Maxim of Riga stared at the little boy across the table, narrowing his eyes and holding the measured gaze of his small opponent. Geron pursed his lips and leaned chubby elbows on the mosaic tile table, his face a study in concentration until the little boy let out an unexpected burp and burst into laughter.

Max felt Geron’s laughter like birds taking flight in his chest. “I won.”

“You didn’t, Uncle Max!”

He stood and scooped the boy up, placing him on his shoulders. “I did. I won. You have to help me in the garden now.”

“How?”

“See the apricot tree?” Max pointed to the old tree that stood at the far end of the garden at the Istanbul scribe house. The residence had been expanded the previous year when his cousin Leo had brought home a mate. “With you on my shoulders, we are going to be able to reach the very highest apricots.”

“The sweet ones?”

“Yes, my friend. We will get the first apricots of the season and eat them all.”

“I don’t have to share with Matti?” the little boy asked about his twin sister.

“Well…” Max considered how Geron’s parents would answer that, then shrugged. He wasn’t a parent; he was an uncle. Entirely different thing. “Is Matti picking them?”

“No.”

“Then Matti is on her own.”

Their watcher, Malachi, had overseen the expansion of the property when their longtime neighbor had passed away and the family had sold the house. They had taken down the wall between the two Ottoman-style structures in the Beyoğlu neighborhood and joined the properties. The neighbor’s fruit trees were only one of the benefits of the expansion.

Standing under the green leaves of the apricot tree in the first blush of summer with a wiggling, laughing child on his shoulders, Max thought about how different Geron and Matti’s childhood was from his own.

Max and his cousin Leo had been raised in the Riga scribe house among warriors and grief-stricken men recovering from the chaos of the Rending. There had been no playtime or laughter in his youth. He had been trained as a soldier from the day he could pick up a sword. The only moments of respite had been when Max and Leo could escape to the woods near the house and play on their own.

Even those moments had been brief. The two boys were rarely unguarded. As two of the few surviving children of the Rending, they had been watched over obsessively. Too many others had been lost.

Matti and Geron were growing up in a new world. Not only were they part of a family, they were some of the first children of a new generation of Irin, children born to a world working toward reconciliation instead of recovering from war.

Max felt the soft brush of a rosy apricot on his cheek.

“I got one, Uncle Max.”

“Good work, myshka.” Max put the apricot in his pocket and steadied the boy on his shoulders as Geron reached for higher fruit.

Bees thrummed in the late spring sun, filling the garden with their peaceful drone. Max could hear voices in the kitchen, good-natured banter between the couples and friends who filled the house.

Since he had mated with Renata, there were three women in the scribe house. He and Renata weren’t always there—they traveled in their work for the council—but Istanbul was home.

Home.

The first one Max had ever had.

* * *

Leo lifted his pen from the manuscript he was copying when he heard the front door open. The steps told him it was Rhys, likely returning from errands.

“Max?” Rhys called.

“In the garden,” Leo said. He stretched his arms up and out, flexing shoulders that had grown stiff.

Rhys walked in the library and tossed a letter on the table. “It’s addressed to both of you.”

Leo picked it up cautiously, looking at the return address.

Vienna.

Soldiers rarely received personal mail. Most Irin scribes and singers had taken to the efficiency and anonymity of electronic communication with ease. Paper communication was usually reserved for watchers like Malachi or academics like Rhys.

Leo turned it over. It was addressed to Max Iverson and Leo Pēterson, the names they commonly used on human legal documents. He could feel another envelope within.

“Renata?” he called.

His new sister-in-law walked in from the kitchen. “What is it?”

“Can you call for Max, please? There’s a letter addressed to both of us.”

The letter was heavy in his hands. He reached for the blade he used to sharpen his quill and opened the outer envelope. He slid out the second letter—the true message—and saw the names on the front. Saw the address.

Leo dropped the heavy linen paper to the table, barely registering the wax seal of his father’s clan or his true name on the front of the envelope. Leontios, son of Peteris. Maxim, son of Ivo.

Max walked in a second later and put a hand on Leo’s shoulder. “What is it?”

“A letter from my father. Addressed to both of us.” Leo looked up.

Max looked as confused as Leo felt. “From your father?”

“I haven’t heard from him since I received my first assignment in Riga.”

Max muttered, “Peter was never a talkative man.” He nodded at the letter. “Open it.”

Leo shoved it to Max. “You open it.”

“Fine.” Mouth set in a firm line, Max broke the wax seal on the envelope and unfolded the letter. He read for a few moments, then set the letter down in front of Leo. “I’ll tell Renata and Kyra to pack.”

Leo picked up the letter. It was only a few lines, which was all he would expect from the coldest, most silent man on the planet.