Over the course of the past year, Reitz had tightened security around Bren. Ezra had been hit hard by Evan's death, but Reitz couldn't deny the practical upside: since Ezra had turned inward and stayed in his room, keeping him protected—and contained—was easier.
"Aerwyna," Reitz said, keeping his voice level, "I know you're moved by our son's sorrow. But right now this is safer."
It was a different kind of headache. Reitz would rather fight Badlands assassins again than manage this.
The Rex's betrothal had helped. It was a public signal: don't touch the boy.
It was also leverage the Crown could use against them.
There had been probes—obvious ones.
Some were just curiosity. Others were testing boundaries.
One vassal had asked for a visit and tried to bring "a friend," a noble from a distant fief Reitz had never dealt with directly. Reitz recognized the move immediately. They wanted to see Ezra with their own eyes.
Reitz had sent a polite refusal. Visitors were welcome in Bren on official business, but seeing the heir was not possible. Ezra was still recovering. He needed rest and medical care.
Some letters came directly. Others arrived as "requests" passed through Reitz's own vassals.
Reitz knew his vassals. All were loyal, but they weren't blind to opportunity. Promises and bribes would be offered. Favor for favor. Access for access.
A few bribes were bold enough to come straight to him—gold, rare relics, "gifts" that were really payments.
There was even one time Aaron himself came asking if he could come with a friend.
Reitz had almost lashed out. He knew how they bought Aaron. Easy.
They'd been in the courtyard at Castle Blackfyre when Aaron brought it up.
"Women will be the death of you," Reitz roared. "You little shit."
"As long as a maiden's mouth is around my cock when I die, I don't see a problem with that," Aaron said, without shame. Then, as if that made him reasonable, he added, "I'm just saying the world knows anyway. I'm just… experiencing the benefits, so to speak."
"Have you lost it?" Reitz snapped. "I won't compromise Ezra's security over your balls. Arse."
"Hey, hey—who said I was going to compromise anything?" Aaron protested. "I was just going to brag to my lady friend."
Reitz really wanted to roll his eyes.
"Has your loyalty been bought?" he demanded. "Has a Primarch come forward with coin?"
Aaron threw up his hands. "Omniscience above and around, Reitz—no. Bedross will always kneel before the black dragon. I just wanted to show off. I might know the next Primarch. Easier to get in bed with them."
"My son is not a trophy you can use to get women," Reitz said, voice low and sharp.
"Great Omniscience," Aaron muttered. "A no would've sufficed. You don't need to shout." He shook his head. "Alright. Alright. I'll tell her we can't see the boy."
"Good," Reitz snorted.
Reitz turned them all away.
For months the same letters came and went, and for months the reply stayed the same: Ezra was recuperating.
Eventually the pressure eased.
Then the rumors started to settle into a shape of their own.
Inside Fulmen, most people praised the boy and gave him glorifying names. Outside Fulmen, the story started as spite from nobles who'd been refused. Then it spread because it was useful: the Blackfyre heir was a cripple. A child who couldn't control his magic. A problem House Blackfyre was hiding behind locked doors.
Reitz didn't believe most of the Empire bought it.
But he also knew rumors didn't have to be true to do work. They only had to be repeated.
A year passed without an assassination attempt.
There were spies, of course. Spies never stopped. The best you could do was control what they saw and what they could confirm.
And because no one had seen Ezra in so long, the "cripple" story hardened. The idea that he struggled with magic became easier for people to accept.
"Maybe it's for the best," Aerwyna whispered.
Reitz's jaw tightened.
"It still leaves a bad taste in my mouth," he said.
Ezra screamed.
His body was full of sweat. A drop formed and ran from his forehead to his cheek. His heart was still hammering when the door swung open hard.
A knight with a wide frame burst in.
Ezra's eyes snapped to him. His body reacted faster than his mind. His field flared on instinct, and in the same instant he noticed what the knight was doing.
A thin pulse of mana channeled into his eyes.
It was Galwell.
Galwell's gaze was like a hawk's. It swept the room in one swift motion, assessing for threats, and found none.
"M'lord, y'all right?"
This wasn't slurring, even though he'd taken the night watch. He'd had enough sleep to keep himself steady. Besides, he could use mana to suppress whatever his body was feeling. He was acclimated.
"No." Ezra swallowed, half ashamed. "Just a bad dream."
