For two days, Ezekiel avoided Lanastha.

He ate breakfast after she left. He skipped dinner by claiming he was tired. When summoned for training, he invented a sore wrist.

Lanastha noticed.

She always noticed.

But she did not confront him.

Rue did.

“You are behaving like a rabbit that knows the hawk has seen it.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you are not.”

Rue handed him a practice sword.

“You should speak to her.”

“I said I’m fine.”

Edric arrived before Rue could argue further.

“Come, little tiger. Let us see whether your arms remain as useless as yesterday.”

The drills were relentless.

Strike.

Parry.

Step.

Turn.

Repeat.

Edric made the work bearable by shouting encouragement rather than criticism.

During a break, Ezekiel sat beneath the awning.

“Uncle Edric?”

“Yes?”

“There is a painting in the gallery. Mother and Father are sitting in a field of flowers.”

Edric smiled.

“So you found it.”

“Who painted it?”

“They did.”

Ezekiel stared at him.

“Together?”

“They took turns with the brush and argued over every color. Lana claimed Ermes could not paint flowers. Ermes said she could not paint anything without making it look threatening.”

Edric laughed softly.

“By the time they finished, both of them were covered in blue and pink paint. Your grandfather scolded them for days.”

Ezekiel imagined his cold, elegant mother with paint on her face.

A laugh escaped him.

Then he remembered the cellar.

I love my son more than life itself.

The laughter died.

Edric noticed.

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

That evening, Ezekiel ate alone.

On his way upstairs, he passed the dining room.

Lanastha sat at the long table by herself, staring into a glass of wine she had not touched.

For once, she did not look frightening.

She looked lonely.

Ezekiel stepped away before she could see him.