After dinner, the long corridors of the estate sank into darkness.
Oil lamps along the walls gave off a faint glow, stretching shadows across the marble floor.
The light flickered, and the shadows wavered with the echo of footsteps.
Luca was on his way to his mother's room.
He didn't bother glancing at the oil paintings and hunting trophies that lined the walls.
From the staircase above came a low chuckle.
"Lost, are you?"
It was Marco.
He leaned an elbow on the banister, looking down at him—at ease, but heavy in a way that pressed on the air.
A half-drained glass of wine dangled from his hand.
"This place is big,"
Marco said lazily.
"Your room's not that way—it's downstairs. Next to the servants' quarters."
His tone wasn't helpful. It was drawing a line.
Luca didn't answer.
Instead, he lifted his head and met Marco's eyes, holding the stare longer than a boy should.
A faint, fleeting smile crossed his lips.
Marco didn't bristle; he tilted his glass, as if something in that look had caught his interest.
The next morning, the house smelled of winter—cold stone, faint hearth smoke, damp marble, and fresh bread.
Luca was heading toward the training grounds when a voice called from the front hall.
"Father's coming to watch the drills today."
It was Bianca.
A white scarf framed her face above a charcoal coat; she held her gloves in one hand.
"Do well,"
she said.
"I'm tired of Marco puffing himself up like he's something special."
Her voice had a playful edge, but her eyes were studying him.
Luca gave a brief nod.
"…Thanks."
That made her lift a brow.
Most boys his age would flinch around older siblings—or snap back.
He did neither.
She looked at him for another moment, then turned and walked to the door.
The training hall was past a narrow passage linking the main house to the outbuilding.
Winter fog clung to the windows, blurring the view outside.
Inside, the air was sharp with cold metal and the oil of well-kept guns.
Marco was already there, loading a pistol.
Two guards stood by the door, expressionless.
"Today," Marco said,
"you learn from me. If you're really a Belloni, you learn the gun from my hands."
It wasn't an offer. It was a show of rank.
Luca stepped forward and picked up the pistol.
The chill of the metal slid into his palm, sending a small shiver up his back.
"Hands are shaking,"
Marco said with a smirk, tapping his wrist.
"This is why blood matters. A bastard's still a bastard."
Luca's eyes flicked to the guards.
In that moment, their attention shifted—just enough to look away, as though something small had drawn it.
It lasted only a heartbeat.
In that space of silence, Luca raised the gun and aimed.
His finger rested on the trigger, steady as the still air.
The shot cracked, echoing off the walls.
When the session was over, Luca took the corridor back toward the main house.
Footsteps approached from around a dim corner.
A man in a dark gray coat came into view—slim, composed, easy in his movements.
"You skipped breakfast," he said.
It was Georges, the youngest uncle.
He held out a paper bag; inside was a warm baguette and a wedge of ripe cheese.
"Between us,"
he added with a quick smile.
"Don't tell your mother. In this house, you don't last on an empty stomach."
Luca took the bag, meeting his eyes for a beat.
"…Thank you."
Georges nodded and walked away as if nothing had passed between them.
Luca stood still until his footsteps faded, then looked down at the bag.
The warmth in his hands lingered.
That night, he sat by the window, watching the courtyard below.
Under the lamps, guards moved in rotation.
He traced their routes, their lines of sight, the timing of their shifts—each detail falling into place.
Snow began to drift down, slow and silent.
He watched the flakes turn in the light, then lowered his gaze.
Without power, you have no name, he thought.
But with power… the name is mine to make.
The words slipped out in a whisper, lost to the empty room.
Somewhere within the Belloni estate, the darkness that had begun to grow was already learning his name.