian maid. Her uniform barely nodded to house regulations: the white apron split down the middle over her black skirt. The vest over her blouse had a black-and-orange pattern, jarring amid the sea of monochrome. Finally, and most interestingly, a recurve bow and quiver of arrows hung from her back.

  “This is Hunter Maid Kanya Phayao.”

  He motioned to the dark-skinned man beside her. His suit and apron bore sharp industrial lines, too clean and precise. A top hat perched on his head, and a pistol with a broomstick handle and a long, thin barrel rode on his belt.

  “This is Butler Desta Wolde.”

  Julian paused, allowing the names to settle in.

  “We have Dinnians and Churites scattered on Boslic,” he went on, “Residual ancestry from a time when the Ataggin empire seeded its bloodlines across the worlds. But these two aren’t relics of the past. Less than two hours ago, they stood on their respective planets.”

  The house members murmured in surprise, a ripple of surprise running the length of the room.

  “Julian!” Anton hissed, face draining of color. “What have you done? You know we’re to remain on our individual worlds!”

  Julian smiled and stepped toward Anton, a confident smile spreading across his lips. “Nyamar sent a messenger, a s’raphon. He has lifted that restriction. Even commanded the House to work with the Houses on our sister planets.”

  “You’re certain?” Anton asked, casting a wry glance at the crowd.

  “Incontestably,” Julian said.

  Anton looked at him searchingly, then nodded.

  “What’s more,” Julian said, voice rising to carry, “Nyamar sanctions our war, giving us the stewardship to drive off these invaders! They trespass and offend him. You may fear we’re not strong enough—and you’re right. This is why the houses must unite. That’s why we will awaken every footman we have and begin training a new generation of exprites!”

  A roar of approval erupted from the younger footmen and women; a small chorus of older butlers and stewards answered with outrage.

  “Julian, we can’t!” protested a High Maid, with grey hair pulled back to expose sharp avian features.

  Peter knew she was a heavy hitter—High Maid Saskia, a master breacher with a cult pack of maids who hung onto her every word. The legendary breach wand Chirurgis hung on her belt, a House artifact forged entirely of athanium rather than the more conventional glass.

  Saskia continued. “It takes years of vetting to determine a viable candidate. We’ll train dissonant Atagginites!”

  Julian’s smile thinned into something hard. “Atagginites,” he said slowly, tasting the word. “Nyamar hasn’t forgotten about those who spur his power without his sanction. They must be erased—”

  A ripple more dangerous than applause ran through the room. Older heads nodded, the kind of nod that carried a history of purges.

  Peter felt his teeth grind. The word ‘erased’ opened a gulf he’d not expected. That crusade, that draconian idea, was the one thorn that kept him from seeing himself as one of them.

  “—By bringing them back into the fold,” Julian finished. “For the first time, Nyamar has extended a hand and an invitation; he beckons all who will listen to become one again.”

  Traditionalists who had been nodding along now cried out in outrage.

  Peter’s eyes widened. A path for those who defected, who took Nyamar’s power in the absence of his sanction? People like Isabella’s brother?

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  “This defies our ways!” a steward cried.

  “The House will fall, inviting corruption will breed rot,” High Maid Saskia agreed.

  Footmen and women chattered excitedly.

  Sicco shifted at Peter’s side. “Too much change,” he murmured. “Too fast.”

  “Julian,” Saskia said diplomatically. “No one here questions your leadership,” she said, in a voice that directly challenged his leadership. “Your burden is great, but one has to wonder if Bram would be making these decisions.”

  Julian’s eyes darkened. “My father is dead, that’s where his approach to the courts got him. And I’ll remind you, these aren’t my determinations—they’re Nyamar’s.”

  “How sure are we of that?” Saskia asked. “Why didn’t this s’raphon show itself to all of us?”

  The Dinian Hunter Maid Kanya frowned down at Saskia. “Is this type of recalcitrance common on your world, High Steward?”

  Saskia’s face soured. “We have Nyamar’s sanction, but stewards can make mistakes—or misinterpret Nyamar’s will. Don’t forget your history, when High Steward Tomas Meijer almost drove the house to Atagginite apostasy.”

  Peter’s face heated at the veiled threat. High Steward Tomas had been disposed of nearly two hundred years earlier; his failures had contributed largely to the House on Boslic falling out of common favor.

  Around the tomb. He noticed several maids nodding in agreement. While Peter harbored reservations about the House as an organization, he had complete trust in Julian.

  “Enough!” Anton barked. “The high steward is Nyamar’s chosen leader. We don’t follow Julian. We follow Nyamar, and he has set him at our head.”

  Saskia smiled, the expression anything but friendly. Her lips pressed into a line, biting back a retort.

  “Speak, Saskia,” Julian ordered “Let’s get this out in the open, because we won’t hold back, or tolerate hesitation.”

  Peter almost spoke, but forced himself to shut up. He was a footman among these, not a court; his words merited no credence.

  Saskia glanced around. “How sure are we that Nyamar chose Julian? Bram was old, his faculties were fading, and he chose his son to succeed him. Never in the history of the House has there been a lineage-based succession. There’s no precedent. And with Julian at the head, more had changed in six months than in two centuries. Is this a coincidence? Nyamar wouldn’t have given us such a broken system that requires so many repairs.”

