Work, apparently, meant paper. Endless, unavoidable, soul-crushing paper.

Ferren arrived in the late morning with what could only be described as an avalanche of documents. He entered the estate's west hall dragging an enchanted scroll-case the size of a tree trunk, cracked it open, and let it spill across the polished stone floor with the practiced ease of a man who'd turned bureaucracy into a personal art.

Ferren himself was… expected, and not. From the Alliance of Free Cities, specifically the Shielded Coast, he looked the part. Tanned skin from sun and salt, wiry frame built more for balance on deck than brawling, and a faint scent of sea-brine clinging to his clothes. His beard was neatly trimmed, but his face told another story—etched with fine scars, healed abrasions, and one faded gouge just beneath his left eye. If he'd been wearing a tricorn hat with a parrot spirit beast on his shoulder, I wouldn't have batted an eye.

Instead, he bowed.

"Kevkebyem Lekvedyem Benyeyr," he intoned, delivering the formal AFC greeting. His right fist rested over his abdomen—signaling deference, not submission. His left hand extended a sheathed dagger of brass.

I took the blade with the same respect. Unsheathing it, I clipped three strands from my hair and slid the dagger back into its home, returning it to his palm. A quiet nod completed the ritual.

"Ferren, I presume?" I asked, offering a small smile at the ceremony of it all.

"The same," he confirmed, eyes already scanning the layout of my tea room like a man taking inventory. "I trust the papers arrived ahead of me?"

"They exploded across the floor like an arcane landmine, yes."

Ferren chuckled, unbothered. "Good. Then we can begin."

He waved his hand, and the scrolls and folders began aligning themselves into neat rows. "These are the foundation documents for the Blue Letter Trading Company. We've already adapted your Walker emblem, removing the origami birds and replacing them with bluebirds. It ties us directly to your name, your title, and the ethos of your house."

He continued without waiting for my approval, flipping through several seals and trade routes. "The first shipment—your wool stores—is ready for immediate transport. We've contracted with the Ballow Family Shipping Association to handle distribution, assuming your approval."

That name rang a bell. I opened my Gloss and searched the merchant registry, letting the information spill into my peripheral view like a heads-up display. There they were.

The Ballow Family Shipping Association. Boring. Bureaucratic. By the book. Their specialty was bulk cargo—grain, salt, wool, parchment, alchemic reagents—and they took a clean nine percent cut of every deal. Payments were handled by Letters of Guarantee, redeemable through any of their regional vaults.

They were spotless.

Too spotless.

"You're telling me this is who Jasmine's crew is using for distribution?" I raised a brow.

"They are," Ferren said without hesitation.

I closed the Gloss. "They're white-market."

"Painfully so," Ferren agreed. "They refuse anything even scented with criminality. No stolen goods, no embargo breaches, no contraband of any kind. But that's precisely what makes them perfect."

I leaned back in my chair, already piecing it together.

"They're legalized fences."

He grinned. "Exactly. Because their books are so clean, anything that goes through them is assumed to be legitimate. Which makes them an ideal channel for anyone who knows how to thread the needle. Jasmine's shipments, for example, will never appear illegal—because by the time they pass through Ballow, the paperwork is immaculate."

That reminded me. "Speaking of Jasmine. How is she doing with the Letter of Fright? I issued that months ago."

"Well," Ferren said, "She's progressing quickly. Her new vessel, The Scarlet Rot, is almost seaworthy. Officially she's registered as a toxic goods transport ship. Hazardous alchemicals, industrial resins, volatile incense shipments. But unofficially? She's being outfitted for skirmish and blockade running."

I nodded slowly. "That explains the poisoner on her spellcannon crew."

"Exactly. Her cannoneer is already attuned to chemical warfare, so the registry holds up. But the real genius is in the design. The hull is being layered with corrosion wards. Standard for transporting acidic reagents… but also perfect for ramming."

Of course it was.

Ferren rifled through a few more papers and presented a smaller sheaf—my signatory documents for the company's formation.

"All that's left, my lord, is your approval. A seal, and a drop of blood."

I took the quill, scratched my name across the vellum, and pricked my finger with a lancet Ferren provided. A drop fell onto the sigil of the bluebird. It pulsed with magic, then faded, sealing the pact.

"With this, my lord, the Blue Letter Trading Company is officially under your name. While I get the crew together for future shipments, the Ballow Family will be here within a few days to collect the wool. Now onto the other parts…."

***

Dear Domini above, Archon below, and Grandis wherever you are… If I see another form requesting staff allocation in my life, it'll be too soon.