Galwell's shoulders eased by a fraction. He yawned, big and wide.
"S'all good, m'lord," he said. "Bad routes happen. I was on watch tonight. It's about daybreak now."
Over the past few months, Reitz and Aerwyna had stopped cycling random guards past Ezra's door. They chose from the same five knights who had bled with him in Anticourt. The logic was simple: those men already understood what Ezra was, and Ezra understood them. There were fewer questions. Fewer mistakes.
When Galwell needed time to recover, it forced a decision. Only Evered, Rycharde, and Oswyn continued with Deimos's party to wipe out the Shadow Walkers they'd first tangled with. It wasn't all in vain. By the time matters in Anticourt had been settled, nobles who'd been present during the event volunteered some of their men to aid the Demon Hunters. They saw it as a way to get better acquainted with the Blackfyres and gather prestige. With the attack occurring under their noses, a lot of the nobles provided support. The campaign was an overwhelming success.
Dynham and Galwell stayed behind. After recuperating, Dynham and Galwell were assigned in rotation to watch over Ezra.
It was an ideal arrangement on paper. Both of them recovered in the castle, while they watched over Ezra.
Days had blurred. He'd stopped keeping track of time. Sometimes he didn't even know if it was evening or morning. All he knew was that he was lying down.
This was Ezra's third time screaming awake since Anticourt.
"I'm going back to my post now, eh?"
The first time they'd met, Galwell had spoken cleaner. He'd kept the merchant-road accent buried. Months around the castle—and two weeks away with Deimos, apparently—had been enough to let it show.
Ezra lay back down. He just wanted everything to stop. He was too overwhelmed.
Most days it was like this—him staring at the cracks and trying not to move.
He didn't want to think.
Before, his mind had been a tool. On Earth, there were problems to solve, systems to understand, a whole world that didn't care about his feelings too much. Thinking had been forward motion.
Now thinking stung.
If he let it run long enough, it slipped back to Anticourt. A dagger appearing where it shouldn't. Evan's body under him. The weight of it. The heat leaving it. The way the world kept going after.
He didn't want to think because thinking turned into memories, and memories turned into feelings, and feelings—feelings hurt like a bitch.
Time had stopped in Ezra's room. The world outside might as well have been a different plane of existence.
Boredom, which had once been something to flee from, was now what held him together. It became his refuge. Life turned into a loop of mundane actions. Wake, eat, bathe, sleep. Repeat.
He'd once clawed his way out of the nursery because the boredom felt like death.
Now boredom was the tool he used to numb himself.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew what it really was. Penitence. As if bathing in monotony could pay for what he'd done. As if staying still long enough could rewind Anticourt. As if Evan's death could be un-made by refusing to take another step into after.
Maybe if he'd endured the boredom back then—before Irriton, before the stowaway stunt, before Anticourt—maybe if he'd found a way to just stop, he wouldn't be here now with this weight in his chest.
Maybe he wouldn't hurt like this.
His last birthday had come and gone. There had been no feast in the Great Hall. Reitz broke it as a formal announcement and messengers ran to announce the event because that was what was expected. Aerwyna made sure bread and food went out to the city to mark the day in a way that actually mattered.
Privately, there had only been a simple tray of sweets set beside his bed, and Aerwyna's hand smoothing his hair while he pretended to sleep.
He hadn't even bothered to ask what age this body counted now.
Older than three. Younger than the burden in his heart.
He'd seen people die on Earth.
Recruits who didn't clear the blast radius fast enough. A convoy that didn't come back. Colleagues whose names turned into lines in a report and portraits on a wall. He had filed them away. He hadn't even mourned when it was expected. Then he'd gone back to work. That was what you did. That was how you kept moving.
This felt… different. Not louder, just punishing. Like his heart bore something heavier than the weight of his entire existence.
He looked at the cracks again and stared, emptying his mind.
He didn't know how much time passed after Galwell barged in, but the door opened again.
Aerwyna stepped in and closed it gently behind her. She wore a thick winter dress the color of dried blood, a fur-lined cloak thrown over her shoulders. Her hair was braided back from her face the way she wore it when she expected to run the castle all day.
Hearth and Caspian slipped in with her and took their usual places—Hearth by the door, Caspian a step behind Aerwyna.
