The corpse bled out into the mud, steam rising from the warm spill under the cold night air. Ezekiel’s small chest heaved as he stared, trembling. In his old life, Theo had only seen blood in movies. This was different — raw, hot, metallic, real.

The woman who had killed so easily turned to face him. Her black cloak was streaked with dirt and blood, but her posture was regal, utterly unbothered by the filth. Long dark-brown hair slid across her shoulder as she adjusted her grip on the sword. Her crimson eyes  the same color as Ezekiel’s  burned like banked coals.

“Get up.” Her voice was smooth, but there was no warmth in it. No concern for his shaking limbs or the shallow cut bleeding down his arm.

Ezekiel forced himself upright. His legs felt like they were carved from glass. He opened his mouth to speak — to thank her, maybe to ask who she was, though he already knew — but she was already turning away.

“Stay close,” she ordered. “We don’t linger where corpses lie.”

She didn’t check to see if he followed. She simply started walking, sword still drawn, her steps precise and soundless. Ezekiel stumbled after her, struggling to keep up. His child’s body lagged, breath ragged.

“W-wait—” he gasped. “You’re… Lanastha… Mond Bonaventura?”

She didn’t even glance back. “Names are nothing. Survival is everything. Speak again and you’ll draw more blades.”

The forest closed around them, thick and oppressive. Every snapped twig made Ezekiel flinch. His small fingers clutched at the hem of her cloak once, more out of instinct than choice. She froze, glaring down at him until he let go.

Her presence was suffocating. Even in silence, it radiated power. She was no mother that had  come to rescue a lost child. She was a predator clearing the woods of vermin.

Hours passed in darkness. They avoided the road entirely, cutting through ravines and briar-choked hollows. When they finally reached a hidden path, Ezekiel could see torches in the distance.

 A waiting carriage.

Two men stood guard beside it, armored in Bonaventura colors: deep red and black. The snake crest gleamed on their breastplates. When they saw Lanastha, they saluted sharply — but their eyes darted to Ezekiel with undisguised confusion.

“My lady...” one said carefully. “The… boy?”

Lanastha’s crimson gaze flicked over him like he was an object. “Mine,” she said simply. “And no one asks again.”

The soldier swallowed hard and nodded.

Inside, the carriage was plush and dark, lined with velvet curtains to block prying eyes. Lanastha sat opposite Ezekiel, sword resting casually on her lap, crimson eyes never leaving him.

“Why did you run?” she asked finally.

Ezekiel swallowed. “Someone… someone tried to kill me.”

Her mouth curved in something that might have been a smile, but there was no kindness in it. “Of course they did. HE has always been thorough.”

Ezekiel stiffened. “Do you mean-?”

“Do not speak his name,” she snapped, voice suddenly sharp as the sword across her knees. “Do not even think about it too loudly. His spies have long ears.”

Theo’s mind, trapped in Ezekiel’s small body, churned. In My pitiful prince, the Emperor had been a tyrant who killed anyone that got close to Lanastha. If he’d sent assassins after Ezekiel, it could only mean one thing: He knew she had a son

But how?

When the carriage doors opened, Ezekiel was hit by the sight of the Bonaventura estate's massive stone towers rising like dark spears against the dawn. Red banners snapped in the cold wind, each one bearing the snake crest. Soldiers patrolled the walls, their armor glinting in the first light.

Lanastha strode up the marble steps, not slowing for her child’s short legs. Servants bowed low as she passed, their eyes averted  not out of respect, but fear. Whispers followed in her wake like a tide.

“Is that…?”
“Her child?”
“Impossible.”

Inside, the halls smelled of polished wood, candle wax, and faint incense. Suits of armor lined the walls, each bearing scars of real battle. This was no soft noble house; this was a fortress.

In her private chambers, Lanastha dismissed everyone with a flick of her fingers. Only when the heavy doors closed did she finally look at Ezekiel again.

“You will speak when spoken to,” she said coldly. “You will eat when told. And you will never leave my side without permission. Do you understand?”

Ezekiel nodded quickly, heart pounding.

“Good.” She stepped closer, crouching so her crimson eyes were level with his. “You are Bonaventura blood. That means you are worth killing. But it also means you are worth protecting. If you live, it will be because I allow it.”

Her hand, gloved in black leather, brushed his chin — not gently, not motherly, more like a master inspecting a blade.

“Do not disappoint me.”