All day, Ezekiel tried to get answers.

First he asked Rue.
“Who was that boy?”
Rue shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. Focus on your training.”

Then he asked Edric.
“Do you know who sent him?”
Edric ruffled his hair. “You don’t want to know, little tiger. Trust me.”

Even his grandmother wouldn’t tell him anything, just hugged him tight and said, “Leave it to the adults, darling.”

But Ezekiel wasn’t a child, not really not in his head. And if someone wanted him dead, he needed to know why.

That night, long after the manor quieted and the hall candles burned low, Ezekiel crept from his room. He moved carefully, barefoot on cold stone, remembering how Rue had taught him to avoid squeaky boards.

The sound guided him low voices down in the cellar halls, deeper than the usual servant quarters. He followed it through narrow corridors until he reached a heavy oak door cracked open just enough for him to peek inside.

Lanastha stood in the center of the room, crimson eyes gleaming in the torchlight. The boy who’d tried to kill Ezekiel was kneeling, wrists bound, sweat running down his face. Two shadow knights stood like statues at the door.

“Who sent you?” Lanastha asked, her voice quiet. Too quiet.

The boy spat at her feet. “You think I’ll tell you, witch?”

Ezekiel’s breath caught.

Lanastha crouched so she was eye level with him, her expression cold as winter steel. “You’re very young to be throwing your life away. I’ll give you one chance.”

The boy laughed, sharp and bitter. “You think you scare me? The whole empire knows you’re nothing but the Emperor’s whore.”

Ezekiel’s stomach twisted.

Lanastha didn’t flinch. She only tilted her head slightly, like a hawk studying prey. “You’re wrong about many things. But worst of all…” She reached forward, took his chin in her gloved hand, and forced him to meet her eyes. “You think I’m cold. You think I don’t care about anyone.”

Her voice dropped to a whisper so soft Ezekiel had to strain to hear:
“I love my son more than life itself. For him, I’d kill a hundred like you. A thousand.”

The boy sneered. “Then kill me, witch. At least I die spitting on you.”

Ezekiel never saw her draw the blade. One second her hand was empty  the next, the torchlight caught on steel. The boy slumped forward.

 Blood stains the floor dark.

Ezekiel gasped without meaning to.

He didn’t stay to see what happened next. He turned and fled down the hall, heart hammering so loud he swore they’d hear him. Up staircases, around corners, anywhere away from that cold crimson light.

He didn’t stop until he reached a quiet gallery lined with dust-covered portraits. Moonlight streamed through tall windows, illuminating faces of long-dead Bonaventuras staring down with cold sharp eyes.

But one painting stopped him cold.

Not an ancestor in armor.

 Not a noble posing with a sword.

A young man with wavy purple hair sat in a field of flowers, smiling in the sun. Beside him was a young Lanastha — no crimson dress, no cold mask, just a girl in a blue gown leaning against him, laughing like the world couldn’t touch them.

Father.
Mother.
Happy. Together.

Ezekiel sank onto the bench opposite the painting, chest tight. He pressed his hands to his eyes, but it didn’t stop the tears.

The same woman who had killed a man without blinking… had once laughed like this. And she’d just said she loved him enough to kill for him.

Was that strength?

 Or was it terrifying?
He didn’t know.