Power did not announce itself anymore.
It watched.
Aria understood that within days of Valeria Conti's arrival. The estate did not change its rhythm, yet something subtle pressed against its edges. Not fear. Not a threat. Attention. The kind that lingered quietly, measuring responses, cataloging habits, and waiting for patterns to form.
She felt it most when she moved through the house with Elena.
Doors opened faster. Conversations paused. People adjusted themselves around her presence, not because she demanded it, but because they did not know how to place her now.
She was no longer only a figure of resistance. She was no longer only a name that unsettled rooms.
She was a mother.
That unsettled them more.
Elena slept often, her small body curled easily against Aria's chest or tucked into the cradle beside her chair. Aria learned the rhythms quickly. Hunger. Discomfort. The subtle difference between restlessness and need. She responded without panic, without ceremony.
