The cottage was not abandoned.

That somehow made it worse.

The air smelled of burnt tallow, bitter herbs, and iron—the lingering scent of old blood. Dust floated through a narrow beam of moonlight shining between the shutters.

A chair had been pulled away from the table.

Ash still glowed inside the fireplace.

Someone had left in a hurry.

On the table sat two objects arranged almost like offerings: a letter sealed with black wax and a tarnished brass locket.

Ezekiel approached cautiously.

The seal bore the image of a snake coiled around a sword.

His fingers trembled as he broke it.

The handwriting inside was elegant, the sort taught in noble houses rather than lonely cottages.

My son, Ezekiel,

If you are reading this, I am already gone. Seek out your mother, Lanastha Mond Bonaventura. Trust no one else.

The blood in your veins is a beacon. Guard it well.

Ezekiel read the message twice.

Then a third time.

“My mother?”

The name made something cold settle in his stomach.

Lanastha Mond Bonaventura.

He knew that name.

Memories of late-night reading flashed through Theo’s mind.

I Am the Pitiful Prince.

It had been one of his favorite web novels—a tragic fantasy filled with political schemes, doomed romance, and characters who seemed determined to destroy themselves.

House Bonaventura had been among the oldest and most feared noble families in the Empire. Its soldiers were legendary. Its sorcerers were rumored to practice forbidden magic.

And Lanastha Mond Bonaventura had been the story’s most infamous villainess.

The Demon Empress.

The Witch of Bonaventura.

A woman of terrifying beauty and ambition, with dark hair, blood-red eyes, and a voice capable of silencing an entire court. In the original novel, she eventually murdered the Emperor with a single strike of her sword.

But the book had never mentioned her having a son.

Ezekiel picked up the locket.

Inside was a miniature portrait of a young woman with long brown hair and crimson eyes identical to his own.

She was smiling.

Not cruelly.

Not arrogantly.

Genuinely.

He turned back toward the letter.

His father had told him to find her.

But why had he hidden Ezekiel in a cottage instead of taking him to the Bonaventura estate?

Why raise a noble child alone in the woods?

Unless it had not been a home.

Unless it had been a hiding place.

The cottage suddenly felt smaller.

Bookshelves sagged beneath military ledgers, hunting journals, and ancient volumes bound in black leather. Above the fireplace hung a sword far too large for the room, its hilt carved with the Bonaventura crest.

A branch snapped outside.

Ezekiel froze.

Something shifted beyond the shutters.

He snatched the candle from the table and backed toward the narrow bed.

The veiled woman’s words returned to him.

Live for joy. Live for love.

How was he supposed to do that in a world where noble blood attracted assassins?

He sat on the edge of the bed, clutching the locket.

In the novel, people whispered that the Bonaventuras were cursed.

Their red eyes were proof of an ancient bargain with gods of blood.

Their children inherited more than titles.

They inherited hunger.

Theo had found the rumors thrilling when they were fiction.

Now that the cursed blood ran through his veins, they were less entertaining.

Outside, another branch cracked.

This time, closer.