Ezekiel dreamed of voices. Not distant, not muffled — but sharp, whispering right against his ear.

“Find the boy.”
“Kill him before she finds him.”
“The witch’s brat… must not reach her.”

A door slammed. Someone screamed — cut short.

He woke up choking on his own breath, heart hammering. The candle had burned to a stub, its flame trembling like it feared the dark. The door to the cottage hung open by an inch. He knew he’d latched it before sleeping.

The forest outside was silent. Too silent.

Ezekiel slipped out of bed, bare feet soundless on the warped boards. His purple hair hung in his eyes as he strained to listen. The shadows in the corners seemed deeper than before, as though the night itself was creeping inside to watch him.

Then — a floorboard groaned.

Not under his feet. Behind him.

Ezekiel spun, candle shaking in his grip. The room was empty… except it wasn’t. A shape detached itself from the darkness — a man dressed head-to-toe in black, face covered by a scarf. His dagger caught the candlelight for a single heartbeat.

“Stay still, Brat” the man hissed, voice low and rasping. “Make this easy.”

Ezekiel didn’t think. He flung the candle straight at the man’s face. Hot wax splattered, the flame died, plunging the room into darkness.

The man cursed. Ezekiel bolted for the door.

The forest swallowed him whole. Branches lashed his cheeks, roots tore at his feet. The night smelled of damp earth and iron.

Behind him came steady, unhurried footsteps.  The assassin wasn’t running. He didn’t need to. A grown man could easily outlast a barefoot child.

“Don’t make me chase you, boy,” the voice called, almost amused. 

“You’ll only die tired.”

Theo’s mind older, sharper  screamed at him to think.

 Left or right? 

Hide or run?

 His lungs burned, legs screaming. He stumbled downhill, feet slipping in mud, until the trees broke into a moonlit clearing.

The man was already there.

He moved like liquid shadow, stepping out from behind a tree, dagger glinting wickedly.

 “That blood in your veins is worth more than gold,” he murmured.

 “Shame to spill it… but orders are orders.”

Ezekiel backed up, breath coming in ragged gasps. “Who sent you?”

The man smiled behind his scarf. “Who else? It’s a person that doesn’t like loose ends.”

The Emperor. Even half-remembered from the webnovel, that name made Ezekiel’s stomach twist. In My pitiful prince, the Emperor had been a tyrant who had a deep obsession with Lanastha and would do anything she asked.

Theo understood now. He wasn’t a forgotten orphan. He was bait.

The man lunged. Ezekiel dove sideways, but the blade grazed his arm, hot pain streaking down to his fingers. He bit back a scream, scrambling to his feet — but the assassin was already on him, boot slamming into his chest, knocking the wind out of him.

“Quiet now,” the man said, pressing cold steel to Ezekiel’s throat. “No one’s coming to save—”

The words died in his throat.

There was a whisper of movement — so fast Ezekiel didn’t see it, only heard the wet sound of steel slicing through flesh. The man stiffened, eyes wide. A sword point burst through his back, slick with his own blood.

He collapsed sideways, gurgling.

And standing over his body was a woman.

Her black traveling cloak was slashed and muddy, yet it couldn’t dull the presence that radiated off her. Long dark-brown hair tumbled loose around her shoulders, gleaming like oil in the moonlight. Her eyes — crimson, merciless, beautiful — locked on Ezekiel with a gaze that made him feel as if he’d been stripped bare.

She didn’t speak at first. She simply wrenched her sword free, wiped it clean on the dead man’s sleeve, and looked at the boy lying in the dirt.

No warmth. No recognition. Just cold calculation.

Finally, her voice cut through the night — low, smooth, and absolute:
“Come. You’re late.”

Are you hurt?
Not Who are you?
Just an order.

Ezekiel swallowed hard, every instinct screaming both to run and to obey. He knew that face from the locket, from his old life’s memories of the novel.

Lanastha Mond Bonaventura.
Villainess. Demoness. His mother.