Chapter 2
I made exactly three mistakes on my first day as a mother.
One: I brought Elias home without stopping for food.
Two: I assumed he would act like a child.
Three: I let him hold a knife.
In my defense, it was just a butter knife. And he looked so thin I thought he might collapse before we got back to the estate. I handed him a roll and the knife to spread jam, and the next thing I knew, he was testing the blade for sharpness like he was preparing to perform surgery.
"Do you want a sharper one?" I asked, trying to sound casual.
"No."
"Okay, cool, no problem. Just checking. Not alarmed."
He handed the knife back, jam untouched, and folded his hands neatly in his lap. He hadn't eaten. Not a single bite.
I resisted the urge to sigh. Or cry. Or scream.
Instead, I gave him my most dazzling fake smile and said, "So, Elias. What's your favorite color?"
He blinked at me.
"That's a weird question," he said.
I laughed, too loudly. "You know what? It really is."
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By the time we got back to the estate, it was snowing.
My estate—Clarisse's estate—was a crumbling two-story manor at the edge of the western province. The kind of place nobles forgot about unless they needed something taxed or exiled. The only staff I had were an elderly butler named Kellan and a cook who hated me. The rest had fled when rumors of mana storms started spreading last winter.
"I thought you said you lived in a castle," Elias said flatly, staring up at the house.
"Technically, it has a tower."
"Where?"
I pointed to a lopsided spire that looked one strong breeze away from collapsing.
He stared at it. Then at me.
"Okay," he said, and walked inside.
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Dinner was stew. Kellan served it with the silent dignity of a man who'd seen too much and expected even less.
Elias picked up his spoon like it was a foreign object. His hands were too steady. His back too straight. He ate like he'd learned to ration food and expected someone to take it away at any moment.
"Do you want more?" I asked after three bites.
"No."
"You can have more. There's plenty."
"I'm not hungry."
Lie. Obvious lie. His knuckles were white around the spoon.
I leaned back and tried a different tactic. "Alright. I'll eat your seconds. Growing woman, after all. Need the calories in case I have to fight off wolves."
That got a flicker of something. Amusement? Maybe. It vanished too fast to be sure.
He finished the bowl.
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That night, I tucked him into the guest room closest to mine. It had a creaky bed, faded curtains, and a single cracked mirror on the wall.
"Do you want a nightlight?" I asked.
"No."
"Blanket?"
He shook his head.
"How about a bedtime story?"
"Why?"
I shrugged. "Tradition."
He stared at me for a long moment, then turned his face to the wall. "You can just go."
I didn't.
I sat beside him, quiet, and hummed a lullaby I half-remembered from the novel. It was something Clarisse sang to him once—soft and sad and simple.
He didn't speak. Didn't move.
But I saw his shoulders unclench. Just slightly.
Progress.
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That night, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, arms behind my head, and whispered to the dark:
"Okay, novel. I know your rules. I know your tricks. But I'm rewriting the ending."
Outside, the wind howled like it knew what I was planning.
Let it.
.
.
.
.
.
End of Chapter 2