Metallic taste. His tongue recoiled.
Sharp pain. Jaw clenched.
Silent tears. Eyes stung.
Blurry consciousness. Mind wavered.
"Fate… has blessed you."
The words seeped into his dreams, weightless yet heavy, like a whisper carried by the wind yet pressed deep into his bones.
The boy's eyes snapped open.
For a moment, the world was still. The dim glow of the lantern outside his window flickered against the stone walls, casting restless shadows across his room.
But something was… off. A presence lingered—unseen, unheard—except for the echo of that voice in his head.
Then he heard it.
A sound so faint, so natural, it might have gone unnoticed if not for the stillness of the night.
The gentle rustle of pages turning.
His breath hitched. There were no books open in his room.
A fruit of his imagination? A nightmare clinging to his waking mind? He swallowed hard. No, he had heard something.
Wake up. Find your mother.
He turned toward the small window near his bed. The sky beyond was deep and endless, the color of ink—far too dark for morning. Normally, he would have been fast asleep until dawn.
Sliding out of bed, he pressed his bare feet against the cold stone floor, willing himself not to shiver. The sensation still lingered, a quiet, pressing awareness that something had changed.
He hesitated, but only for a moment. Then he stepped into the dimly lit corridor. The air was cooler outside his room, the scent of aged parchment and wax candles lingering in the halls.
He made his way toward his mother's office.
The butler—Elias—was there.
Elias, an older man with sharp but kind eyes, straightened at the boy's approach. But this time, there was a flicker of something else in his expression—mild surprise, concern even.
"Young master?" His voice was careful. "What are you doing awake at this hour?"
The boy hesitated. He liked Elias. Trusted him. But something about what had woken him made him uncertain.
He shook his head. "I... I don't know. I just... wanted to see my mother."
Elias studied him for a moment before exhaling softly. "She has a guest," he said, his tone quieter than before. "A man arrived late last night. She's with him now."
The boy frowned.
A guest? That was rare. His mother—brilliant, calculating, fiercely independent—did not entertain company often, and when she did, it was never unannounced.
"Who is he?" the boy asked.
Elias' expression did not change, but the pause before he answered was long. "A traveler," he said at last. "A man who prefers to remain unnoticed."
Something in his tone made the boy shiver.
The boy's fingers tightened around the doorframe.
Elias was still watching him with that concerned look, as though weighing the decision in his mind.
"Young master, I must advise against it."
He spoke in a soft, measured tone, as though trying to keep the boy's curiosity from overpowering his manners.
"Your mother... She is with a guest, and she does not like to be disturbed during these moments."
The boy's heart quickened. He could hear the uncertainty in Elias' voice, the hesitation that came with a request to stop. But he didn't care about etiquette at that moment—he needed to see for himself.
"But I want to see her."
Elias hesitated once more. Then he sighed, the sound almost a resignation. "I will inform her of your presence."
He opened the door just a crack, but the boy could see inside now. His mother, the woman he looked up to more than anyone, sat across from a man he had never seen before.
A fire crackled in the hearth, its glow danced, weaving strange patterns in the dim light.
The stranger stood leaning against the far wall, his posture relaxed but his presence undeniable.
His hair—pitch black and wildly unrestrained—hung in untamed waves, with part of it tied in a messy bun at the back of his head. His eyes—cold, piercing blue—caught the boy's gaze instantly, studying him as though the child were some kind of puzzle to be solved.
The man was draped in a long, weathered overcoat, its fabric shifting with his movements. At his waist, three blades were sheathed, their hilts ornate and intricate, glinting in the dim light. A short sword rested across his back, and the fact that a stranger still carries his weapons signified that he was allowed to.
But the weapons were not the only thing that drew the boy's attention.
A ring gleamed on the man's finger—a ring so mesmerizing that it almost seemed to absorb the light around it. It was intricately designed, its presence undeniable, and the boy could not look away from it.
But what truly puzzled the boy was the coldness in the cloaked man's eyes, the way he looked down at him from the side. It was as if the man saw the boy not as a young master, not as the son of the woman sitting across from him, but as... something less.
The boy frowned, a twinge of discomfort pulling at his chest. He had been taught the rules, the ways of noble decorum—he knew how guests were to behave.
