The city of Montenegro basked in the serene death-throes of afternoon. Sunlight, thick as honey, gilded the arched rooftops and cobblestone arteries of Count Valerio Montoya's domain. At the main entrance, the world split in two: the peaceful, sun-drenched boulevards, and the calculated silence of the blockade.
A lacquered carriage, black as a hearse, stood halted. Around it, a tableau of imposed order. Knights astride destriers, their ceremonial regalia—silver gorgets, navy tunics heavy with braid—gleamed with a martial chill. Men-at-arms, less polished but more lethal in their practicality, flanked them, a wall of grim resolve.
The carriage door opened. Count Valerio Montoya emerged, a figure of contained storm. The serene light did not warm him; it revealed him. A savage scar, a river of pale tissue, carved from his left temple, narrowly missing the eye, and down to his jawline. It was a history written in violence. His eyes, a dark sapphire blue, held a glacial depth that promised shivers, not solace. His hair, the colour of dark steel streaked with obsidian, was like crystal forged in shadow. His face, a paradox of simmering rage held in perfect composure, belonged to a man whose patience was a thin veneer over a volcano. He was tall, broad-shouldered, his noble attire impeccably cut, yet they hung on him like the pelt of a civilized beast. At his side, his son Jareth mirrored his father's imposing stature and dark steel-grey hair, but his eyes were the shade of cool slate or pale, wintry violet. His face was a calm mask, betraying nothing.
A lieutenant, Sebastián, approached, his armour clinking softly. "My lord, the horses are ready."
Valerio did not look at him immediately. He pulled on his gloves, leather whispering against skin, each finger sheathed with deliberate finality. "All entry and exit paths are secured?" His voice was low, a gravelly murmur that demanded absolute attention.
"Yes, my lord. The perimeter is sealed."
As Valerio spoke, a soldier nearby shifted, his coat slipping to reveal the butt of a flintlock pistol. Valerio's gaze, those chilling sapphire orbs, flickered over the scene, missing nothing. He finished with his gloves. "Were soldiers dispatched to the docks?"
Sebastián's confidence wavered for a heartbeat. "No, my lord. I shall send them at once." He bowed.
They moved toward the horses waiting beneath a broad oak. Shadows, long and fragmented, danced over the beasts' flanks as sunlight filtered through the leaves. Valerio's stride was unhurried, absolute. Sebastián turned partially away, and Valerio's head tilted, a predator noting the movement of prey.
"Where is Marshal Fernando?" Valerio asked, the question a blade in the quiet.
Sebastián turned back, meeting the Count's eyes. The sheer, composed intensity in that dark blue stare made the lieutenant's breath hitch. "Lord Fernando is with Captain Daniel at the northern exit path, my lord."
Valerio was silent for a long moment. He sighed, a soft, dangerous exhalation. Beside him, Jareth adjusted his horse's saddle, his own silence profound.
"Recall them," Valerio commanded. "Send Marshal Fernando and the Captain to the western coastal docks. The quarry will seek escape by sea." His logic was a cold, inevitable clockwork.
"Yes, my lord. A messenger at once." Sebastián bowed again, but Valerio was not finished.
"Their location. You have it confirmed?"
"The end of the city, my lord. A commoner's house. An old woman lives there. We… did not anticipate they would seek refuge with her. They have been traced there."
A faint, grim satisfaction touched Valerio's scarred visage. "Then we move. Now."
In unison, Valerio and Jareth mounted their horses, movements fluid and powerful. A nerve twitched in Sebastián's cheek. He spun, voice rising to a bark. "Everyone! Move out!"
The hunting party stirred into a chorus of clattering hooves and jangling steel, a dissonant symphony marching into the gilded city.
Meanwhile, at the city's ragged edge, sunlight held a different quality—softer, dustier, kinder.
In a small, two-story house that smelled of baked bread and dried herbs, Emilio moved with a dancer's grace around a hearth. The thock-thock-thock of his knife on the chopping board was a rhythm of domestic peace. His face, when he glanced up, was one of startling beauty—silver-blue eyes like morning mist, features fine and kind. He hummed, arranging plates.
An old woman, Freda, descended the narrow stairs, cradling a sleeping child. The map of her life was etched in the gentle wrinkles around her eyes, each line a story of generations passing.
"Lady Freda, perfect timing. Lunch is ready," Emilio said, his smile a warm ember in the cozy room.
"Señor, you should have called me," Freda fretted, her voice a soft rasp. "You should be resting, not cooking for us."
"The work is done. No worries," he replied, washing his hands, his smile unwavering. He dried them on a cloth. "Is Luis asleep?"
"Yes, tired out from his adventures." Freda gazed at the child's face, a picture of perfect peace. "A little fluffy rabbit."
She handed the bundle to Emilio. "Could you hold him? Let me serve."
"Lady Freda, please, you don't have to—"
"It would make me happy to help," she insisted, already moving toward the pot. "Let an old woman feel useful."
Emilio's protest died. He smiled, a silent acceptance, and turned his full attention to the child in his arms.
"Hush now… that's it. Daddy's got you."
He shifted the baby carefully against his chest, one broad hand supporting Luis's back, the other cradling his head. A sliver of afternoon sun pierced the curtains, illuminating dust motes dancing in the still air. His voice dropped to a velvet whisper, for the child's ears alone.
"Such heavy eyelids for someone so small." He tilted his head, watching the dark lashes tremble against plump cheeks. A faint, utterly private smile touched his lips—a fleeting crack in the world's armour. He gently adjusted the blanket around the tiny shoulders, then began to rock, slow and measured, turning towards the wooden crib in the corner.
The distant sounds of the city were a far-off sea. Here, time suspended. Held in the circle of his arms.
"Breathe slow with me, Luis. Just like that." He paused mid-step, his own chest rising and falling in sync with the baby's, his thumb brushing infinitesimal circles between the small shoulder blades. A sacred ritual. "You're safe here. No bad dream will come. Your father is here to protect you."
He reached the crib and leaned over it, his body a protective arch shielding the child from the world. His expression softened into something solemn, a silent vow etched in the tenderness of his gaze. He lowered Luis into the soft nest of bedding, his arms withdrawing with infinite slowness, only when the child settled without a stir.
Rest, "my little heart." He straightened the blanket, his fingers lingering for a heartbeat over the miniature, perfect hand. "Sleep, my baby." He bent, pressed a kiss softer than a butterfly's wing to the downy forehead, then rested his hand on the crib's edge, setting it into a gentle, rocking motion.
"Where is Señora Cassia?" Freda asked, her voice barely disturbing the peace.
"Hmm? In the backyard. Hanging the wash," Emilio murmured, not taking his eyes from Luis, his hand still rocking the crib.
"I see."
A comfortable silence lingered, woven with the simple threads of companionship. Emilio watched his son with a love so vast it felt like its own gravity. Freda washed a dish.
"Lady Freda," Emilio asked, his gentle voice touched by a faint thread of curiosity. "Was there anything special happening in the city today?"
"No, nothing at all. Why do you ask, señor?"
"It's just… this morning, when I went for vegetables, I saw many more knights patrolling than usual. An unusual number." The confusion in his tone was light, but present.
Freda dried her hands. "I wouldn't know. Crime has been bad lately, perhaps they are increasing the watch."
"Hmm... I see."
Freda moved toward the back door. "Let me fetch Cassia. The lunch grows cold. And you two must rest after being up all night with Luis."
Emilio's warm smile returned. "We will—"
The back door burst open.