CHAPTER THREE

The Rozzlyn estate was a monument to Aether's vision of supremacy.

Ivan walked through the towering gates, his boots tapping against the pristine stone pavement as he entered the courtyard. Everything about the estate was too clean, too perfect—the polished iron walls gleamed under the pale afternoon light, untouched by time or imperfection. No cracks. No signs of age. It was a house frozen in a state of artificial perfection, maintained not by care, but by sheer force of will.

A pair of attendants bowed as he passed, their navy uniforms pressed and starched to crisp precision. They never spoke unless spoken to, a rule drilled into them as much as the expectation that they not be seen lingering idly.

Ivan stepped through the grand entrance, the massive iron doors parting with a smooth, mechanized hiss.

The moment he crossed the threshold, the weight of the house settled on him.

It was always like this.

The Rozzlyn estate was not a home. It was a monument—a statement. A place where warmth did not belong.

The parlor was gilded in soft gold tones, a deceptive warmth that masked the rigid coldness beneath. The furniture was immaculate, untouched, arranged in a manner that suggested they were for display rather than comfort.

At the center of it all, Kait Rozzlyn sat perched on an opulent chaise lounge, her posture as rigid as the house itself.

She was the kind of woman whose presence demanded attention. Her silver hair was coiled into a flawless chignon, not a single strand out of place. Her gown—a deep shade of blue embroidered with delicate gold filigree—was tailored to perfection, its high collar framing her sharp features.

But it was her eyes that held the most weight.

Cold. Detached. Dismissive.

The moment she saw Ivan, her expression did not shift. Not a smile. Not a flicker of warmth. Just a slow, appraising glance—like an aristocrat inspecting a possession, ensuring it was still in working order.

"You're late," she said coolly.

Ivan did not flinch. "The lecture ran long."

Kait exhaled, setting down the porcelain cup of tea she had been holding. "Your instructors should respect the time of those more important than them."

Her words carried an undercurrent of quiet arrogance—as if the very idea of a scholar taking liberties with her son's schedule was offensive.

Ivan didn't respond. There was no point.

Kait Rozzlyn's world was one of status, appearances, and class. Anything outside of that was merely an inconvenience.

Her eyes flicked to his uniform, scanning it for imperfections. "Your collar is slightly off-center," she noted absently, as if discussing an unpolished piece of silverware. "Fix it."

Ivan obeyed without a word, straightening the fabric with an effortless motion. She expected perfection. He had learned long ago that offering less was not an option.

Satisfied, Kait leaned back. "Your father is in the study," she said dismissively. "He wishes to speak with you."

Ivan gave a slight nod before turning toward the staircase.

"Do be mindful of your posture," Kait added, her voice following him like a whisper of frost.

Ivan did not respond. He never did.

At the top of the grand staircase, a shadow stirred.

Metil, Ivan's personal aide, stood waiting at the landing.

He was a man of few words—not out of subservience, but by design. His presence was silent, his movements fluid, his posture precise. Dressed in a deep gray coat with silver embroidery, he blended into the background, as if he were meant to be unseen.

Ivan barely acknowledged him as he passed. "She's in a mood," he muttered.

Metil dipped his head slightly. "She often is."

A flicker of amusement touched Ivan's lips. Dry. Honest. Blunt. It was the closest thing to humor he would get in this house.

Metil fell into step beside him as they moved toward the study. "Your father has been speaking with the governors all afternoon," he said evenly. "I suspect the conversation will not be brief."

Ivan exhaled slowly. "It never is."

Metil's gaze lingered on him for a moment. Then, as always, he simply nodded.

The doors to the Rozzlyn study loomed ahead. Inside, Brent Rozzlyn sat behind a massive iron-wrought desk, the surface meticulously organized. Stacks of documents were placed at calculated angles, as if even disorder had no place here.

Brent was a man carved from discipline and expectation. His neatly trimmed goatee framed a face that had never known warmth, and his piercing gaze—bottle-green, just like Ivan's—was as sharp as ever.

"Sit," he ordered without looking up.

Ivan obeyed. There was no need for pleasantries.

For a long moment, there was silence. Brent continued scanning a document, his fingers occasionally tapping against the desk in measured thought.

Then, without preamble—

"The immigrant crisis is spiraling."

Ivan said nothing.

Brent leaned back slightly. "More Honorary Aethans are being accepted into the city. More foreigners, more disruptions." His voice did not rise, but the weight of it was enough to fill the room. "The Governor's new directive will see to their containment, but it is an issue that will not disappear overnight."

He finally met Ivan's gaze.

"This is the future you are inheriting," he said. "Do you understand?"

Ivan held his father's stare. "I understand that change is inevitable."

A beat of silence.

Brent studied him. "Change is controlled."

Ivan's expression remained unreadable. "Not always."

His father's fingers twitched slightly. A subtle reaction, but Ivan had learned to notice the smallest fractures in his father's stoic mask.

Brent exhaled. "The Governor is taking steps to ensure Aether does not bend to change. The Honorary Aethan Initiative will proceed. The chips will be distributed. Order will be maintained."

Ivan tilted his head slightly. "And if the immigrants resist?"

Brent gave him a look that was equal parts patience and disappointment.

