Berian was thriving, at least, Evelina’s and my part was thriving. I could barely care for the other three parts of Berian.

Everything was good. The place was finally looking more modern, no longer like something out of an old cowboy movie or a town plagued by constant thieves.

Berian had become a powerful production hub, one that the corrupt inner district devoured without hesitation. Evelina was right: even with how cautious they were, as long as we played our cards well, they would eventually lower their guard.

They wouldn’t expect the moment when Evelina would finally pull the lever and completely deprive their economy the instant she uttered the words.

And even if the inner district grew wise, the G-32s, and Evelina’s secret partnership with their creators, made us nearly invulnerable. If the inner district declared war, they would be facing both internal and external threats.

Not only that, we were sure Marcellus and Julius would immediately join in to help our cause.

"Good morning, my lord."

"My lord..."

I was greeted with multiple pleasantries, and no matter how kind they tried to sound, it all still sounded fake.

I don’t really blame them. Even if we were fairly... benevolent, our reputation still preceded us, especially now that our side of Berian finally had connections with the capital itself.

News from there now traveled here. That also meant our formerly oblivious citizens now knew their new rulers had been... less than benevolent back in the academy, and that our usual reputation still followed us.

"Lord Arden."

One of the merchants, a woman who ran the largest textile operation in our sector, caught up to me as I crossed the main square.

Her name was Mira. She had been among the first merchants back in the capital to invest when we returned to ruling after the church incident, back when everyone else was still deciding when we would show our true colors.

"Madam Mira."

"Please." She fell into step beside me, her dark hair pinned up beneath a cap that marked her trade. "You’ve known me long enough to drop the formalities."

"Old habits."

"Old habits," she repeated, amused. "That’s what we call it when you nobles refuse to admit you’ve softened."

I didn’t correct her.

The main square had transformed over the years. Where there had been empty stalls and wary faces, there were now permanent market buildings, their wooden facades painted in bright colors that caught the morning light.

Children ran between the crowds, chasing a ball that had seen better days. An old man played something stringed near the fountain, his music competing with the shouts of vendors and the low rumble of wagons.

"If you’re looking for Lady D’Arclight," Mira said, "she’s at the new clinic. The one near the south gate."

"I wasn’t looking for her."

"Of course you weren’t." Her smile turned knowing. "That’s why you’ve been glancing toward the south gate every few steps."

I stopped walking.

Mira stopped too, her smile widening.

"My lord, everyone in this sector knows how you look at her. It’s not a secret. It’s not even interesting anymore. It’s just..." She waved a hand, searching for the word. "Comforting."

"Comforting."

"You’re two of the most dangerous people on the continent. You could crush this sector flat if you wanted to. But you don’t. You walk through the square in the morning and you look toward the south gate because your wife is there and you’d rather be with her."

I rubbed the back of my neck, something I hadn’t done in years. "We’re not actually married."

"You live together. You rule together. You’re having a child together." Mira raised an eyebrow. "The only thing missing is the ceremony, and we both know that’s just politics."

"It’s complicated politics."

"Politics is always complicated." She patted my arm, not quite familiar, not quite formal, a gesture that belonged to the space between. "Enjoy the morning, my lord. And tell Lady D’Arclight that the new shipment of cotton arrived. The good quality, not the cheap stuff she complains about."

She walked off toward her warehouse, her boots loud on the cobblestones.

I stood in the square for a moment longer, watching the children chase their ball, listening to the old man’s strings. Then I turned toward the south gate.

The clinic was new.

White stone, clean windows, a garden in the back where patients could sit when the weather was fine. Evelina had funded it herself, though she’d let the physicians take public credit. It was better that way, she said. People trusted healers more than they trusted nobles.

I found her in the garden.

She sat on a stone bench beneath an old oak tree, her white hair loose around her shoulders, her hands folded over the small swell of her stomach. A book lay open beside her, but she wasn’t reading it.

She was watching a young mother push a cart through the garden, a baby sleeping in the basket.

"Cael."

She hadn’t turned. She didn’t need to.

"Madam Mira says the cotton shipment arrived," I said, sitting beside her on the bench. "The good quality."

"I’ll have someone inspect it later."

"You’re not working today."

"I’m not working today," she agreed.

The young mother passed by, nodded respectfully, and continued on toward the clinic’s back door. The baby in the cart never stirred.

Evelina watched until they disappeared inside.

"I’ve been thinking about names," she said.

"Already?"

"I’ve had years to think about names, Cael. I just never told you."

I leaned back against the bench, letting the morning sun warm my face. The oak tree above us rustled in a breeze I could barely feel.

"What did you come up with?"

She was quiet for a moment. Then, softly: "If it’s a girl, I want to name her after my mother."

I turned to look at her.

Evelina’s mother had died when she was young. She never talked about her. Not once, in all the years I’d known her. The subject simply didn’t exist, a locked door she had never bothered to open.

"Valerica," Evelina said. "That was her name."

"It’s beautiful."

"It was wasted on her."

I didn’t ask what she meant. The locked door had cracked open just enough, and I wasn’t about to push.

Even the novel didn’t delve deeply into Evelina’s mother; the perspective remained fixed on Julius. It was another blind spot, but now it wasn’t something I needed to keep constant tabs on.

Life was peaceful, and I’d like for it to stay that way.

"And if it’s a boy?" I asked instead.

Evelina’s hand found mine, her fingers cool against my palm.

"I thought... maybe we could name him after your father."

"He’s not dead."

"I know. But you never talk about him either."

I stared at the clinic garden, at the flowers that had been planted in careful rows, at the stone path that led to the back door. A bee drifted past, heavy with pollen, its wings a soft drone in the quiet.

Can’t really argue with that, even if I did inherit all the original owner of this body’s memories. Having a father is not really something I’m used to.

I’m quite satisfied that he’s busy with the marquisate. Brings me less trouble.

"If you want it to connect to me, how about my old name?"

"Nathan?"

"Yeah, its a good name, don’t you think?"