Chapter 5

The library welcomes me back like an old friend.

The familiar scent of parchment and aged wood settles around me as I close the heavy door behind me. Here, the kitchen's heat becomes a memory, replaced by the cool stillness I've always craved.

But I don't want to sit in my usual alcove.

I want something different. Something that feels... mine.

I move to the eastern wall where the tallest shelves stretch toward the vaulted ceiling. Ancient texts line these upper reaches—treatises on engineering principles, architectural theory, mathematical proofs. Heavy volumes bound in leather that's grown dark with age. Perfect.

I begin with Foundations of Load Distribution, a tome so thick it requires both hands to lift. The binding creaks as I carry it to the center of the reading area, placing it precisely at what will become the corner of my construction. Next comes Principles of Structural Integrity—equally massive, equally perfect. I position it exactly parallel to the first, leaving a gap of precisely eighteen inches.

The base must be stable.

Book by book, I build the first wall. Each volume chosen not just for size, but for purpose. The Fall of House Ismeria aligns perfectly with The New Age of the Falcon. The spines create an unbroken facade, their varied heights forming natural battlements. I run my fingers along the edge, ensuring perfect alignment.

The second wall requires more calculation. It must be perpendicular to the first while maintaining structural balance. Six Layers of the Infernal Cascade serves as the cornerstone, its burgundy binding catching the afternoon light. I stack Scourge of Ashenstep atop it, then Dangers of Collective Dreaming. Each placement is deliberate. Each book tested for stability before I release my grip.

Like building a trebuchet. Foundation, frame, counterweight.

The third wall proves most challenging. It must curve slightly to follow the natural alcove formed by two reading tables, while maintaining the fortress's defensive integrity. I select smaller volumes for this section—Ordo Solari Paladinate, Carrowsmere Null-Time Incident, Hibernos Technocracy. Their reduced size allows for tighter construction, more precise angles.

As I work, my movements become ritualistic. Lift, position, test, adjust. My hands grow dusty from the ancient leather. The soft whisper of pages settling fills the air like incense. Each book finds its perfect place in the growing structure, and with each placement, I feel more... centered.

This is mine. I built this. I control this.

When the walls are complete, I step back to admire my work. Three sides of an almost perfect square, waist-high, with openings only for a narrow entrance and a clear view toward the window. The books create a gradient of color—deep browns and burgundies at the base, lighter tans and creams toward the top. The afternoon light catches the gold lettering on various spines, making my fortress gleam.

I slip inside through the narrow gap I've left as an entrance, then seal it with a final volume—Destruction of Wyrm's Hollow. Now I'm surrounded completely, enclosed in walls of history and mathematics. The familiar weight of certainty.

I test the acoustic properties of my fortress by whispering "hello" into the corner where two walls meet. The sound comes back differently than in the open library. Slightly warmer, somehow. Like the books are listening.

I do it again. "Hello."

The whisper returns, intimate and close. My fortress has a voice.

Cross-legged on the marble floor, I spread my skirt carefully around me and select my reading: Meditations on Lady Tyrna's Will. The pages fall open to a passage about divine order and blessed stations. The familiar words that once brought comfort now feel distant somehow.

Through the gap I've left toward the window, I can see a dove perched on her nest. She turns her head slightly, Lady Tyrna's own messenger, watching over me with what seems like approval, as I seek understanding in Her sacred words.

She chose her territory. I chose mine.

The thought brings a smile to my lips as I settle deeper into my fortress. Here, surrounded by the accumulated wisdom of centuries, I can finally process what happened in the kitchen. The warmth in my chest returns—that incredible feeling of being heard, of being valued, of watching my ideas transform chaos into order.

They listened to me. Really listened.

Not like Lucius with his dismissive explanations about predictability over efficiency. Not like Father with his glances that catalog my presence like furniture. The kitchen staff looked at me and saw someone worth following.

"A blessing to this house," Dolly had said.

The memory makes me trace my finger along the page's margin, following the elegant script. In here, insulated by layers of knowledge, that validation feels even more precious. More real.

But underneath the warmth, Lucius's words still sting.

"Efficiency isn't priority. Familiarity is."

As if innovation were somehow dangerous. As if improvement were a luxury they couldn't afford.

Maybe in the world of military strategy, predictability matters more than optimization. But in a kitchen? In the practical realm of getting things done?

There, efficiency rules everything.

There, I ruled everything.

