She blinked slowly, the ache in her chest dulled but not vanished. The warmth that had cocooned her in sleep still remained. From his presence. His steadiness. His heartbreakingly patient silence.
Before she could even sit up, a hesitant knock sounded against the door.
"Mother?" came a soft voice. "Are you awake?"
The Earl stirred beside her, and they both turned toward the door just as it creaked open. Jason peeked in, his dark hair tousled from sleep and eyes wide—first in cautious worry, then in surprise.
"Father?" he blinked. "You… you slept here too?"
Anthony gave a small, sheepish nod and sat up, brushing a hand through his hair.
Lady Whitman blushed, the boy's innocent question sounding slightly different in her own adult ears. "Um, not really slept, but… yeah, something like that," she coughed. Then, looking at the sleep-tousled boy, smiled softly, heart squeezing. "Good morning, Jason."
He padded in on bare feet, his small hands fidgeting at his sides. "I… I wanted to check on you. I was worried. You haven't been feeling well."
Mary Jane's throat tightened as she extended her arms toward him. "Come here."
Jason didn't hesitate. He rushed into the bed and threw his arms around her waist, burying his face against her. She cradled him with trembling hands, Anthony still sitting on his other side, breathing in the familiar scent of his hair—apples and ink and sun.
"I'm so sorry, sweetheart," she whispered, her voice cracking. "I've been distant. I haven't talked to you or played with you… I've been so unfair."
Jason shook his head fiercely and looked up at her. "It's okay if you're sad. Grown-ups can be sad too." His small brows furrowed with wisdom far beyond his years. "You don't have to smile all the time. I just… I didn't want you to be alone."
A sob threatened her chest, but she managed a teary smile. "Oh, Jason…"
Anthony, sitting on the other side of the bed, watched the scene unfold with quiet reverence. He wanted to thank the gods that the storm had passed. His eyes softened as he reached over to brush a few stray strands of hair from her face. "We're here," he said, voice low but firm. "You don't have to carry it alone."
Together, the three of them sat there for a while longer, in a fragile but healing silence, wrapped in the delicate arms of forgiveness and love.
And then, it was time for breakfast.
The cozy breakfast room downstairs was already filled with the scent of cinnamon bread and warm broth. When the three entered—Lady Whitman carrying Jason in her arms, and the Earl trailing close behind with a protective hand on her back—the staff froze in a breathless beat of surprise.
Then they all sprang into motion at once.
Maggie nearly dropped the tea set as she scrambled to pour Lady Whitman's favorite herbal blend. The footman tripped over a rug corner trying to quickly retrieve the fresh preserves. Someone hastily fluffed the pillows on Lady Whitman's usual chair before realizing she was already sitting down, Jason nestled beside her with his legs swinging off the edge.
Lady Whitman watched them with growing amusement. One servant was nervously re-arranging the fruit platter for the third time. Another was polishing the same silver spoon with such frantic energy it might as well have been a sacred relic.
A surprised laugh escaped her.
It was soft, a little rusty—but it was real. And it was music to the entire room.
"Goodness," she said, dabbing her eyes with a napkin, "You'd think the Queen herself were visiting."
"You are our queen, my lady," Maggie mumbled under her breath, and a few servants nodded with quiet smiles.
Jason beamed up at her and reached for a piece of buttered toast, then offered her the first bite. She leaned down and took it, her heart full in a way it hadn't been in days.
Across from her, Anthony watched her closely—not just the way her shoulders eased, or the way she wiped crumbs from Jason's chin—but the light returning to her eyes. Flickering, yes, but there.
And for the first time in a long while, Lady Whitman felt it too.
Not just the warmth of the food or the cozy breakfast room.
But the warmth of family. Of acceptance no matter how one acts up. Of rebuilding.
Of home.
It was the most pleasant breakfast they've had in a very long week or so, and the pall that descended over the manor were slowly lifting up. The invisible heaviness that every person inside the Whitman Manor seemed to be carrying on their shoulders suddenly lifted once the servants who assisted during the family's breakfast ran out and began spreading the news of Lady Whitman's recovery from her melancholy.
After breakfast, a pouting Jason had to leave first to start his lessons with his tutors, but he only left after receiving a promise from Bettina that she would fetch him once his lessons were done. Anthony, with a solemn look, held out his hand to her and invited her for a little stroll in the garden.
