Drea made the decision before the city fully woke.
The lamp in the rented room flickered weakly, throwing pale light across the cracked ceiling. Kai slept beside her, curled in on himself, one hand fisted in her shirt as if even in sleep he feared losing her. Drea lay still, listening to his breathing, counting each rise and fall of his chest.
She had survived by running.
By hiding.
By never staying long enough for roots to form.
But Valenford was different. Too large. Too structured. Too expensive. Running here would bleed her dry in days, not months.
And Marcus Ackerman's offer, dangerous as it was, came with walls, guards, and food.
She hated herself for needing it, yet she chose it.
When Ace woke, rubbing his eyes, she told him they were going somewhere important.
"Will you leave me there?" he asked immediately, voice small but sharp with fear.
She crouched in front of him and took his face gently in her hands. "No."
He frowned. "You promise?"
"I promise," she said, without hesitation. "Where I go, you go."
He nodded, still uncertain, but he took her hand when she offered it.
They walked through the city together, past waking streets and yawning merchants. As they crossed from the lower ring toward the upper, Ace kept glancing up at the tall buildings, the guards, the banners fluttering above wide stone roads.
"Will they make me go away?" he asked again.
"No," she said again.
Each time, her answer was firm. Each time, it was the only truth she trusted.
When they reached the address Marcus had given her, Drea stopped dead.
This was no house.
It was a mansion.
Stone walls stretched wider than entire streets back in the lower ring. Ornate iron gates rose taller than any building she had lived in, crested with the Ackerman sigil; clean, sharp lines forged into permanence. Beyond the gates, manicured gardens spread outward in careful symmetry, hedges trimmed with almost unnatural precision.
'A quarter of the lower ring could live here,' Drea thought numbly.
The gates opened silently at their approach.
Inside, a broad stone path split the grounds in two, flanked by gardens bursting with late-blooming flowers and sculpted trees. In the center stood a fountain, white stone carved into layered bowls, water spilling gently over the edges in constant, soothing motion.
Drea stopped at the fountain.
She stood there, staring at the water, grounding herself in its sound. She would not step further without clarity. Not into a place like this.
A servant approached, bowing slightly. "You may come inside, sir."
Drea tightened her grip on the folded address. "No."
The servant blinked. "Sir?"
"I'll wait here," she said evenly. "I was told to meet Marcus Ackerman."
The servant hesitated, clearly unused to refusal, but nodded and retreated.
Drea stayed where she was, Ace pressed close to her side, watching everything with wide eyes.
Then Marcus appeared.
He walked down the steps with an easy confidence, cane in hand, a warm smile already forming as his eyes landed on them.
"Dren," he said, as if greeting an old acquaintance. "You came."
Drea inclined her head. "I said I would, if I agreed."
"And have you?" Marcus asked.
She didn't answer immediately. "Before anything else, I need to be clear. My brother stays with me. Always."
Marcus studied her face carefully. He saw the steel beneath the restraint, the protective instinct coiled tight.
"Agreed," he said without pause.
Relief flickered through her chest but only briefly.
Marcus gestured toward the fountain. "Let us talk here."
They spoke plainly. Terms. Work. Boundaries.
Marcus spoke of Rovan not as a burden, but as a son who needed steady company. Someone honest. Someone who wouldn't pretend.
'Family matters most to you,' Marcus thought as he watched her listen, guarded but intent. It always does. He believed it, not dismissively, but as a truth shaped by years of observation. He knew it was that very instinct that had brought her here. For her brother.
"I will work," Drea said finally. "But I won't be owned."
Marcus smiled. "Nor would I want to own you."
Before more could be said, the sound reached them.
A soft, rhythmic turning.
Wheels on stone.
They turned.
Rovan emerged from between the garden paths.
He sat upright in his wheelchair, posture composed, hands resting lightly on the rims. He wore a tailored coat of deep blue, silver threading tracing the seams. Beneath it, a crisp white shirt and dark trousers, polished shoes resting neatly on the footplate.
His legs were still, but everything else about him was alert.
His hair was neatly combed back, catching the light. His face, sharp, thoughtful carried an expression of quiet authority. And his eyes...
His eyes fixed on Drea.
Recognition struck them both at the same time.
Drea's breath caught.
The fallen chair. The lane. The hairpin.
Rovan narrowed his eyes, gaze sweeping over her altered appearance, the suit, the darkened hair, the way she stood. Calculating. Reading.
Marcus turned, oblivious to the tension. "Rovan," he said warmly, "this is Dren. He will be working under you from now on."
Rovan's jaw tightened. 'He?'
"Father," he said slowly, "he is—"
"No," Marcus interrupted calmly. "He is exactly who he says he is."
Rovan stared at him, incredulous. "But—"
"The decision is made," Marcus said, voice firm but not unkind. "You need capable support. Dren will provide it."
Rovan looked back at Drea, disbelief etched across his face.
She, his mind insisted. She is a she.
How could his father not see it?
Drea met his gaze steadily, heart pounding, saying nothing. Her mind telling her to run away, far away from here, leaving no trace but she cannot. She walked in the trouble by her will. There was no running back.
Marcus knew.
And Rovan did not.
The fountain continued to flow between them, water masking the weight of secrets as the mansion loomed, a place too large, too powerful, to contain what had just stepped inside its gates.