The thought surprises me with its intensity. I pause in my reading, looking up at the fortress walls surrounding me. Each book positioned exactly where I wanted it.

I built this. I commanded that kitchen. I can create order from chaos.

The dove coos softly outside the window, a sound of contentment that mirrors my own growing confidence. We are both architects of our small domains, both creatures who understand the value of careful planning and perfect placement.

"Planning the next war, Lady Speer?"

The voice carries that familiar silk-over-steel quality that announces Diener's presence even before I look up. He stands at the edge of my fortress, hands clasped behind his back in his perpetual posture of professional readiness. But there's something different in his expression—not the usual careful neutrality, but genuine curiosity.

"A campaign of silence," I murmur, marking my place with one finger. "Just reading devotions, Ser Diener."

"In a fortress of your own design." His eyes trace the careful architecture of my book walls, taking in the precise angles and calculated gaps. "Impressive construction. Though I confess, your choice of building materials is... eclectic."

He steps closer, bending slightly to read the spines where they serve as cornerstones. His eyebrow lifts fractionally as he takes in the titles.

"Your father wishes to ensure your studies remain... appropriate," he says, straightening. "He's expressed particular interest in your reading material of late."

Of course he has.

"I'm reading Lady Tyrna's meditations," I say, holding up the treatise. "Seeking guidance in Her divine wisdom, Ser."

"Indeed." But his gaze has shifted to the other volumes visible in my construction. "Though, m'Lady, your architectural choices suggest a broader curriculum."

He leans in further, trying to read the spines of the books forming my second wall.

His shoulder brushes against the cornerstone.

The book wobbles.

Time slows as I watch the carefully balanced volume tilt past its center of gravity. Diener's eyes widen as he realizes what's happening, his hand reaching out in a futile attempt to catch it.

Too late.

The cornerstone topples backward, striking the volume behind it, which crashes into the next. The entire second wall collapses in a cascading avalanche of leather and parchment, books tumbling over each other with the sound of heavy rain on stone.

Several volumes spill over into my sanctuary, one particularly hefty tome landing squarely in my lap with enough force to knock the breath from my lungs. Dust erupts from disturbed pages like tiny clouds of protest.

Diener freezes, his professional composure cracking like ice in spring. For a moment, we simply stare at each other across the wreckage of my carefully constructed order—him mortified by his clumsiness, me sitting amid the ruins of my afternoon's work.

The silence stretches.

I look down at the book that's landed in my lap, reading its title with growing amusement. The irony is not lost on me.

Ethics of Siege

Slowly, I lift the volume and extend it toward him with both hands, my expression perfectly deadpan.

"I believe this might be the one you are looking for," I say.

For a heartbeat, Diener's mask of professionalism wavers completely. Then, despite himself, a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

"My deepest apologies, Lady Speer," he says, accepting the book with mock solemnity. "I shall add 'fortress demolition' to my list of professional failings."

I watch him stack the books with careful precision, trying to restore some semblance of order to the chaos he's created. His movements are deliberate, but not quite right. He places the heaviest volumes at the top rather than the base, stacks books of different sizes without regard for balance. The reconstruction lacks the precision of my original design.

"You don't have to—" I begin.

"Nonsense." He doesn't look up from his work. "I destroyed it. The least I can do is help rebuild."

As he continues his imperfect restoration, he speaks without looking at me. "Young Master Lucius mentioned you, ah, stormed off after his briefing. He was concerned about your reaction to Lord Windsor's return."

Stormed off.

The phrase sits incorrectly in my mind. I had walked purposefully, spine straight, composure intact. But of course that's how it would appear to him.

"I didn't storm anywhere," I say quietly. "I went to the kitchen."

"The kitchen?" He pauses in his stacking, finally looking at me with genuine surprise.

Something about his expression gives me hope. Perhaps he'll understand. Perhaps someone will finally see what I accomplished.

"I reorganized their workflow," I say, allowing a note of pride to creep into my voice. "The whole operation was inefficient—overlapping stations, poor timing sequences, wasted motion. I showed them how to fix it. They listened to everything I suggested."

Diener's face shifts through several expressions before settling on something that looks almost... paternal. Not the recognition I'd hoped for.

"Of course they listened, m'Lady," he says gently, returning to his book stacking. "Your golden hair makes you a Windsor. They would hardly refuse a direct instruction from you."

The words hit me like cold water.