The late autumn air was gentle and cool, and the gravel beneath their feet crunched softly as they walked. The gardens of Whitman Manor stretched before them, branches budding with the promise of the coming autumn blooms, but silence hung heavy between the Earl and his wife.
Bettina walked beside him, still quiet, fingers brushing the sleeves of her dress. Her slippers whispered against the path, and though she walked with grace, the Earl sensed the hesitance in her every step. She had asked to speak with him—no, she had insisted. And now, it seemed, she was grappling with how to begin.
Anthony slowed his pace slightly, giving her time, space, air. After last night—after seeing her unravel in his arms and fall asleep clinging to his shirt like a lifeline—he had made a silent vow: he would not rush her. He'll give her all the time in the world.
Finally, she spoke, her voice quiet but steady. "There's something I need to find," she said, eyes fixed on the path ahead. "I… don't really know what it is… but there's something I need to understand... about what happened to my family."
Anthony turned to her. He didn't speak yet, only waited.
"The fire that took my parents—" she hesitated, shoulders tightening. "I don't think it was an accident. I think it was setup… made to look like one. On purpose."
He stopped walking.
She kept going. "I've been looking. Quietly. I wasn't sure who I could trust… not even you."
Her words that she spoke to him once before, hit him again with a force that made him flinch inwardly. But he said nothing of his hurt. Instead, he took a breath and stepped closer, his voice soft but firm. "Me, saying that you can trust me, means nothing. Instead, I will show you that you can. You can tell me anything you want, and I promise I will listen carefully without any prejudice."
She looked at him then. Truly looked. And something in her gaze softened. It cracked just a little more.
Still, she continued, bracing herself. "One of my suspects… is your father."
There it was. The final stone unturned.
Anthony stood still, struck by a storm of memories. He remembered his father forcing him initially, and then repeatedly reasoning with him, that he should marry Bettina, and that their marriage would be in the best interests of everyone. He remembered the first few months after their wedding—how they barely spoke unless to argue. How she lashed out, sharp as a blade, calling him the son of a murderer. A greedy demon. Back then, he thought it was grief, or just the spoiled arrogance of a very young woman. He thought, the pain of losing her parents made her say just about any vile words she could think of. He thought she hated being married to him and needed someone to blame.
So, he dismissed her words.
Now the veil had been lifted. And now he saw what he hadn't allowed himself to see. That behind all her rage… had been fear. Had been the sense of injustice. Had been a desperate need to uncover the truth.
And he had failed her.
He swallowed hard, guilt tightening his throat. "I didn't believe you before," he said hoarsely. "When you accused him. When you accused me. I thought… you were lashing out. You were only seventeen. Angry. Grieving. That you just wanted to use anger towards others in order to deal with your grief. And truthfully, I was afraid that if I listened… that you might be right."
Lady Whitman didn't answer immediately. Her gaze dropped to the path.
He stepped closer, placing a hand gently over hers. "I knew my father wanted to restore our name. We were impoverished. Noble only in title and name, before your parents gave their trust on my father. And father… Father would do anything to elevate the family again. I knew he could be ruthless at times and especially single-minded once he has a clear goal to reach. But… I didn't know. I didn't know he had that tendency—"
He was looking far away, as if trying to see the past in his mind's eye.
"I never thought to look more deeply into the fire that burned down your parents' warehouse. The initial investigation said it was an accidental fire so I just dismissed it and went on to assume my new responsibilities." He turned back to look at her, seeing her more clearly this time. This time, with regret at his past dismissal of her, but also with more resolve.
"I turned a blind eye to a lot of things—because it was easier. Because it kept the peace. But if he had anything to do with your parents' deaths... I will help you find out. I promise. Even if it destroys everything."
Her breath caught, and when she looked at him, it was with disbelief. With sorrow. With hope.
"You'll really help me?" she asked.
"Yes. And I think it is time to visit your family's old home. And maybe check out that old warehouse. Maybe there's still something there that could be helpful. What do you think?"
"To my family's old home? To that burnt warehouse? You'll go with me?"
He nodded. "We'll go together. I'll make the arrangements."
"But…will we really find anything there?" She wondered. "Won't that warehouse be either torn down or repaired already? It's been years."
