Marshal Sir Ivor stands beside him, a presence just as formidable yet different in nature. Where my father carries an air of cold detachment, Sir Ivor seems watchful, his single eye—sharp and calculating—briefly meeting mine before returning forward.
My father barely lingers. He looks down at me for the briefest moment, a glance so fleeting it might as well have never happened. Then, with the same measured indifference, he moves past me, descending the steps of the grand entrance without pause.
"I have matters that require my attention," he states, his voice composed, distant. "Serian, take care of everything." He does not even wait for acknowledgment before continuing, "Aeron, meet your mother and siblings."
I blink.
Mother and… siblings?
The words settle uneasily in my mind, their meaning not quite fitting. I open my mouth—What siblings?—but before I can voice the question, he is already walking away.
I watch as he and Sir Ivor move toward a waiting carriage, the doors shutting behind them as if sealing away any chance for further words. Moments later, the horses pull forward, and just like that, he is gone.
The world resumes its normal pace, the weight of anticipation dissipating into... emptiness.
Serian, the butler—an older man with a dignified yet unassuming presence—bows slightly. "This way, young master," he says, motioning toward the entrance.
I hesitate, lingering at the doorstep, staring at the empty road where my father's carriage had disappeared.
That was it?
After all these years, after everything that had happened—his son appearing before him for the first time in six years, and that was all?
No embrace. No welcome. No question.
Not even a second glance.
The question still lingers in my mind. What siblings? But now, it is joined by another, one heavier than the rest.
What am I to him?
I swallow the feeling rising in my chest and turn toward the waiting butler.
I follow.
Serian leads me up the grand staircase, the polished wood under our slow steps. The estate is vast, its corridors upstairs stretching endlessly in both directions, lined with doors that remain tightly shut. The air carries a faint scent of polished oak and distant candle wax, the hall dimly lit by wall sconces.
Then, movement.
At the far end of the hallway, an open door. A small figure lingers there, peeking cautiously from the threshold.
A little girl.
She doesn't say a word, doesn't step forward—just watches. Her wide eyes fix on me with an unreadable expression, somewhere between curiosity and suspicion. Then, as if realizing she's been caught, she vanishes. The door clicks shut behind her, hurried footsteps padding away inside.
I glance at Serian, confused. "That was Lady Velya," he says with a faint, knowing smile. "Your sister."
I freeze mid-step.
"My... sister?"
The word feels wrong on my tongue. A mistake. Serian doesn't falter, merely inclines his head slightly. "She's a shy one. Doesn't take well to strangers."
Strangers.
I look back toward the door she disappeared behind. My sister. But how? My father has gray eyes, black hair streaked with silver. My mother—blonde, with deep black eyes. I inherited her light hair, my father's gray irises.
But the girl…
Red.
Hair as red as fire. Eyes just the same.
I open my mouth to ask, but something in Serian's demeanor shifts. There's a slight hesitation, a brief moment where he seems to weigh his words before speaking. "There is much to learn about your new home, young master," he says neutrally. "For now, let us get you settled."
That barely answers anything.
My mind spins with questions, but the butler doesn't leave room for them. He gestures toward a set of grand double doors at the end of the corridor. "This will be your room."
I follow him inside.
The chamber is spacious, yet impersonal. A large canopy bed, a writing desk, a wardrobe carved from dark wood. The heavy drapes are drawn back, revealing a balcony that overlooks the estate gardens. It is grander than anything I had in Lisbel.
Then, footsteps.
Soft, deliberate, yet unmistakably assertive.
The rhythmic click of high heels against polished wood echoes up the staircase, joining us in the corridor. A feminine silhouette ascends into view. Tall, poised, sharply defined features. Long red hair cascades over her shoulders in elegant waves, her piercing red eyes locked onto me the moment she reaches the top of the stairs.
She stops.
Her gaze sweeps over me once, slow and scrutinizing. Then, she grimaces. Clicks her tongue in distaste.
I don't move.
She strides forward, heels clicking with every step. "Serian," she says smoothly, her voice laced with sweetness. "I'll take over from here." Serian hesitates for only a breath before bowing. "As you wish, my lady." I watch as he turns and leaves without question.
