Word of Lanastha’s return spread through the manor faster than fire through dry grass. By noon, the entire household knew: the “witch” had come home with a child. Some whispered it was a bastard. Others claimed it was a hostage. No one dared ask her directly.

Except for one man.

Ezekiel first saw him striding across the inner courtyard in traveling leathers, a hawk-emblazoned cloak swinging from his shoulders. His hair was pale gold, parted to the side, and his crimson eyes glowed unmistakably Bonaventura — though his smile was nothing like Lanastha’s cold gaze.

“Where is my little nephew?” he called out cheerfully, ignoring the startled servants. “Where’s the boy brave enough to belong to my sister?”

Lanastha appeared in the doorway of her study, expression unreadable. “Edric.”

“Sister,” he replied with a bow more playful than proper.

 “I get one letter from a servant saying you’ve returned with a child and you expect me to wait politely in the capital? Not a chance.” His crimson eyes landed on Ezekiel. “And this must be him.”

Ezekiel froze. Rue’s hand brushed his shoulder as if to steady him, but Edric swept forward and crouched to the boy’s level before Ezekiel could decide whether to run.

“Well,” Edric murmured, studying him with open curiosity, “you’ve got her eyes. Poor kid. Those will get you into trouble.” He ruffled Ezekiel’s purple hair with an easy familiarity that made Lanastha’s brow twitch. “I’m your uncle. And you’re about to learn how a Bonaventura handles a sword.”

They dined in one of the manor’s smaller halls, just the three of them. Unlike Lanastha, who barely touched her food, Edric ate heartily and talked freely, though he avoided anything overtly political.

Ezekiel kept sneaking glances at his uncle’s crimson eyes. Unlike Lanastha’s, they didn’t feel cold. They burned brighter, like a hearth rather than a forge.

“Eat, boy,” Edric said, sliding a plate toward him. “Sword lessons on an empty stomach will have you on the floor.”

“I don’t think Mother wants me to—” Ezekiel began.

“She’s not here to argue,” Edric interrupted lightly.

 “And I outrank her in family matters — for now.” He grinned as if daring Lanastha to contradict him. She didn’t.

The Bonaventura training yard smelled of oiled wood and dust. Servants stopped to stare — no one had seen the heir of the family sparring with a child before.

Edric handed Ezekiel a wooden practice sword almost as tall as the boy himself. “Too heavy?”

“I can handle it,” Ezekiel said quickly, though Theo’s adult mind inside him knew better.

“Good,” Edric replied, stepping back. “Bonaventuras don’t whine about weight. Feet apart. Knees bent. Rue, watch his stance — if he falls on his face, I’ll blame you.”

Rue snorted but obeyed, standing close in case Ezekiel slipped.

Edric didn’t go easy, but he didn’t overwhelm either. He corrected Ezekiel’s grip, showed him how to twist his hips, and when the boy’s arms started to tremble, he called for a break.

They sat on a low stone wall, Ezekiel gulping water while Edric rested his own practice blade across his knees.

“You look like him,” Edric said at last, almost to himself.

“Who?” Ezekiel asked, heart skipping.

“Your father. Ermes.” Edric’s smile softened, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “He wasn’t Bonaventura by blood — his father was a count. But he and Lana were inseparable since they were eight. Fell in love as kids, started courting at fifteen… and by twenty-three, they thought they could outsmart the entire Empire.”

He gave a low laugh, but there was no real humor in it. “You were born in secret, because the Emperor couldn’t stand the idea of Lana loving anyone but him. When he found out… Ermes ran. Took you with him.”

Ezekiel swallowed hard. “They never… married?”

“They didn’t need to,” Edric said, voice dropping.

 “They loved each other. But the Emperor made sure they couldn’t stay together.” His crimson gaze sharpened. “Remember this, Ezekiel — power makes enemies. And love makes them crueler.”

Rue, leaning against the wall nearby, said nothing, but his jaw tightened.

As they walked back toward the manor, Edric’s cheerful mask slipped for just a moment. “Your father was a good man,” he said quietly. “Better than most of us. If he were still alive…” He trailed off and shook his head. “Well. Just know this: Bonaventura blood isn’t the only thing in your veins.”

Ezekiel wanted to ask more 

How did my father die?

Did the Emperor kill him? 

But Lanastha was waiting in the courtyard. Her gaze flicked between them like a hawk sizing up prey and protector alike.

“Finished already?” she asked.

“For today,” Edric said easily. “Tomorrow I’ll have him parrying daggers.”

Lanastha gave the faintest nod, crimson eyes unreadable. “Good. He has to learn fast.”

The words sounded less like encouragement and more like an order from fate itself