"It wasn't instruction," I protest. "It was collaboration. They understood the logic—"

"I'm sure they were very polite about it," he continues, his tone carrying the patient quality adults use with children who've missed something obvious. "Though perhaps in future, you might consider training your approach before venturing into the servants' quarters. There are... protocols for such interactions."

Train my approach.

He doesn't see it. He doesn't see anything.

A flash of clarity hits me. I had known—known—he would respond exactly this way. Before I'd even opened my mouth, some part of me had predicted his dismissive gentleness, his reduction of my achievement to mere noble privilege, his patronizing advice about protocol.

I had seen this conversation before I lived it.

"Of course," I say quietly, my voice steady despite the revelation crystallizing in my mind. "You're quite right."

Diener nods approvingly, pleased that I've accepted his wisdom. He finishes his reconstruction—walls slightly askew, books improperly distributed, structural integrity compromised—and steps back to admire his work.

"There," he says with satisfaction. "Good as new."

It's not.

It's a crude approximation, a child's understanding of architecture disguised as competence. But I don't correct him.

"Thank you, Ser Diener," I say instead.

He bows slightly. "Think nothing of it, my lady. And do consider what I said about... tempering your enthusiasm for efficiency. Not everyone appreciates innovation as much as you do."

Not everyone sees what I see.

"I'll keep that in mind, Ser," I reply.

After he leaves, I sit in the ruins of my fortress, mind racing. The imperfect walls surround me like a physical reminder of how others see my work—well-intentioned but fundamentally flawed, missing the elegant precision that makes the difference between function and mere appearance.

But something new is taking shape in my thoughts. Something that feels like the logical evolution of every equation I've ever solved.

What if I use my predictions to train my approach?

The thought unfolds with mathematical beauty. If I can anticipate reactions with this kind of accuracy, then social interaction becomes another system to be optimized. Like the kitchen workflow, like trebuchet calculations, like fortress construction—it's all about understanding the variables and positioning the elements for maximum effect.

I glance toward the window, seeking the comfortable sight of the dove in her nest. But the ledge is empty. In her place, a single black feather rests on the stone, dark against the pale marble.

My thoughts turn to this morning's scene in the Grand Hall—Father's voice cutting through the ceremony with genuine warmth as he praised Lucius for his archery skill. The only time I've seen that kind of approval in his eyes, that note of unmistakable pride.

Excellent work—those Dopsen auxiliaries can't shoot a bow worth a damn!

If prediction is my strength, then perhaps I can predict what would earn similar recognition. What would make him look at me the way he looked at my brother.

I rise from my imperfect fortress and move toward the shelves, scanning the spines until I find what I'm looking for: Principles of Marksmanship. The leather is worn smooth by countless hands, the pages filled with diagrams of stance, grip, sight alignment.

Variables to be calculated. Systems to be optimized.

The dining hall feels cavernous with only one place setting.

I sit at the far end of the long table, the archery manual propped against a silver candlestick beside my plate. The kitchen staff move around me with the same eager efficiency they'd shown earlier, but I barely notice. My attention is fixed on the diagrams of stance and draw technique, committing each detail to memory.

"Will there be anything else, m'Lady?" the head cook asks, hovering with maternal concern.

"No. Thank you." I don't look up from the page detailing proper finger placement on the bowstring.

The soup has gone cold. The bread remains untouched. I've managed perhaps three spoonfuls while reading about anchor points and release mechanics. My mind is elsewhere, calculating angles and tensions, imagining the satisfying thock of an arrow finding its target. The trebuchet principle applies here too—physics doesn't care whether you're launching stones or arrows.

By the time I climb the stairs to my chambers, shadows have lengthened into proper darkness. I light a single candle and settle into the window seat, the archery book heavy in my lap. Outside, the grounds are quiet except for the distant murmur of guards changing shifts.

I trace the illustration of a perfect archer's stance with my fingertip. Feet shoulder-width apart. Shoulders square to the target. Elbow high, drawing arm parallel to the ground. It's all about structure, about finding the optimal position for force transfer.

Position is power.

The candle flame flickers as my eyelids grow heavy. The book slips sideways against my shoulder, pages whispering closed. Tomorrow, I will put theory into practice. Tomorrow, I will prove that understanding and precision can earn what birth and station have not.

My last conscious thought is of Lucius's surprised face when I demonstrate that a girl with a "curious interest" can master what he takes for granted.

The book falls closed against my chest as sleep claims me, dreams full of perfect arcs and distant targets.