The moment the butler disappears down the hall, the woman's expression shifts. The warmth vanishes. Her lips curl downward in distaste, her nose slightly wrinkled, as though the very sight of me offends her.
"So," she breathes, arms crossing. "You're the spawn of the devil."
I blink.
What?
She studies me, eyes gleaming with something unpleasant. "I knew you'd come eventually. My dear husband has so much love to spare, doesn't he? Keeping his whore tucked away all these years, pretending she didn't exist… and now that she's gone, her bastard crawls here like a rat."
The words strike like a whip. I clench my fists. "Don't call her that."
Her expression darkens, her lip curling. "Excuse me?" Her voice is sharp, incredulous—like she can't believe I had the audacity to speak.
"Oh? You mean your mother? That witch?" Her tone tightens, her patience wearing thin. "That is what you're defending?" Her voice turns to a sneer. "That slithering whore who wrapped herself around my husband, whispering spells of lust in his ear while the rest of us were cast aside like dust beneath his boots?"
Something ugly and unfamiliar coils in my chest. My hands tremble at my sides, my jaw clenched so tightly it hurts.
"You're lying—"
The crack of the slap rings through the corridor before I even register the movement. Pain flares hot across my cheek, sharp and stinging.
"Lying?" she hisses, her voice like venom. "You dare talk back to me!"
A lump rises in my throat. My breath shudders slightly, my vision blurs as my eyes fill with unshed tears. I don't understand how someone can speak with so much hatred.
"Do you think he wanted you?" she spits. "That you were anything but a stain? You are a mistake. A disgrace he couldn't even stomach to acknowledge." She leans in, her breath hot against my skin.
"You should have died with that wretched bitch."
I feel my body lock up, my shoulders tense. The sting of her words cuts deeper than the slap.
She straightens, watching me with something between satisfaction and revulsion, waiting to see how deep the knife has sunk.
She's… lying. She has to be.
I am my father's son.
Am I not?
Then, I see it. The way her eyes flicker. The way her lips curl just slightly. She notices something. And she revels in it.
The realization slams into me too late.
She chuckles—low, dark, gleeful.
"Oh, my sweet child," she muses, tilting her head. "You don't even know, do you?"
I stand frozen.
"You," she whispers, stepping even closer, her breath hot against my ear. "Are a bastard."
The world stills.
Bastard.
The word echoes in my head.
I hear my own voice inside my mind, soft and unsure, repeating what I thought I knew.
My mother. My father.
A family.
But no—something deeper takes root.
Something cold.
I feel myself sinking, spiraling down into a truth I had never even thought to question.
As I am about to break into tears, a small, sharp gasp pulls me back.
Amelia.
She had stepped forward without thinking, her eyes wide, horror plain on her face. "That's enough," she says, voice trembling but firm. "You're being cruel."
The woman's gaze snaps to her, the heat of her fury shifting.
"And who is this insect?" she sneers. "A servant daring to interfere in family matters?"
She looks Amelia up and down, smirking. "How improper. A little maid playing the role of protector? Or is this something else?" Her tone drips with amusement. "A bond already forming? How adorable. Forbidden, of course. A bastard and a servant—how fitting."
Amelia's hands tremble at her sides, but she doesn't step back. She stands her ground.
I don't know whether that makes me feel better or worse.
The woman scoffs, unimpressed, and turns back to me.
"You don't belong here. You never will."
With that, she pivots smoothly and strides away, her heels clicking sharply.
She doesn't look back.
I exhale slowly, my body still locked in place. The sting of her words, of her slap, lingers—hot, festering.
The silence lingers, stretching unbearably.
Then, a faint rustling behind me—a shift of movement.
I turn.
A boy stands just outside a nearby room arms crossed, leaning on the door frame. He looks to be about thirteen—older than me, but not by much. His black hair is neatly kept, his gray eyes cold and assessing. Like my father's. He doesn't smirk. He doesn't scowl. He merely looks at me, expression unreadable, gaze steady and detached.
"Nelo, welcome to House Leonor, bastard." The door swings shut. The latch clicks into place. From behind the closed door, his final words reach me, flat and unbothered. "You'll fit right in."