Hearth cleared his throat softly. "Milord," he said, like a greeting and an apology in one. "We brought warm water, if you want it."
Aerwyna's eyes went to him first, then to the damp sheets. Her mouth tightened. "You were dreaming again," she said.
He shrugged against the mattress. It could have meant anything.
Aerwyna crossed to the window and threw the shutters open. Cold, pale light poured into the room, stabbing at his eyes. The courtyard below was bright with snow where the sun touched it, dirty where it didn't. Somewhere out there, steel rang on steel as morning drills began.
Ezra flinched and rolled onto his side, turning his face away.
"Close it," he muttered. "Too bright."
"It's midday," Aerwyna said, and she managed not to make it an accusation. "You've slept enough."
She came back to the bed and, without asking, started tugging the quilt out of his fists.
"You need air."
He clamped down harder. For a woman who could pull stone from the ground with water and hang it in the air on threads of mana imbued ice, she was patient as she peeled his fingers off the cloth one by one.
"I know you still feel unwell," she said quietly. "But you need to get out."
Ezra made a noncommittal snort.
"Come now, little one." Her tone was warm again. "You used to bang on the door to be let out. You nearly broke Evan's nose with the latch, once."
"Ezra," she said, and the warmth drained out of her voice. "You get up now."
Ezra moved, begrudgingly.
Aerwyna didn't comment. Some of the tension bled from her shoulders anyway. She stood, brisk again, tugged the blankets straight, and went to his wardrobe. She didn't have attendants do this menial task, even though she could have. She did it herself anyway.
He dressed slowly, fingers clumsy on the buttons. His body had changed over the months—longer limbs, heavier bones, more coordination—but it still felt foreign sometimes, as if he'd skipped steps and had to relearn where everything sat.
Aerwyna fussed with his cloak and mittens with the single-minded focus of someone who needed her hands occupied. Then she stepped back and looked him over.
"You don't have to speak to anyone," she said, the motherly tone back in place. "You can sit and watch. But you will be outside, and you will remember the world is bigger than this ceiling. Do you understand me?"
Ezra didn't reply verbally. He gave a snort and a nod.
"Good."
Aerwyna opened the door.
Winter light flooded the corridor—brighter than his room. The air outside was colder, cleaner, and it hit Ezra's lungs.
Ezra stepped forward.
What he saw was a sea of steel. Armor and weapons shone in the pale winter sun.
Dynham took the lead and gave a curt nod toward Ezra.
"Sire."
Ezra nodded back.
Near the back of the corridor Galwell stationed himself.
"M'lord."
"Today you are going out, whether you like it or not," Aerwyna said, and the commander was back in her voice. "I have prepared an escort for you consisting of your retinue and other Blackfyre forces."
Aerwyna paused.
"From today on, you will be allowed to go anywhere you want, as long as it is within the confines of Bren."
Ezra looked up at his mother, but he didn't know what to feel. Somehow he was supposed to be happy. Instead he felt nothing.
Aerwyna looked back at him, searching for a response.
Ezra gave one. "Thank you, Mother."
It was prompt and overly formal, but it was something. Aerwyna smiled.
"Now go," she said. "Try to get some sunlight in you. I have other matters today."
Ezra stared down the corridor at the people who would accompany him.
This should have been called an honor guard for a reason.
But honor was the farthest thing he was feeling right now.
He felt the weight of the souls that would give their lives for him.
He remembered their faces. He willed it, binding them to his memory. The faces of the people, who would, in a moment's notice die for him.
Die for him... Evan.
He didn't mean to—no he didn't want to, but he remembered Evan. How he stepped behind a blade and threw his life away without a second thought.
Ezra looked at their faces again, these people would also do the same, the only difference was that Evan, he knew well. He knew some of them did it for pay and others for duty.
He thought about these men who would throw their bodies at an enemy at a moment's notice.
He felt the weight of the thousands upon thousands of souls that depended on Bren.
Their lives, their futures, all tied to the weight behind the Blackfyre name.
Thinking about it now, his fate had been sealed the moment he was born.
A slow realization came.
Reitz, Aerwyna, Evan—everyone—didn't have the freedoms he'd been accustomed to on Earth.
They too were in a cage. Each decision carried weight. The luxury he'd been afforded came with a price.
And that price was that each decision carried the fate of the ones below them.
He looked ahead, with men ready to die for him, lost in thought.