But the man's posture, his attitude, his disregard for his mother's home—everything about him seemed out of place in her world, and yet he was allowed here, a guest in her private chamber.
Elias stepped aside, bowing slightly. "You may enter, young master."
The boy's heart raced, but he still had no idea why he had woken up so suddenly. Whatever had brought him here, it wasn't just curiosity.
There was something about the man—the way he held himself, the strange ring he wore—that made the boy feel an unfamiliar tightness in his chest, an instinctual unease he couldn't quite place.
"Aeron?" His mother's gentle voice pulled his gaze from the strange guest. She looked at him kindly, but confusion furrowed her brow. "This is unlike you, my love. Why are you awake?"
Aeron shifted uncomfortably, eyes flickering again toward the stranger leaning casually against the wall. He hesitated, fingers clenching into nervous fists at his side.
"Who is this man, Mother?" he asked quietly, the words edged with a note of distrust. "He seems... different. Unsettling."
His mother's expression shifted subtly. Her lips tightened, the warmth in her eyes replaced briefly by an admonishing sharpness.
"Aeron," she said firmly, yet without losing her gentle dignity, "this is not how we address guests. Have your lessons in courtesy been forgotten so swiftly?"
He glanced down, cheeks burning.
Etiquette had always been important to his mother. Respect toward guests—particularly noble guests—was a cornerstone of their lives.
Yet something about this man made Aeron perturbed, etiquette forgotten in the presence of that unfamiliar tightness in his chest.
"Forgive my son's rudeness," his mother addressed the guest calmly. "He is normally much better behaved."
"Think nothing of it," the visitor replied smoothly. His voice was deep, composed, carrying a faint amusement as he observed Aeron carefully.
Then, abruptly, he moved, kneeling gracefully to the boy's height. Aeron felt an involuntary shiver race down his spine as piercing blue eyes locked onto his own, seeing deeper than he wished to allow.
"Young boy," the guest began softly, a subtle smirk shaping his lips. "Aeron, is it?"
Aeron swallowed hard, holding the man's gaze. There was something alarming in the way the man regarded him now, as though discovering something new, something intriguing.
"Yes," Aeron whispered, his voice barely audible.
"Hm," the man mused, tilting his head slightly, the ring on his finger glinting subtly. "A fine name indeed."
His mother watched closely, clearly put off by this sudden interest, though she maintained her dignified composure. Aeron knew she could sense something amiss; she always could.
She had welcomed this visitor courteously, offered hospitality as decorum demanded. Yet, as their conversation unfolded, his words had taken a troubling turn—an unsettling assertion emerged amidst their exchanges. He claimed the mansion belonged to him; that he was its true owner, returned at last from distant travels.
But Aeron knew his history lessons well enough. The manor was a gift from the crown itself, awarded to his grandfather, passed down to his father, the Duke.
Two generations of noble lineage, endorsed by royal decree. This stranger, scarcely older than thirty, his claim could not possibly have any legitimacy.
His mother, clever and observant, clearly sensed this paradox as well. She had chosen caution over confrontation, wit over force. Few nobles could claim her skill in navigating difficult conversations, and fewer still could recognize danger beneath charm.
Still kneeling before Aeron, the man held his stare a moment longer, seeming to measure something within him before finally rising to his full height.
"Your son is intriguing, my lady," the man said, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he returned his gaze to Aeron's mother. "Quite intriguing indeed."
As he spoke, his hand ruffled through Aeron's dark hair, a casual gesture, yet one that felt deliberate. Aeron stiffened at the touch but said nothing.
That was when his mother noticed it.
Her breath hitched—barely, imperceptible to anyone but those who knew her well.
Yet Aeron saw the shift in her eyes, the way they flickered, widening just slightly, before turning dark with something unreadable.
She was good at hiding her expressions. Few could catch the change beneath her practiced composure, her flawless mask of control.
But the man noticed.
The smirk on his lips deepened just slightly. He had caught it—seen it in the split second before she forced her expression back into its usual placid calm.
Silence stretched between them, thick and knowing.
And then, for the first time in his life, Aeron saw distress in his mother.
She was afraid.