The morning air was still and biting, the kind that clung to skin and made silence feel heavier. She woke before the others, as always, and slipped from her thin mattress in the servants' quarters. Simon was still curled up beside her, his small body warmed by the layered cloths she had stitched together from scraps over the years. He looked peaceful—but she knew his mind was already too sharp for the world he'd be stepping into.
Today was the day.
She knelt beside him and touched his hair, brushing it back from his forehead. He stirred slightly but didn't open his eyes. Not yet. For a moment, she simply watched him, her chest tight.
She had sewn his clothes herself: a simple shirt with a reinforced collar, slightly oversized to allow him room to grow. His boots were secondhand, worn smooth at the soles, but she had cleaned them until they almost shone. She had nothing else to give him—no family name, no protection, no place—but she could give him dignity.
She quietly packed a small cloth bundle with flatbread and an apple slice. He would sit in the back of the classroom, away from the Alpha's daughter and the rest of the noble children. They would never speak to him. But still—he would learn.
When she finally whispered his name, he blinked up at her, those wide brown eyes full of questions he never asked aloud.
"Is it morning?" he asked softly.
"Yes, love. It's time."
He sat up slowly. No excitement, just quiet understanding. She helped him dress, smoothing the collar of his shirt with trembling fingers.
"You must listen carefully to your teachers," she said as she combed his hair with her fingers. "Speak when asked. Be polite. Never tell anyone where you sleep or who I am to you—only that I am the maid who takes care of you."
"I know," he said, not upset, not even confused. "Because I'm not supposed to be your son."
The words cut deeper than she'd expected. She swallowed.
She froze, fingers stilling in his hair.
A beat of silence passed between them, thick as fog.
"Simon," she said softly, "who told you that?"
He looked up at her, serious in that way only small children could be—unblinking, fragile, honest.
"No one told me," he whispered. "But I hear things. Sometimes when I wait for you to come back. The others… they talk. They say you don't have a family. That you don't have time for anything but work."
Her heart sank, but she forced herself to breathe steadily.
"I didn't think you listened to them," she said quietly.
"I don't. Not really. But I know you hide me. And you never let me call you Mama when people are around."
She swallowed the ache rising in her throat. "It's not because I'm ashamed of you."
"I know that too," he said, reaching out with a small hand and resting it against her cheek. "I just… don't want you to get in trouble."
She closed her eyes and leaned into his touch for a heartbeat—then took his hand gently in hers and kissed his knuckles.
"You are my son," she said again, steady now, as if her voice alone could keep the truth alive. "That's the only thing I'll never let this place take from us."
He nodded. And this time, when she helped him into his clothes, the silence between them was heavier—but filled with quiet trust, not shame.
Simon nodded. He didn't cry. He never did. She sometimes wished he would—it might make him feel more like a child. But life had already made him older than five.
She wrapped the bread cloth and handed it to him. "If anyone asks, tell them your name is Simon Brown. Say nothing more. Understand?"
"Yes, Mama."
It was the first time he'd called her that outside their quarters.
Her throat burned, but she forced herself to smile and touched his cheek.
"Go on now. The older children will be walking past the kitchen soon. Fall in line with them. Don't look back."
He hesitated at the door, then turned and whispered, "Will you still be here when I come back?"
She knelt again, so their eyes were level. "Always."
And when he finally slipped out into the cold corridor, she didn't move. She simply sat on the edge of her bed and listened—for the footsteps, for the silence that followed, and for the echo of a future she wasn't sure she would live long enough to see.
But for now, he had a place in the world. Even if it was a place he couldn't claim.
The kitchens were alive with movement—steam rising from boiling pots, knives thudding against cutting boards, bread being pulled from ovens and laid to cool on the stone counter. But beneath the noise of labor, there was always talk.
She kept her head down, hands steady as she sliced vegetables for the midday stew. The routine was comfort, the rhythm familiar. Yet her ears were alert—always listening, always scanning for what wasn't being said to her directly.
It had only been a few hours since she'd watched Simon disappear down the corridor with the other servant children. Her chest still ached with the final look he gave her—calm, brave, and far too understanding for a five-year-old.
Now, she stood among the heat and clatter, alone in a crowd, scrubbing, stirring, working—because that's what was expected. There was no time for worry. And yet…
It began, as it always did, with a low voice pitched just low enough to sound like privacy.
"…the boy looks nothing like her, that's all I'm saying," murmured one of the younger kitchen hands behind her. "She says he's her nephew, but have you ever seen a child so quiet?"
"Quiet, yes. But smart. Too smart," another chimed in. "He asks questions no kitchen brat should even think to ask."
A snort followed. "You know what I think? I think she's lying about where he came from."
The knife in her hand stilled for a split second. Her fingers curled tighter around the wooden handle.
"She's always alone. No sisters. No visits. And the boy? He's got those eyes... you know, the kind only show up in one bloodline around here."
"You'd better shut your mouth," another older maid cut in suddenly—Nella, the eldest in the kitchen, whose back bent with years but whose words still carried weight. "It's none of your business who she cares for. If the boy's well-behaved and doesn't steal from the pantry, that's all that matters."
The younger voices went quiet. But not for long.
"It's just strange," one muttered. "If she's not careful, someone with the wrong kind of curiosity might start asking questions."
She didn't flinch. Didn't turn. Just kept cutting. One slice after another, as if nothing had changed—though her pulse beat sharp in her throat.
He hadn't even made it to lunchtime. The child she'd hidden for five years was only hours into his first day out in the world—and already, the walls were listening.
She finished the chopping, slid the vegetables into the pot, and moved to the back corner to scrub the counters. There, with her back to them all, her hands in the cold water, she let her eyes close.
Not with fear. Not yet.
But with the cold, bitter awareness that no secret stays secret forever—not in a pack where silence was just another currency waiting to be spent.