At least I had three distractions to keep me from surrendering to the mental warfare that is paperwork. One: Temptation's preparing a forge session for me—said it's time I learn to craft my own sword and bow. Two: Fallias. She's been... complicated. I've realized that with each new girl who enters my life, I develop a passing interest. Every time. It can't be healthy. Right?

Right?

I shook my head and sighed.

Thanks, Mom. Really. The only consistent female figure I had growing up was you... and you... and you... Why couldn't you have limited yourself to four bodies instead of being omnipresent like a divine surveillance network? You even beat up the kids who bullied me for being "the son of a rabbit." I appreciate it—kind of. Emotionally. Psychologically? We're still processing.

Still. I guess that's just what it means to be the fourteenth child of Juliet Duarte. You weren't watching me—you were loving me. Aggressively. Relentlessly. Lovingly.

Thinking of that made me miss the rest of you.

So...

Gloss Message: Sent to: Hubert Duarte Subject: Just Checking In

Hey Dad, it's me—your youngest. I was thinking about the family again and figured I'd reach out.

How is everyone doing?

I'm going to assume Carlile is still brewing concoctions potent enough to knock out a continent. Is Marybelle still conquering new strategy boards? Please tell me Thomas hasn't exploded anything recently. And Katarina... still at the Academy, right? Memory's foggy, but I'm sure I remember her mentioning a new curriculum on assassination philosophy or something.

Is Nathan still aiming to become the best sommelier in the dominion? I know that big tasting tournament is coming up soon, and I imagine Morgan's competing in the martial events. Does it have an archery division? I've actually been training—would be nice to see where I rank against the rest of the family.

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

Red drops by when she can. She's still my courier, even though she absolutely doesn't have to be. Not that I'm complaining. I think she likes the excuse to see how far I've fallen into being an administrative wreck. William still chasing skirts and disappointment? And Amber's...well, I assume she's off doing "totally legal" work with the Drowned Snakes.

I heard Matthew's getting promoted at the racetrack. Is it allowed for the guy with Postcognition to own a horse? Feels like a loophole, but hey—if anyone deserves to game the system, it's him.

Gabby probably knows more about me than I do, so tell him I said hi, and yes, I am brushing my hair now. (He'll know what I mean.)

As for D.D. and Eliza... honestly? I don't even have their Gloss info. I'd love an update. Same for Tristania. I keep dreaming of her dream-things again. Maybe it's time I reached out.

Anyway... just thought I'd say hi. Let me know if we're doing anything during the tournament. I wouldn't mind a family dinner. Feels weird not being under the same roof. Or roofs. Or hive-mind cluster of Moms.

–Alex

Subject: Son, You're Still a Disaster (With Love)

Alexander,

First off—your mother read this before I did. She's been smiling for twenty straight minutes and baking like you're returning tomorrow. You've created a minor panic among the pantry spirits.

Carlile is still mixing things that make the world slightly more unstable. He invented something called "Perfumed Salt." It smells like roses and screams. Marybelle beat a Grandmaster from Othar's Gambit League last week. She didn't even look up from her tea.

Thomas hasn't exploded anything lately. Though that may be because his new apprentice now wears the brunt of his failures. Poor lad. We're hoping the limbs grow back.

Katarina sent a message through secure lines. She said, and I quote, "Tell Alex I haven't killed anyone who didn't deserve it." Make of that what you will.

Nathan did qualify for the sommelier finals. He's taking it far too seriously. He spent an entire afternoon arguing with a grape. I think the grape won.

Morgan is training like a madman. You'll be happy to know that he volunteered you for the archery tournament. I'm not sure if he had your consent—but that's his love language.

Red drops by with flair and chaos. She refuses to take payment. She says your "awkward flailing" is reward enough.

William is still... William. Though he's writing poetry now. Which he insists is "totally not for seduction purposes."

Amber sent a note by dagger. Literally. It landed in the table next to my morning toast. It said, "Still alive. Love, Jester."

Matthew now owns three horses and technically doesn't race them—he "guides their potential." It's cheating. But it's legal. I checked.

Gabby says you're glowing in recent rumors. Something about a dragon and a dinner table incident. I don't want to know. I'm proud of you. Please use charm sparingly.

As for D.D., he's fine. Eliza has a new hive forming and he wants to name all 500 offspring. I said no. He did it anyway.

Tristania's still dreaming objects into reality. We've started labeling them now.

You're missed, son. Keep doing what you're doing, but don't forget who you are. Or where your roots are. We'll hold a seat for you at the next family feast—and yes, you'll be expected to bring a gift. Preferably not something cursed.

Proud of you. Always.

–Your father, Hubert

Subject: My Little Bunny

Alexander, My sweetest, cleverest, messiest little miracle. My moonbeam. My fourteenth heartbeat. My favorite son born in late autumn with a stubborn streak wider than the Great Ash's canopy.

