18th Junalis. DF.
The mansion rose from the field like an island in a sea of green and a colorful mosaic of flowers. Stone walls, thick and even with tall, narrow windows that stared out at the horizon like unblinking eyes, a testament to the great wealth of the Perlin house.
Sion sat under a tree, a book in hands his sapphire eyes filled with wonder as he glanced through its colorful pages.
Sion was a fit boy and at ten he was quite tall for someone his age. His curly brown hair framed his chubby face, his olive skin glowed under the light of the sun.
"Mon Felis (My dear)" called a feminine voice.
He turned; it was his mother, Kamani.
She gathered her skirt as she sat, the fabric—faded now, but still fine—pooling around her. Her ginger curls were pinned up, a few escaping to frame her face, and tiny beads—pearls, real ones—were woven through the braids, catching the lamplight. Her cheeks were still flushed from the kitchen.
"Reading again,' she said, settling beside him. It wasn't a complaint—it never was."
He closed his book, the spine still unbroken. "Mama," he said, and his voice dropped, like he was confessing something dangerous. "I want to be a writer."
She didn't laugh. She didn't tell him to be practical. She just looked at him—that quiet, steady gaze he'd known his whole life—and her fingers found his hair, working through the curls with the familiar rhythm she'd had since he was a boy. He leaned into the touch without thinking.
"Then you will be," she said. "You'll be anything you want to be, my love."
The sound of hooves echo through the air. Sion looked up.
A carriage pulled by two Kinate, baring the Perlin crest rode up the road and stopped not far from where they sat.
Kamani's breath went snagged. Then her breath hitched- shallow, quick- her hand drifted up to toy with that same curl she always tugged before a storm.
A man stepped out- lean as a whip, his brown hair yanked back so it pulled at his temples. He had olive-green eyes. Cold ones. Behind him, a petite woman her belly rounded beneath her dress, one hand braced on the carriage door.
Kamani stood, clutching her son's hand. He looked up at her- searched her face for the flicker, the tell, the crack. But her fingers had gone still on the curl. Her mouth had flattened to a thin line. She was looking at the carriage, not him, and whatever she saw there, she was keeping it locked behind her eyes.
They walked up the road.
"Welcome papa," said Sion loudly.
He looked at the child, his nose wrinkled-just a flicker- he turned his face towards the horizon, as if the sight of him left a bad taste in his mouth.
Sion had become so accustomed to the look that he had become unbothered by it.
"Kamani, this is Roseline." He said his voice flat "She would be staying at the mansion."
Kamani's hand tightened on Sion's shoulder. Her knuckles went white. She remembered another woman, years ago—a girl with dark hair and a nervous laugh—who had also come to the mansion. She hadn't stayed long.
Her lips stretched, but her eyes stayed cold as stone. "of course," she said. "Whatever my lord husband commands"
Her smile faded as a jaw tightened as his father and the woman walked down the road hand in hand, his mother's gaze never leaving them.
"Mama" he said.
She turned her gaze to him.
"Who is she?" he said.
Her lips curved. It lasted a second-maybe two. Then her face went slack.
"No one Mon Felis." She said.
She turned away before he could see the rest.
*****
She turned away before he could see the rest.
That night, the mansion grew quiet. The servants retreated to their quarters. The wind picked up, carrying the smell of rain that never came.
The moon rested, swarming among the stars—a single pearl scattered across dark water.
Sion lay in his bed at the center of the large room, staring at the painting spread across the ceiling. The wind blew through his window—soft and cold—a whisper from a forgotten dream. And he almost felt like the moon: resting alone in a swarm of things that didn't touch him.
The wind stopped. The room went still.
Then the sound came through the walls—low and raw, rising and falling like a voice learning how to breathe. He didn't move. He barely blinked. The painting on the ceiling had stopped being interesting. The sound filled the room. Filled the space between his ribs. He didn't dare breathe.
He got out of bed. His feet touched the cold floor. He walked to the door, opened it, and stepped into the hallway—one slow step, then another, his bare feet silent against the marble. The sound grew louder. Fuller. He could feel it now, vibrating in his chest, a second heartbeat that wasn't his. He kept walking. A moth drawn to a flame he couldn't see.
The sound pulled him to a locked door. He bent and peeked through the keyhole.
His father moved behind the woman he had brought earlier—both bare, their bodies exposed to the wind. He held her waist, thrusting in a rhythm that made her head fall back, her mouth wide open like someone gasping for air. His stomach turned. A hot, sick feeling rose in his throat. He swallowed it down.
Sion couldn't look away. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't do anything but watch.
He is suddenly pulled from the door; his mother turned him around and pressed him firmly against her skirt. Covering his ears with her delicate hands, they both walked back to his room-slowly and quietly- she tucked him back to bed.
He looked at her. Her eyes were open, but they weren't looking at anything. Her mouth had gone slack, the corners drifting down like they'd forgotten how to hold a smile.
He reached out to touch her cheek wiping away the tear that fell from her eyes. His touch warm against her cool skin.
She looked at him.
His eyes crinkle as his lips stretched into a smile.
"I love you mama" he said. "To the moon and back."
She hugged his tightly. His arms came around her.
"I love you too." She said. "Mon Felis"