Catharine’s arms are still wrapped around me, her cloak soft against my cheek. I feel her breath stirring the hair at my temple, her hold gentle. She hasn’t let go—only loosened her hold. An invitation to stay, not a dismissal. Sven’s hand stays firm on my shoulder, steady and certain. Neither of them speaks.

  I close my eyes and sink into the quiet. The silence that follows love is a gentle, waiting hush. It does not scold or demand. It wraps itself around me, soft as Catharine’s cloak.

  I stay in that stillness. For a short moment, I allow the weight of everything else—my titles, my decisions, my long and bloody history—to fall away. I rest in their presence, letting my breath steady. They may see just their son releasing tension from doing something hard beyond his years, and I let that be all it is.

  I have worn crowns and held titles as armor. I have crawled through muck, trudged through trenches choked with blood, ruled through rebellions, and carved out a life in desolate wastes. In all those lives, I learned early that love is the first thing they strip away. Or the first thing you must let go of. I know how easily love is taken when one rules. In so many lives, love was the first sacrifice demanded. A king cannot afford to be undone by affection, and an emperor rarely keeps it close. But I have not lost love. Not here. Not now.

  Catharine’s fingers slide free of my hair, and she draws back just enough to look me in the eyes. She carries a softness that did not exist this morning, not a sign of weakness but an openness that comes when one sets aside armor. Her thumb glides across my cheek, gentle in a way that unsettles me with its kindness.

  “You have not eaten since midday,” she says quietly.

  I blink, taken aback. Of all the questions, this is what she chooses—no talk of violence or betrayal, just food.

  I nod. “I wasn’t hungry.”

  “You are now,” she replies. Her tone is sure, yet absent of command.

  Sven releases a breath beside me, one that feels as though he has been holding it all day. His voice is rough, scraped by worry that finally eases. “I thought I lost you,” he says, voice rough with relief. “Not your life—your trust.”

  I look at him. In his eyes, I see the sadness of someone who has endured too many betrayals, a man who knows how quickly love can curdle under strategy, until even a son might see his father as a rival instead of home.

  “I thought,” he continues quietly, “you’d moved beyond us. That you no longer needed us.”

  His words pull an unexpected answer from my lips. “I will not,” I say softly. “Not ever.”

  Catharine’s lips quirk in a faint, bittersweet smile. “Someday…” Her voice catches. She cannot say more.

  Neither can I. Perhaps there will be a time when I do not need them, but for now, I want them. I will keep them as long as I can.

  Sven straightens with care, as though his body protests after hours of tension. “Come,” he says, nodding at me. “I need fresh air, let’s get out of this room. There’s still sunlight left.”

  I hesitate. “Aren’t there things to discuss?”

  “There’s always more.” His mouth quirks in something like a smile. “But not all at once. Not today.”

  He extends his hand. I take it without question and let him pull me to my feet. Catharine stands as well, adjusting the clasp of her cloak with neat precision. She trails her hand over my head, resting it at the back of my head. Her touch lingers, a silent oath that she will remain by my side.

  The latch clicks as Sven unlocks the door. Golden light spills through the corridor, revealing a quiet hall polished by afternoon sun. Distant laughter bubbles from the kitchens, accompanied by measured footsteps. The estate feels alive again, relieved of the tension we carried behind these walls.

  We step beyond the threshold, still close. For once, I let them guide me. I do not plan. I do not calculate. I simply follow.

  My father’s hand remains on my shoulder. My mother’s palm rests atop my head. The daylight feels sharper outside the hall, but their presence shields me from its sting.

  I walk between them in this life.

  And I wonder—will this be my reason, this time?

  Each life, I’ve had a core. A reason to try. Sometimes it was pursuit of knowledge or ideals. Sometimes it was a struggle to right some wrong. How often had there been a life with joy? I feel a phantom hand on my chest, hear a sylvan voice dredge its self from my depths to whisper a long forgotten name in a dead tongue, and a shiver runs down my spine. I slam close that part of my mind, and they notice the small jerk of my shoulders, and I smile to reassure them, stepping out ahead so I can face them both.

  “Shall we see if Lena and Clara are in the garden?” I ask.

  The intimate moment is broken, but I hold it close anyway as we step into the sunlit courtyard together.

  The sun warms the stone beneath our feet as we step into the upper garden path. The hedges rise on either side, orderly and fragrant, trimmed to precision. This high up, the breeze comes clean from the southern hills, soft and scented with wildgrass. A gardener pauses as we pass, tipping his head low, eyes flicking not just to my parents, but to me.

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  There’s no surprise in his gaze. No indulgent smile for a child trailing behind his elders. Just quiet acknowledgment. Measured. Respectful.

  The staff see me differently now.

  Sven notices too. I can tell from the way his eyes narrow slightly as we move. Not in disapproval. In calculation. He’s gauging what else has shifted, how far the ripple spreads.

  Catharine says nothing, but her steps match mine. When the path dips, her hand finds my back with practiced ease. Her touch is light. Unspoken reassurance. I have seen queens who held their sons like glass and others who never touched them at all. But this, this small gesture, I tuck away carefully. Something to remember.

  We follow the lower garden path through the arch of honeyvine and glassleaf, down past the ornamental trees and the shaded well.

  The trailing guards follow a respectful distance behind, boots muffled against the worn stone. They don’t intrude, but they do not leave. Not after everything. They stop just short of the tall hedge that marks the threshold of the garden’s wild heart and take up silent station near the arched entrance.

