The duke's reply came calm yet edged with authority.
"Very well. If he is one of us, we will keep an eye on him."
All eyes turned to Leo—measuring, weighing, withholding. One by one, the cloaked figures drew back their hoods, extending hands in a silent rite of acceptance. Leo clasped the duke's hand first, then the commander's, before moving through the circle. Their touches were firm, ordinary… all but Christopher's, whose grip tightened, deliberate. Leo did not linger on it.
He studied them in turn, his gaze sharp, but most of their faces betrayed little—cold, indifferent masks. Until her. Among them was a girl, her hand cold as frost itself.
"Hey, you—why didn't you hold on longer?"
Leo blinked, realizing he was still clutching her pale hand. He released it quickly.
"Forgive me. My thoughts wandered."
She ignored him and swept past, leaving him unsettled.
At last he reached Tyler.
"Welcome to the team," Tyler said. "I hope you'll be… cooperative."
Leo's brow furrowed. "Cooperative? You mean, as in—being your punching bag, like before?"
Tyler stiffened, then muttered hurriedly, "Keep your voice down. The commander won't take kindly to this. Let's leave the past behind."
Leo gave no reply, but Tyler sidled closer with forced cheer.
"So—you're about my age, right?"
Leo studied him with suspicion. "What's with this sudden friendliness?"
Leaning in, Tyler whispered, "I was told to help you… settle in. Don't make it harder than it has to be." He smiled faintly. Against his own will, Leo allowed the corner of his mouth to twitch upward, the two of them caught in a fragile, reluctant mimicry of camaraderie.
When the meeting ended, Tyler guided him to their quarters.
"We'll share this room. The top bunk is mine—don't even dream of it." With that, Tyler left, and Leo was alone.
He lay back, eyes drifting to the silver ring glinting on his finger. Sleep would not come easily. Memories clawed at him, shadows from another life: ghosts whispering of pain, regret, and unspoken rage.
And then—he was there again.
The echo of a slap cracked in his mind, followed by a torrent of scorn.
"Haven't I told you a thousand times not to sneak to the village? I work myself to the bone just to feed you, and you repay me with defiance? I should never have had you—only to grow into this. I told you to train, to be stronger! Do you want to die like a fool? Go. Upstairs. Think about what you've done."
His cheek stung, but the wound ran deeper than skin. Inside him, a bitter voice whispered: She always rebukes me, always keeps me from the others. And now—she struck me. Why was I even born? Just so she could hide me away, shield herself from shame? Everyone knows, anyway.
He turned on her with eyes burning.
"If you care so much for your honor in the village, maybe you should have thought about that before bearing a bastard child!"
He stormed up the stairs, missing the flicker of anguish that crossed her face—a grief sharp enough to break her, if only he had seen it. For a heartbeat, guilt pierced him. But anger quickly smothered it, leaving him pacing his room, muttering under his breath:
"She deserved it. Tomorrow I'll go to the village, I'll make friends—whatever it takes. She can't cage me forever. Sixteen years, and that slap was the final straw."
Downstairs, Leora sat alone, her hand pressed to her heart, tears running silently.
"Does he truly believe he's illegitimate?" she whispered into the dark. "Oh God, what am I to do? That strike… he didn't deserve it. But if I don't stop him, they'll find us. I can't lose him too. I can't."
The house filled with her muffled sobs, sorrow seeping into the walls like smoke.
At dawn, Leo stormed past her, ignoring the meal she had prepared with trembling hands.
"You forgot your breakfast!" she called.
"I'm not hungry."
Her gaze sank to the floor, her voice faltering. "Don't go far."
But Leo only shot her a look of contempt and left.
Leo had been eager to meet the boys he'd befriended the day before. That morning, he spent hours helping them herd the horses into the stables, feed them, and clean the place. They'd told him it was all part of the fun—part of belonging—though he soon realized he was the only one actually working. At first, a flicker of resentment stirred in him, but he shrugged it off. It's part of friendship, he told himself.
Yet as the hours wore on, he discovered they had vanished, leaving him to finish everything alone.
When the chores were nearly done, Leo went out to look for them. That's when he heard Carlos, the ringleader, laughing from behind the barn:
"I can't believe he did all the work just because I asked," Carlos sneered. "Like a servant."
Laughter rippled through the group. Another voice chimed in, mocking:
"Has anyone seen what he's wearing? Looks like he came to scare the crows, not sit with us."
The boys erupted again in cruel mirth. Carlos smirked and added, voice dripping with venom:
"Forget his clothes. He's the son of that whore. I'd bet she wouldn't mind spending a night with me for a few coins. She cleans our house, and honestly… she's got quite the ass."
The laughter roared louder, echoing through the stable like a taunt. Something inside Leo snapped. He lunged at Carlos before he could think, his fist connecting squarely with the boy's jaw. He struck again, and again—but Carlos's friends swarmed him. Blows rained down from every direction, each one harder than the last.
"Know your place, bastard!" they shouted between punches. "Filthy son of a whore—this is what you are!"
Carlos wiped blood from his lip and barked, "Beat him harder! Make him pay, the bastard deserves it!"
They left him there at last—bruised, bloodied, sprawled on the stable floor.
Hours later, Leo limped home, his body aching with every breath. The moment his mother saw him, she dropped the laundry from her hands and rushed to him. But Leo, consumed by anger, shoved her away.
"Do you like what you see?" he spat, his voice shaking with rage. "This—this is because of you. Because of your filth."
Her eyes widened. "What? I don't understand. I told you not to go into the village. Let me tend to your wounds—who did this to you?"
"The village, the village!" Leo mocked bitterly. "Look at me! And all you can talk about is the village? Are you even my mother? Sometimes I doubt I'm your son at all. I should never have defended you."
Liura's face froze, her hands trembling for a heartbeat before she turned back to the laundry, her voice cold and flat.
"Then handle it yourself. If that's how you see me, so be it. I won't help you."
"I don't need your help anyway," Leo growled and stormed into his room, muttering curses under his breath.
He didn't know how long he lay there, his body heavy with pain and anger, before a sudden shake pulled him from uneasy sleep.
He blinked groggily. "What's going on? It's the middle of the night."
"Get up," Liura's voice was urgent. "There's no time."
"No time for what?" he asked, still half-asleep.
"Just pack your things," she snapped. "You need to leave now."
Leo sat up, his mind reeling. "Leave? Go where?"
She didn't look at him. Her face remained as cold as stone.
"You said I'm not your mother. Very well. I'm not. Get out of my house. I don't need you. Get out of my house now.