The tent glowed faintly with lamplight, its canvas walls stained with the shadows of firelight that flickered like restless spirits. The air carried the mingled scents of smoke, oiled leather, and the comforting warmth of fresh bread. Outside, the fortress buzzed with its usual hum of activity—shouts from the trenches, the rhythmic hammer of carpenters, the shuffle of guards changing post. But within these walls, it felt like another world. A smaller, gentler one.
Marcus sprawled on the rug near the low table, his wooden horse clutched in one hand as he galloped it across the floor. His laughter came in bursts, bright as bells, each one pulling threads of tension out of the room. Elira knelt beside the hearth-stone, tearing bread into even pieces while letting her gaze drift fondly toward her son's play.
Lucy sat opposite, arms crossed, her expression a hard mask. She had not been invited, not exactly, but Desax's words earlier—a mother—had anchored her there. To leave now would feel like a betrayal, though she did not know to whom.
Desax himself sat at the table, long hands running a cloth steadily along the blade of his sword. Each stroke rasped faintly in the firelight. His eyes, however, strayed often to the boy. To Marcus, his small feet scuffing the rug, his horse charging into pebbles arranged like soldiers. The rhythm of his laughter was a balm against the endless parade of corpses that haunted Desax's nights.
"The horse jumps over the wall!" Marcus cried, sweeping the toy upward. "And Uncle Kleber falls down! Bam!"
Desax leaned back in his chair, letting the boy's voice wash over him. Commit this to memory, he thought. Every sound, every flicker of light on his face. Commit it all. Because he knew, as every soldier knew, that moments like this were rare, fragile, and fleeting.
"Marcus," Elira said at last, her tone half-chiding, half-amused. "Do not make your uncles into fools in your stories."
Marcus grinned, showing his missing tooth. "But Mama, Uncle Kleber is a fool. He told me so himself!"
Desax barked a short laugh, unable to help it. "That he did."
Lucy's lips twitched faintly, though she masked it quickly behind her usual steel. "If you keep repeating Kleber's nonsense, boy, you'll grow up as ridiculous as him."
Marcus squinted at her, pretending to ponder deeply, before suddenly brightening. "But if I grow up ridiculous, maybe the Crawlers will laugh and go away!"
That earned a surprised laugh from Elira, even a quiet chuckle from Lucy. The sound startled them both—as though laughter had no rightful place on her tongue.
"You think too cleverly for your years," Lucy said, her voice softer than she intended.
"That he gets from me," Desax remarked, polishing his blade one last time before setting it aside.
Elira arched an eyebrow. "Hardly. From you he gets stubbornness. From me, sense."
Desax lifted both hands in mock surrender. "A fair division."
On the floor, Marcus had shifted his game. Now he built a fortress from the pebbles, walling in his horse. He set them carefully, lips pursed in concentration. "Look! My horse defeats all the Crawlers and hides inside the fortress."
Desax leaned forward, voice firm but even. "Remember, Marcus. A horse is strong, yes—but it is the rider who must guide it. Never forget that."
The boy blinked up at him, confused by the weight in his father's voice. Still, he nodded solemnly, as though accepting a task he did not yet understand.
Elira rose then, brushing flour from her palms. She placed a piece of warm bread before Lucy. "Eat. You've been running yourself ragged."
Lucy hesitated, then said stiffly, "I've eaten."
"Not enough." Elira's tone brooked no argument.
Desax smirked faintly, leaning back in his chair. "I told you—she has blades where you least expect them."
Lucy accepted the bread, breaking it in half. She chewed silently, gaze sliding toward Marcus again. The boy had rebuilt his fortress, this time adding more pebbles until the horse could barely be seen inside. Without thinking, Lucy set one of her bread halves beside him.
"Food for your horse," she said gruffly.
Marcus's face lit up like a lantern. "Thank you, Aunty Lucy!" He pressed the bread to the toy's mouth, making loud munching noises.
Lucy turned her head, but not quickly enough to hide the faint flush on her cheeks. Elira saw it. For a brief heartbeat, the two women shared a glance—acknowledgment, almost understanding.
Elira broke the silence first. "So. How is your son these days?"
Lucy froze, eyes narrowing. "Did Desax not tell you? I am not married."
"I wasn't speaking of marriage," Elira said calmly. "I was speaking of Lord Logos."
Lucy's face hardened. "Do people still believe I had an affair with Baron Liam?"
Desax interjected before the sting could linger. "Lucy, everyone knows you see him as your son. It's not about blood ties." He leaned forward, tone sharpening. "Though the real question is—are those feelings reciprocated?"
Lucy's mouth opened, then shut. Her voice came low, almost reluctant. "Yes."
Elira's eyes narrowed, skeptical. "Really? Because it doesn't seem like that."
Lucy's jaw tightened. "He has been… rebellious. But he's shy about showing it openly."
"That sounds ridiculous," Desax muttered. "Does that mean he meant it when he said 'Evil is not my nature'?"
"Yes." Lucy's voice cracked faintly on the word.
"Then why so tense?" Desax asked.
Lucy's hands went to her head, fingers digging into her scalp. "Because the problem is—I didn't teach him that."
Elira frowned. "What do you mean?"
"I thought…" Lucy's voice trembled. "I thought his genius would be enough. That if I nudged him, just from time to time, he would learn the rest himself." Tears welled, unbidden. "But it didn't work. Instead he grew cold—measuring everything by results. As if worth itself is only what survives the test of efficiency."
Elira's gaze softened, though her voice stayed steady. "Then stop mourning what you failed to do. Be his mother now. Or he will truly lose that part of himself."
Lucy looked at her with wide, stricken eyes. "But how? How do I even begin? Do I deserve to?"
For a moment, the only sound was Marcus's laughter as he made his wooden horse gallop around the fortress walls, oblivious to the storm of words above his head.
Elira drew a quiet breath, her tone gentle but firm. "I may be speaking out of place. But unlike the former Baron and Baroness, who abandoned both him and the territory, you stayed. You carried him. You even thinking these questions—wondering if you deserve the title—that is more than enough."
The words struck Lucy like an arrow, silencing her. For the first time in years, she lowered her eyes not in defiance, but in humility.
Desax leaned back, watching the two women—his wife and the woman who had raised the mind reshaping their world. Between them, he saw the reflection of two mothers: one by blood, one by choice. And in Marcus's bright laughter, he heard the fragile hope that perhaps the future could yet be shaped by both.