"Your family home has been maintained by your old servants. They are very loyal to you," he replied. "But the old warehouse, you might not remember but, you've made sure that nobody touched it. It was kept the same way it was left after the fire."
"Oh, then, we should indeed check it out."
His heart lurched when she impulsively caught his hand and said "Thank you," gratefully.
The path stretched before them again, but now they walked side by side—hands holding—not as strangers pretending at civility, but as something new. Something fragile, but real.
A partnership. A bond formed not by duty, but by trust.
And in the quiet of that walk, Anthony looked at her—not the girl he had once thought petty and bitter, but the woman before him now. Strong, scared, but brave. His heart ached with the realization that he loved her. That he had for some time now. That she had become the beating center of his world—not just for Jason… but for him.
He squeezed her hand gently; a silent vow passed through warm skin and shared steps.
No more shadows. No more silence.
He would walk through the fire with her, and most possibly through his father's wrath, this time.
*****One body, one will, one immortal soul*****
Meanwhile…
The fire crackled low in the hearth, casting molten reflections across the polished walnut desk. Heavy velvet drapes were drawn tight over the windows, choking off the sun, and the scent of clove-laced incense curled thick in the air—more for masking presence than soothing nerves.
Viscount Everand leaned back in his high-backed chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin. Age had not softened him. His hair remained a perfect silvered coif, his posture straight as a blade, and his eyes—sharp and appraising—rarely blinked unless deliberate. The only sound was the gentle clink of his signet ring against the crystal goblet in his hand.
Before him, the smuggler Lysara unrolled a parchment map, creased and marked with red-ink trails that spidered through the empire's borderlands.
"We've lost over thirty percent of movement through the eastern and southern ports," she said, voice cool, measured. "The Imperial Trade Sigil is flawless. Tamper-proof, they said. Now I believe them."
"How could a newly launched device be flawless, I say!" Complained one of them.
"I heard they tested the trade sigil hundreds of times and made all necessary adjustments before they launched it for customs' use." Lysara answered, sharing what she heard from her minions in the northern customs' office.
"We were taken by surprise," acknowledged Everand in a level tone. "They made sure it was indeed flawless before they distributed that damned thing."
Varell, a broad-shouldered brute with a soldier's bearing and a mercenary's scowl, let out a grunt. "Flawless for them. Strangling for us."
Everand took a sip of wine and set the goblet aside. "Your complaints bore me, Varell. What's your proposal?"
Varell stabbed a thick finger at the map. "We pivot. Shift our operations inland. The Neralan forest routes. Old merchant roads, long disused. They're rough, but I've two patrol captains who look the other way for coin. We smuggle luxury goods under the guise of silk and gemstone caravans from the western provinces."
Lysara nodded. "It's slower, riskier, but sustainable. Less volume, but high value—smaller packages, rarer items. Magical herbs, illicit charms, potion stocks, raw mana stones. Items with no registry trail."
"Immensely less in volume. A trade of shadows," Everand murmured, tracing the red ink. "Expensive shadows."
"Better than starvation," Varell snapped.
Everand smiled thinly, as if humoring a child. "We're not starving yet."
There was a knock—three short raps—on the side door of the room. Lysara tensed subtly, but Everand gestured for entry.
A cloaked figure stepped inside. Dusty boots. Wind-chapped face. A courier, likely disguised, with the manner of a man who never asked questions. He crossed the room silently, leaned to whisper something into Lysara's ear.
Her expression barely shifted—just a flick of her gaze, a narrowing of the eyes.
"They've set out for the old Sutherland estate," she said aloud.
That name cut through the room like a winter wind.
Varell scowled. "What for?"
"Sentimental rot, probably," he muttered.
"No." Everand stood slowly, walking over to the hearth, folding his hands behind his back. "She suspects something."
The fire popped behind him. Shadows danced.
"She was a child when it burned," he added after a pause. "But memory is a dangerous seed."
Lysara looked toward the window, even though the view was shuttered. "Do we move first?"
"No," Everand said. "Let her walk among ashes. We've made sure that place is clean. Let her think she's clever."
"And if she finds something?"
He turned, eyes glittering. "Then we ensure it never reaches the Crown."
There was a long silence. Varell tapped the hilt of his dagger against his thigh.