  This place is more than it seems.

  To most, the hedge is only another design element in a noblewoman’s refined garden—high, curved, woven through with flowered vines. But to those who know the estate well, it conceals something older. A pocket of untamed beauty deliberately preserved.

  It was my mother’s creation—a quiet, enclosed space where wild things are allowed to grow just a little too freely. The rest of the garden is carefully cultivated. Here, the roses climb unpruned, and soft moss drinks in sunlight without interruption. It feels less like a noble’s estate and more like something older. Older, and alive.

  The great tree at its center rises above the hedge, towering and gnarled, its canopy visible from nearly every vantage point on the grounds. Deep-rooted and massive, it stands as a monument. Older than the estate, older than our name. It is here, beneath its boughs, that I came to gather mana, to recover in solitude, and left an imprint on the flow of mana in the land. In this world, I have not found a reference to the thing I created, but I once knew them as mana founts. Places that soothed and healed from an outpouring in nature.

  So, I left a trail. A gentle word passed through the right hands. A passing suggestion that this grove, this heart of the garden, would do Lena some good.

  And Aksel—her husband—took the hint. He has brought her here every afternoon since she could walk again without pain. A few hours of peace beneath the tree. A few hours where no one stares, and the weight of the attack lifts just enough for breath to return.

  We round the final turn, past the hedge, and step into the clearing.

  Lena reclines on a cushioned bench at the base of the tree, propped against Aksel’s side. His arm is steady around her back, his posture protective but easy. The wind catches the hem of her shawl, pale blue against her white dress. Her face is still drawn, but not hollow.

  She’s healing.

  Clara plays in the soft moss near the roots, a white stone clutched in one small hand. She hums tunelessly, inspecting the ground like she’s searching for treasure.

  She spots us the moment we step into the light.

  “Relus!” she shouts, springing to her feet.

  She runs to me, curls bouncing. Her arms loop around my chest—tight, sudden, joyful.

  I’m barely taller than she is. The difference is hardly anything. Her head fits beneath my chin, but only just. I steady myself and hug her back.

  “I found a lucky rock!” she says, pulling back to show me the smooth, pale stone. “It was under the tree root, in the shade. That makes it extra lucky.”

  “Of course it is,” I say, keeping my voice light. “The old tree likes to leave gifts.”

  She beams. “For Mama. Because she’s been very brave.”

  “She has,” I say. “And so have you.”

  Clara beams, then notices my parents. Her expression shifts—not into fear, but into the kind of wide-eyed awe small children reserve for people of authority.

  Catharine kneels with a soft rustle of velvet. “Clara, darling. You look like you’ve grown a whole inch since I saw you last.”

  Clara drops into a curtsy that nearly topples her over. “Yes, Your grace.” Lena’s hallmark has always been impeccable etiquette. Clara is proof.

  “You’ve been taking good care of your mother, haven’t you?”

  Clara nods solemnly. “I sleep next to her and tell her stories. Sometimes she forgets to eat, so I remind her.”

  Catharine’s laugh is gentle, real, as she stands.

  Sven moves toward Lena’s bench. Aksel rises at once and bows low. Lena shifts, lifting herself with care. I watch Sven offer a hand—steady, without grandeur—and help Lena to her feet.

  “Your Grace,” I can see the nerves in Aksel’s shoulders. He does not work inside the estate, so I can understand that he does not feel as at ease about Sven and Catharine.

  “Archduke. Archduchess.” Lena greets them, her voice hoarse but strong. She steadies herself with a hand on her husband as she bows, still stiff and off balance.

  “You should be lying down,” Sven murmurs, but there’s no rebuke in it.

  “I can’t rest while my daughter is watching me for signs I’ll fade again.”

  My throat tightens.

  Sven nods once. “She’s safe now. You both are.”

  Lena looks between Sven and Catharine, and I see her measuring them. I know what she is looking for, I have both looked for it in others and had others search for it in me. She is looking for hope. Then her eyes turn to me.

  I can feel her clench her muscles, resolve setting into her frame. Folding both hand in front of her, she lowers herself into a full proper bow. Not shallow. Not ceremonial.

  “I owe you my life,” she says, eyes fixed on the ground. Sven shifts his weight between his feet, a movement almost impossible to catch, he is examining how I respond.

  My hands curl at my sides. “You owe me nothing. You protected Clara. I ensured it wasn’t in vain.”

  She looks up and holds my gaze for a moment, then straightens. Her expression is quiet, wounded, but whole. Her lips press together and she nods. She understands. It’s enough.

  Catharine moves beside her. “Come, let’s sit. The sun is kind today.”

  They gather at the bench, Catharine and Lena speaking in low tones, Sven asking Aksel small questions. Both my parents are experts at the craft of state, and they put Lena and Aksel at ease in short order. Clara tugs me down beside her and presses a daisy into my hand. The tree above creaks softly as the wind moves through its branches. I let her talk, about the butterflies, about a dream she had, about how she thinks her mother’s eyes are turning gold because she’s being healed by magic.

  No one corrects her. The adults let her voice fill the garden like birdsong.

  I listen.

  I watch my mother listen, her hand brushing Lena’s hair with the care of someone who knows the cost of every scar. I see my father lean back, sun on his face, eyes closed—not in command, but in peace.

  And for a while, I let myself feel it too.

  And in the dappled light filtered through the tree above, where the breeze rustles through the high grass and a child’s laughter curls like smoke in the air, I do not think about House Verdane. Not yet. Not now.