  Peter’s chest tightened, his mind racing. Somehow, he knew Julian was the right man to head the House; maybe it was simply because he liked Julian, but certainty that it was more than that drove his conviction like a part of his soul speaking to him.

  His fists clenched, a heat rising through his bosom that refused to be contained. For years, Peter had skirted the edges of faith, like a man skirting the perimeters of a fire. He’d never fully trusted Nyamar, mistaking cracks in the edifice for rot in the foundation. But the fault hadn’t been with the progenitor. It was the politics, the misinterpretations, the dogma tarnishing the truth like rust.

  He started forward, the clarity hitting. The rust burned away, the bell struck in the dark. Nyamar was calling; he couldn’t pretend not to hear.

  Step by step, he advanced. Domestics gasped and scrambled away.

  “Peter!” Sicco hissed.

  By the time he reached the foot of the table, murmurs and gasps filled the tomb.

  He climbed the edge of the table, ignoring the stares, the protests, the shock. Saskia and Julian turned to him, surprise written across their faces.

  “Why not, High Maid?” Peter demanded. “Why couldn’t Nyamar have given you an imperfect system? You sound like Rahashel’s elderwights who worship him as a god—”

  “Get down, footman,” Anton said, brow furrowing.

  Peter ignored him. “Read your own doctrine. Nyamar isn’t a god; he’s never claimed to be. He’s not omniscient, not omnipotent; that’s why he works through such a vast network of delegation. He’s an immortal alien with terrible power, and he needs us to carry out his will.”

  A hush fell over the tomb; even the dissent leaned in, curiosity mixing with irritation. Peter’s voice rose.

  “Is this the house my mother believed in? What is the best Nyamar can do? You ask why Nyamar doesn’t send a s’raphon, as if he served us rather than the other way around. Maybe we should stop waiting for the Lord of the House to do the chores and perform our duties. Perhaps he’s already answered. Instead of sending s’raphon to you, the domestics, he now sends the domestics to them, the people of these worlds.”

  Several maids exchanged uneasy glances. Even Anton faltered, unsure whether to intervene.

  “You doubt the need for change. Let’s assume for a moment that Nyamar was incapable of providing an imperfect system; that, yes, for the world we had, the old ways worked.”

  He thrust his bare arm over his head, displaying the glittering Bedorvan. “But then these came. The world changed, and now that Nyamar is providing a way through these dark waters, you’d rather swim? Where is your wisdom? You think your plans are better than his? He may not be a god, but he’s invested in us, and he’s been doing this much longer.”

  Peter jerked a finger at Julian.

  “Julian isn’t the best one for the job? That’s possible, but he answered the call. He listened when he thought Nyamar had gone silent, and then he spoke. Julian has bled for the house, for Boslic. You want to talk about precedent? Julian carries more weight than most stewards before him. He brings solutions. Solutions that will preserve us and execute his will, and you mock him in the name of tradition.”

  Saskia’s lips pressed into a thin line. “A footman dares to—”

  “I’m no one!” Peter said, raising. The heat swelled, growing until it buzzed in his bones. “Yet I hear the call. What have you blocked your ears with? Pride? Tradition? Greed? High maids, Butlers, and stewards—”

  He swept his hand over the younger footmen, who nodded. “We’re ready; are you?”

  Whispers rippled through the crowd, and Peter felt a shift in the room. Yes, he was a footman shouting at his betters, but he also spoke the truth.

  Julian’s gaze met his, a flicker of gratitude passing across his features. Saskia’s gaze sharpened, but not even she could completely dismiss the weight of his words.

  “You speak boldly,” she said, her voice cool, almost admiring. “But boldness does not make one right.”

  “Sure,” Peter nodded. “So I’ll give you action,” He turned to Julian and dropped to a knee. “High Steward, I’m ready to honor my stewardship. What would you have me do?”

  For a long moment, the room held its breath, then Julian stepped forward into Peter’s leechfield, but the Tijd syphon remained dormant. Somehow, the High Steward didn’t trigger the court defense mechanism.

  “Peter Kroon, do you vow to serve Nyamar and his house, to protect and serve his children?”

  Peter’s words caught in his throat. This was serious. If he agreed, he intended to commit fully —no half measures or indecision.

  He exhaled. Caught up in his speech, his body radiated heat. But this couldn’t be an impulse; it needed to be a choice.

  He paused. Then nodded once. “I do.”

  “Then I bestow upon you your stewardship. Guard your Bedorven, and let it never fall into the hands of our enemies. Stand against the courts that would conquer and enslave us in this system. And master the Voor script of Nyamar’s left hand.”

  Julian’s right hand cupped Peter’s face with ritual precision—thumb and pinky braced against his jaw, fore and ring fingers resting gently on his eyelids, and the middle finger poised on the bridge of his nose.

  Pressure built within Peter—not in any organ or muscle, but in the spaces between. His bones tingled as though whispering, not with words, but somehow with geometry. Heat vibrated in the marrow, working outward, sending static shocks through nerve endings as dormant potential awoke within him. A foreign warmth slid through his veins, expanding impossibly within space.

  He may have knelt there for a heartbeat, or an hour, but when Julian removed his hand, tears poured down Peter’s face. Something indefinable had shifted, like being able to perceive color for the first time—though it had nothing to do with sight.

  “Rise,” Julian said, smiling. “First soldier in this new generation.”