Lysara closed the map with quiet precision.
Everand picked up his goblet again and lifted it toward the firelight.
"To smoke and silk," he said, with a sardonic smile.
Lysara's voice was cool as frost, raising her own goblet. "And blood, if needed."
*****Let past and present interlace*****
The steady rhythm of hooves on packed earth filled the silence, a muted percussion beneath the rolling wheels of the Whitman carriage. The curtains were drawn back just enough to let in the gray-blue light of morning, which pooled softly over the velvet-lined bench where Bettina sat, her gloved hands folded in her lap, gaze distant.
A few paces behind the carriage rode four of their best knights in Whitman colors—two ahead, two behind—silent shadows of steel and vigilance.
Inside, however, it was quieter still. Anthony sat across from her, one hand resting casually on his knee, the other gloved and holding a folded piece of parchment he hadn't read in hours. His gaze, though unfocused, never strayed far from her.
Bettina sighed and turned her face toward the window again.
"I still feel awful leaving him behind," she murmured, breaking the quiet. Her voice was soft, frayed around the edges. "Jason tried so hard to pretend he was fine. Did you see how tightly he clutched that wooden sword?"
Anthony gave a soft huff—half amusement, half fondness. "He nearly saluted me with it."
"He said, 'I'll protect the manor while you and Mother go adventuring.'" She smiled, faintly. "And then he bowed. Deeply. I almost couldn't get out the door."
Anthony's expression warmed at the memory. "He's proud of you, you know."
Bettina turned from the window to face him. "I'm not sure I deserve that."
"You do," he said simply, not bothering to elaborate.
The silence that followed was not cold—but it hovered. Both of them, still navigating the careful space between what they once were and what they were becoming, seemed to sense it.
She spoke again, this time slower, quieter. "Do you think we were right not to bring him?"
He didn't answer right away.
"I believe," he said at last, "that our son should not have to walk through the ashes of your family's grief… or mine. Not until he's old enough to understand the weight of those ghosts."
Bettina lowered her eyes. "But what if this journey only opens more wounds?"
He watched her closely. "Then we nurse them together."
That made her glance up.
For a moment, nothing passed between them but breath and quiet carriage sway.
Then her voice trembled, only slightly. "And if we find something… about your father?"
The words, once out, seemed to settle heavily into the space.
Anthony didn't flinch. He lowered his gaze to his gloves and folded parchment, then back up again.
"I've asked myself that," he admitted. "Since the day you told me that your parents may not have died by accident."
She didn't interrupt. Her silence was the kind that listens.
He leaned back into the velvet cushion, jaw flexing once before he spoke again. "If we find proof that my father was involved… then it means the legacy I inherited was built on more than just profit. It means the blood that runs in my veins also runs in the hands that burned that warehouse."
Her breath caught.
He continued, steady but strained. "And that would tear me apart."
She looked at him, stunned by the quiet honesty.
"But I'd rather know the truth," he said after a moment. "Even if it ruins the pedestal I placed him on. Even if it makes me question every business decision he ever made. Every partner he trusted. Every inheritance he left behind."
She swallowed. "So, you're saying… you're prepared to see him as a monster?"
He shook his head. "No. I'm saying I'm prepared to see him as human. And humans are capable of anything."
The carriage jostled slightly over a bump, the echo of hooves picking up briefly before settling again.
"I need to know," he added quietly, "whether the man I admired was a product of his time, or something far darker. And I want you to know that… if it turns out he was part of it, I will not protect his name, our name, at the cost of your justice."
Bettina didn't speak for a long while. Her hands were clenched in her lap now, white-knuckled.
Finally, she whispered, "Thank you."
The words were small but heavy. They held all the fear and hope she had not voiced until now.
Anthony leaned forward slightly, as if to close the space between them. "I know I failed you before," he said. "Dismissed your pain. Dismissed you. Never again. And I will not let you walk through this alone."
She blinked quickly, but nodded. A fragile kind of peace settled between them, like a door quietly creaking open.
For a few moments, they said nothing else.
Outside, the sun had begun to burn through the clouds, laying faint gold over the distant hills. The wind whistled faintly as it pushed against the windows. Knights rode on, tireless and alert.
Inside, silence returned—but this time, it was shared. Not empty, not distant. Just… stillness. Together.