"They won't."

A simple answer. Aether did not give choices. It gave instructions. The conversation shifted.

Brent asked about his studies—a ritual, more than genuine interest. Ivan recited what was necessary. He did not embellish. He did not falter.

His father nodded at all the right moments, but there was always a quiet dissatisfaction behind his eyes.

It didn't matter how well Ivan performed. He would always be compared to Brent.

The meeting ended as it always did—with Brent giving instructions, and Ivan nodding in silence.

As he stepped out of the study, Metil was already waiting.

"You're brooding," Metil observed.

Ivan huffed softly. "You're observant."

A faint smirk. "You are your father's son."

Ivan did not respond immediately.

Then—"We'll see."

Metil said nothing, but there was something knowing in his silence. The estate was silent.

Not the comforting silence of a home at rest, but the cold, calculated stillness of an institution—a place where voices were measured, where laughter did not belong, where every step was accounted for.

Ivan made his way toward the private dining hall, where his mother and father would already be seated. Meals were not a time for conversation in the Rozzlyn household; they were a performance of etiquette, a carefully choreographed display of refinement.

The doors parted for him as he entered. The dining hall was expansive, with vaulted ceilings lined with mana-infused chandeliers that cast a sterile white glow over the polished stone floors. A long ironwood table stretched through the center, set with pristine silverware and untouched dishes that looked more like works of art than food.

At one end of the table sat Kait Rozzlyn, her back impossibly straight, her napkin folded with crisp precision on her lap.

At the other, Brent Rozzlyn, his movements composed, his presence an extension of the house itself—cold, commanding, unshakable.

Ivan took his seat in the space designated for him.

The meal began in silence.

The attendants moved like clockwork, refilling glasses, adjusting plates, ensuring that nothing was out of place.

It was Kait who broke the quiet first, her voice smooth, distant.

"I was speaking with the other councilwomen today," she mused, slicing into her meal with a grace that spoke of decades of aristocratic conditioning. "The topic of the new immigration policies was raised, of course. It's simply appalling how these… people believe they can integrate into Aethan society."

She dabbed her lips delicately with a napkin, though she had barely eaten.

"They should be grateful they are being given any status at all," she continued, as if the matter were already settled. "Instead, they demand more. Always more."

Ivan listened, expression unreadable.

Brent finally spoke, his voice steady. "The Honorary Aethan Initiative is necessary. It establishes order."

Kait scoffed lightly. "It establishes compromise." She set her silverware down with an almost imperceptible hint of distaste. "If we continue handing out 'honorary' status, soon there will be no distinction between us and the mongrels we conquered."

A silence fell over the table.

Brent regarded his wife with an almost passive curiosity. "And what would you have us do?"

Kait lifted her chin. "Aether does not need to bend. It needs to remind these people that they serve at our pleasure. That their continued existence within our walls is a privilege."

Her eyes flicked toward Ivan. "Don't you agree?"

Ivan's fingers curled slightly around the stem of his glass. A test.

They did this often. His parents, in their own ways, always positioned him—subtly probing for signs of weakness, deviation, or defiance.

He lifted his gaze, meeting his mother's sharp, ice-blue eyes.

"Gratitude is an expectation," he said evenly. "But fear is the stronger motivator."

Kait's lips curled slightly in approval. "Precisely."

Brent's gaze lingered on Ivan for a fraction longer before he returned to his meal.

The conversation shifted, flowing into political matters, social expectations, Aether's unyielding control.

Ivan ate in silence, letting their words pass over him like wind against stone.

They saw the world as something to shape.

Ivan saw the cracks forming beneath it.

After dinner, Ivan walked through the east wing of the estate, his pace slow, deliberate.

Metil followed a step behind him, his presence a constant but unobtrusive shadow.

"You played your part well," Metil murmured.

Ivan didn't look at him. "Did I?"

Metil tilted his head slightly. "Your mother is satisfied. Your father remains… uncertain."

Ivan exhaled through his nose. "He always is."

They walked in silence for a time.

Then—

"You don't belong in that room," Metil said softly.

Ivan stopped walking.

The words were simple, but their weight was immense.

Metil rarely spoke freely, but when he did, it was never without purpose.

Ivan turned his head slightly. "And where do I belong?"

Metil did not answer.

Because they both already knew. The Rozzlyn estate was always awake.

The walls listened. The corridors held secrets. The people within it existed under a constant state of quiet surveillance.

Even Ivan.

Especially Ivan.

As he entered his chambers, he let out a slow breath.

It was a lavish space—polished steel fixtures, high windows overlooking the city, furniture designed with function rather than comfort in mind. A room befitting an heir to Aether's most revered name.

But Ivan had never seen it as his own.

He walked toward the window, pressing a hand lightly against the cool glass.

Below, the city sprawled in quiet perfection. An empire of order.

But even in Aether, order was never absolute.

There were fractures, deep and hidden.

And Ivan intended to find them.

He closed his eyes.

Tomorrow, he would wake, attend his lessons, play the part expected of him.

But tonight, in the privacy of his mind, he allowed himself to think. To plan.

To question.

Because a house built on control cannot stand forever.

And he would not be its foundation.