I read your message. I felt your message. Do you think I wouldn't? You forget, my love, my reach is long, and my eyes are many. You were born to me in thirteen dreams and fourteen labors. Each one of you different. Each one of you perfect. But you? You were the only one who bit me back when I tried to cradle you. Literal rabbit instincts—teeth and all. I still have the scar on my left forearm. I keep it. I treasure it. You were the one who taught me that love has teeth, and that's why I know you'll go far.

Let's get a few things straight:

Yes, you do develop a crush on every girl with a spine and a secret. You are your mother's son, and I was very much the same once. But you are not broken for it. You are curious. You feel deeply. Don't let anyone shame that out of you. Let yourself fall. Let yourself learn. And when it hurts—come home, and I'll draw the bath myself.

Your commentary about my "omnipresent eye" made me cackle, my sweet disaster. You should know by now that when a woman has access to clones, mental avatars, a reflective shard network, and a mother's intuition... omnipresence is the minimum expected of her. And of course I beat up your bullies. They had the audacity to think they could lay a hand on one of mine. You want me to apologize for that?

Never.

As for the family, your father already sent you the rundown (though he forgot to mention that he tried to sneak sugar into the garden spirits' offering bowl again. They gave him moss rot on his boots for a week). But I'll add a few more updates just for fun:

Katarina

says she'll reach out soon. She's been dreaming about you—says your soul has grown too loud to ignore. I think she's proud of you, though her version of affection is usually stabbing someone

for

you.

Gabby

has three new rumors involving your name, a spirit beast egg, and a dragon girl. I'm withholding judgment.

For now.

Red

told me she left you a gift in the last package. Open it. Yes, it's safe. Probably.

Amber

has placed bets on which one of your "admiring daggers" will make a move first. I'm not saying who's in the lead, but I'd recommend flowers.

And as for me?

I am everywhere. I am well. I am proud. I am terrified. I am all the things a mother becomes when her youngest child finds his own soul and begins to walk as something greater. But above all, I am with you.

You are growing. Gloriously. Painfully. Beautifully. Just don't forget to write more often. I know you're overwhelmed, but I carried you for longer than most mortal wombs are designed to bear. You owe me at least two letters a month. Maybe three if you keep fighting eldritch beasts before lunch.

I love you. All of you. Even the parts you try to hide. Especially those.

—Your mother Juliet Duarte, Supreme General of the Verdant Womb, High Avatar of Septuplication, First of Fourteen, Ever-watching and Ever-loving

P.S. I am watching your nutrition. If I see one more meal that consists of just mutton and regret, I will send a spirit fork to feed you myself. Don't test me, bunny.

***

"The mutton isn't even regretful…Wait. I didn't send anything about your omnipresent eye, or my thoughts of those bullies in the letter. Mom?! Are you watching me?!"

***

Juliet leaned back in her favored armchair, a glass of twilight wine swirling effortlessly between her fingers. Her eyes—currently in a dozen places across the continent—narrowed with familiar mischief as Hubert smirked from across the room, half-buried in scrolls, gloss reports, and another one of his "friendly games with probability."

"Boy probably thinks I'm watching him," Juliet said with a fond sigh, her tone steeped in amusement. "The answer is yes. Of course I am. But not to that degree. I just know my children. Their little ticks, the ways they look when they lie, and especially when they're about to make terrible, emotionally convoluted choices involving girls with knives or tails."

Hubert didn't even look up. He just chuckled, brushing a thumb across the glowing die he'd been rolling between his fingers. "That, and the way you cheat by using your Arte to stack the odds in your favor. Don't pretend, love. You've already manifested five versions of yourself today to spy on him, haven't you?"

Juliet gave him a coy smile. "Guilty. But you using your Arte to nudge me toward guessing things about our children correctly? That just isn't fair, Hubert."

He leaned back, his grin devilishly lopsided. "What can I say? Gabby and I both know—Luck be a Lady."

"Oh?" Juliet arched an elegant brow, swirling the wine again as though divining omens in the velvet red. "Does that mean you'll be pursuing a Lady Luck, like our dear Gabriel tries with every other pretty thing that breathes and gossips?"

Hubert stood, stretching his arms like a man who had never once worried about how many people he'd accidentally seduced with a raised eyebrow. "Dear," he said, walking over and placing a soft kiss at the crown of her hair, "I don't need to pursue a Lady Luck."

He bent low, whispered near her ear—"I have one right here."

Juliet sighed, dramatic and theatrical, as she melted into the affection. "And this—this exact infuriating charm—is why we have fourteen children."

"And only two with rabbit ears."

"So far."

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