The boy did not realize he was smiling until his cheeks began to hurt.
The carriage slowed, its wheels crunching over clean gravel instead of broken stone. He pressed closer to the window, fingers trembling as iron bars rose into view—tall, black, and crowned with sigils worked into the metal.
A gate.
Not a city gate.
Not something meant to keep him out.
This one was opening for him.
The hinges groaned softly as the guards stepped aside. The carriage passed through, and the world beyond unfolded like something stolen from a dream.
Grass.
Real grass—green and even, not trampled into mud. Gardens stretched wide on either side of the path, trimmed hedges and stone statues watching in calm silence. A fountain stood at the center, water catching the last light of the afternoon.
The boy's breath caught.
He had seen estates before—from the outside. From walls he could not climb and gates he dared not approach. Never from within.
"Careful," Raphael said, amused. "You'll wear a hole in the glass."
The boy flushed and sat back, hands clenched together to stop them from shaking.
This isn't real, he told himself.
I'll wake up on the stone road.
The carriage rolled on and finally came to a stop before the mansion.
It was not a castle, but it was close enough to steal the breath from his lungs—tall pillars, wide steps, banners bearing the family sigil hanging unmoving in the still air. Light glowed warmly behind tall windows.
The door opened.
The boy hesitated.
"Go on," Raphael said, stepping down first. "It won't bite."
The boy followed, boots touching polished stone. He stood there, small and uncertain, unsure where to look or where to place his hands.
Then—
"Father!"
A boy ran down the steps.
He was about the same age. Clean. Well-fed. His hair neatly tied, his clothes fine but worn from use rather than neglect. His smile was open and unguarded, like he had never learned to hide it.
The boy stopped in front of them and bowed quickly, then straightened, eyes bright.
"You're back early," he said—then noticed the newcomer.
He tilted his head, curious rather than wary.
"Oh," he said with a grin. "Hello."
The street-boy froze.
This was worse than knights. Worse than gates.
A smile offered without cost.
"This is my son," Raphael said calmly. "And this," he added, resting a hand lightly on the boy's shoulder, "is our guest."
The boy swallowed.
"Hi," Raphael's son said again, as if greeting strangers was the most natural thing in the world. "Do you want to see the garden? There's a fish pond. They're greedy."
The words landed softly.
The boy nodded before he realized he had.
Raphael watched the exchange, something unreadable passing through his eyes.
"Later," he said. "First, food."
The boy's stomach answered before his mouth could.
Heat rushed to his face.
Raphael's son laughed—not cruelly, just surprised.
"Good," he said cheerfully. "Dinner's better when you're hungry."
As they climbed the steps, the boy glanced once more at the open gate behind him.
It was still open.
And for the first time since he could remember—
He hoped it would never close again.
The doors opened without sound.
The woman waiting inside did not smile.
She stood straight, hands folded neatly before her, her dark dress simple but unmistakably fine. Her eyes were sharp, assessing—cool gray, missing nothing. The boy stiffened at once, instinct screaming danger.
This was not the street.
But authority wore many faces.
"So this is him," she said.
Her voice was calm. Measured.
The boy lowered his head immediately.
"My lady," Raphael replied, "this is our guest."
For a long moment, she studied the boy—his thin frame, his too-large clothes, the faint tremor he could not hide. Her gaze lingered on his hands.
Then her expression softened.
Not suddenly.
Not dramatically.
But like ice melting beneath the sun.
"You're shaking," she said gently.
The boy blinked.
"I—" His voice failed him.
She turned to a maid standing nearby. "Prepare a bath. Warm. And bring fresh clothes." A pause. "Make him comfortable."
The maid bowed and moved at once.
The boy looked up in surprise.
The lady crouched slightly so they were closer in height. Her eyes were kinder now.
"I am Claire," she said. "And while you are under this roof, you are not a burden. Do you understand?"
The boy nodded, throat tight.
"Good," she said, and rested a light hand on his shoulder. "Come. You've had enough of the city for one lifetime."
The bath was… overwhelming.
Warm water wrapped around him like something alive. The dirt of weeks—months—slid from his skin, carrying the street away with it. The maid washed his hair gently, never tugging, never rushing.
He closed his eyes.
For a moment, he feared waking.
Clean clothes followed—soft, plain, and far too nice. He kept touching the sleeves, half-expecting them to vanish.
When he was led to the dining hall, the smell hit him first.
Food.
Not scraps. Not stolen bites eaten in shadow.
Food meant to be shared.
The table was long and bright with candlelight, laden with bread, roasted meat, vegetables glazed in honey, bowls of soup still steaming.
And seated there—
Raphael.
Lady Claire.
Their son.
And a small girl perched beside her mother, feet swinging above the floor, dark curls bouncing as she hummed softly to herself.
The boy stopped just inside the doorway.
Too much.
Too many eyes.
Kleon noticed at once.
He jumped from his chair and hurried over, smiling like this was the most ordinary thing in the world.
"You sit here," he said, tugging gently at the boy's sleeve and guiding him to a chair beside his own. "It's closer to the bread."
The boy sat, stiff as stone.
Lady Claire watched him carefully as servants filled his plate without being asked. She said nothing—but her lips curved faintly when he hesitated before touching the food.
"Before we eat," Raphael said, voice calm and steady, "it is only proper."
He looked at the boy.
"You know me already," he said. "But allow me to introduce my family."
He gestured first to the woman beside him.
"This is my wife, Lady Claire."
She inclined her head, eyes warm.
Then to the boy beside him.
"Our son—Kleon."
Kleon grinned. "That's me."
A small giggle interrupted them.
Raphael smiled as he gestured to the little girl.
"And this little one is Luna."
Luna waved enthusiastically, nearly knocking over her cup.
"Hi!" she chirped.
The boy swallowed hard.
Something pressed against his chest—heavy, aching, unfamiliar.
He nodded awkwardly. "I… I'm—"
The words caught.
Raphael waited.
For the first time in his life, the boy was not rushed.
Not demanded.
Not threatened.
"…I don't really have a name," he admitted quietly.
No one laughed.
No one recoiled.
Lady Claire's eyes softened further. Kleon frowned—not in judgment, but concern. Luna leaned forward, curious.
"Well," Kleon said after a moment, cheerful as ever, "we'll just have to fix that."
The boy stared down at his plate as tears threatened to spill.
He picked up his spoon with shaking hands.
And ate.