Ezekiel found his grandfather in the library, surrounded by maps and dusty tomes. The Duke of Bonaventura always looked like a man planning a campaign, even when reading poetry.

“You’ve been dreaming,” the Duke said before Ezekiel could open his mouth. “You’ve got that look in your eye. Your mother used to get it, too.”

Ezekiel hesitated. “It’s the family gift, isn’t it? Seeing the past… maybe the future.”

The Duke closed his book, studying him carefully. “Yes. The demons sight. Our blood remembers things the world would rather forget.”

“Is it dangerous?” Ezekiel asked.

“Very.” The Duke’s voice was grave. “Dreams are true, but not always clear. The past can be twisted by guilt. The future can shift with a single choice. Your mother used to say it was like staring at a river: you can see what’s reflected, but not always what lies beneath.”

Ezekiel swallowed. “Did you… ever dream of my father?”

“Sometimes,” the Duke admitted.

 “But more often I dreamed of Lana when she was little, when she needed me.” He reached across the desk and squeezed Ezekiel’s shoulder. “If the dreams frighten you, don’t let them rule you. Use them as guides, not chains.”

That night Ezekiel couldn’t sleep. His father’s voice still echoed in his ears: 

Stay close to Lana. Trust her.

So he slipped from his room and wandered the corridors, following the faint pull of memory. The dream-garden was real he’d seen it in daylight once, but at night it was transformed, bathed in silver moonlight and sweet with the scent of blooming lilies.

He stopped when he saw her.

Lanastha stood by the marble fountain, dressed in a white nightgown and a red shawl, her hair loose over her shoulders. She was staring up at the moon, and to Ezekiel’s shock, her eyes glistened with tears.

“What should I do, Ermes?” she whispered, her voice raw. “I don’t know how to live. I wish you were here. I’m… so tired.”

Ezekiel’s chest ached. He’d never seen her like this. Not the cold Witch of Bonaventura, not the ruthless swordswoman  just a woman mourning someone she loved.

He stepped out from behind the hedge. “Mother?”

Lanastha spun, mask snapping back into place — but not fast enough. He’d already seen the tears.

“Ezekiel,” she said sharply. “What are you doing awake?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” he admitted, walking closer. His heart pounded, but he didn’t stop. “I heard you.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I heard you,” he repeated, softer this time. “You miss him. Don’t you?”

Something in her expression cracked. She turned away, but her voice trembled. “Every day.”

Ezekiel swallowed hard. “I… I’ve been avoiding you.”

“I noticed,” she said dryly.

“I was scared,” Ezekiel confessed. “After the assassin… I heard what you said to him. And then you…” He couldn’t finish the sentence.

She faced him again, crimson eyes fierce but not cold. “You think I’m a monster?”

“No,” Ezekiel said quickly. “I think… you’re my mother. And I didn’t understand you. But I think I’m starting to.”

For a long moment, neither spoke. The only sound was the water trickling in the fountain. Then Lanastha knelt in front of him, placing her hands gently on his shoulders.

“Ezekiel,” she said quietly, “everything I do — every bloody, ugly thing — I do because I will not lose you. I lost Ermes once. I won’t lose you, too.”

His throat tightened. “I know,” he whispered. “And… I think Father knows too. I saw him. In a dream.”

Her eyes widened just slightly, but she didn’t speak.

“He told me to stay close to you. To trust you. And I do.” Ezekiel hesitated, then hugged her tightly. “I’m not afraid anymore.”

For the first time, Lanastha hugged him back without hesitation, holding him so tightly it almost hurt.

Under the silver moon, mother and son stayed there for a long time, neither speaking, neither needing to.