Alexander blinked. He must have misheard. But then Lysandro elaborated, each word slow and deliberate, as if anticipating disbelief.
"Born of your mother's cousin. He has lived abroad until now, for his safety. But blood should know blood. From this day forward, he will live among us."
A bastard? Brought to live among the trueborn children? What in the world was happening? What was his father thinking—and why hadn't his mother raised hell already? Lucia Di Luca was not a woman who let slights slide. She'd once forced a baron to kneel and apologize over a misplaced toast at a banquet. Yet now, faced with something that should have sent her into a storm, she stood in chilling composure. House Di Luca might only be counts, but they were among the wealthiest families in the Grand Duchy, and her own blood came from a Marchese's house in Mostalmia. This—this should have been beneath her.
Contessina inclined her head politely, though her eyes flickered like candlelight—observing, calculating. Giovanni's brows knitted, pride already bristling. Lucrezia's mouth formed a perfect "O," her parasol lowering as she stared, star-struck.
Lucia stepped forward and took the boy's hand. "Welcome home, Giuliano," she said softly.
Home.
Alexander noticed how naturally she said it. How her fingers lingered around Giuliano's wrist, how her gaze warmed in a way he had never once seen directed at him or Giovanni. Giuliano met her eyes with quiet familiarity, as if they shared a secret.
The Countess turned to the servants. "Prepare the blue guest chamber. No—move his things to the east wing. He will stay close to the family quarters."
Tom, the butler, hesitated just a fraction too long. His eyes darted to Alexander, then down again. "At once, my lady."
"Father," Giovanni blurted. "He—he's staying here? In the house?"
Lysandro looked mildly amused. "Where else would my son stay, boy? In the stables?"
Giovanni flushed crimson and bowed stiffly. "Of course not, Father."
Lucrezia took a daring step forward. "He looks like Mother," she said brightly. "He has her eyes."
Lucia's smile didn't falter. "Indeed. The resemblance is striking."
Alexander said nothing. He simply watched. Giuliano turned toward him then, and for a heartbeat their eyes met—his gaze steady, knowing. He smiled faintly, the sort of smile people wear when they've already won something you didn't know was a contest.
Alexander wasn't sure what to make of it, but one thing he knew: something stank here—and for once, it wasn't the fish smell coming from the docks.
Dinner that night was a performance.
Lysandro presided like a king, Lucia radiant at his side. Giuliano sat between them, where Alexander used to sit, where he, as heir, should sit. Conversation flowed effortlessly around him: the Count's travels, the Duke's latest council, a new fencing instructor hired for Giuliano's training.
Giovanni ate in sulking silence.
Lucrezia giggled at every clever line Giuliano tossed her way, helplessly charmed by his polished smile. Alexander had to concede the obvious—the boy had the face of a storybook hero, the kind his little sister loved to gush about.
Contessina smiled politely and said almost nothing, her fork tapping the edge of her plate in slow rhythm.
Alexander tried to taste the soup but it felt like ash.
When dessert came, Lucia reached to wipe a speck of cream from Giuliano's cheek, laughing softly as she did. The gesture was so natural, so intimate, that the servants glanced away out of decency.
Alexander set down his spoon.
The rest of the evening passed in a blur of practiced smiles and veiled glances. He excused himself early, citing fatigue—no one protested. As he climbed the stairs, he could still hear their laughter echoing down the corridor.
Contessina excused herself and followed him. They retreated to the library—one of the few places in the entire manor where secrets kept their silence. Afternoon had given way to night, and candles flickered softly, casting long, patient shadows across the room.
Alexander sank into his chair, breath steadying, palms pressed flat against the cool wood until the tremor in his hands faded.
Contessina closed the door behind her and crossed the room in three measured steps. She did not sit.
"Mother did not look offended," she said quietly.
"Mother looked delighted to have Father's natural son here," Alexander replied, the words bitter on his tongue. "That was the strange part."
She finally sat beside him, leaning her head against his shoulder. His hand rose instinctively to her hair, fingers brushing through it the way he used to when she was small and afraid of storms.
"Raised abroad for his protection," she murmured. "Protection from what? What danger could a bastard possibly face?"
"The wrath of the wife," Alexander said dryly. "But that's clearly not the case here."
"Mother knows him," Contessina whispered. "They were familiar. His manners were good."
"He's been properly tutored, but still… there was something unpracticed about him."
"A bastard with the wife's approval and a fine education, brought to live among the legitimate children," she said, her eyes narrowing—sharp, dangerous.
They shared a long, heavy silence. Both knew something was amiss, though neither could name it. The truth would come, in time. It always did.
In the days that followed, the household shifted around its new center of gravity.
Giuliano rose with the dawn to train with the knights, dined with the Count to discuss "matters of governance," and strolled through the city with Lucia on his arm like a favorite companion. The servants adored him. The tutors praised him.
Contessina watched quietly, her sharp eyes recording every inconsistency.
Giovanni trained twice as long, twice as hard, desperate to regain the spotlight as the martially gifted son.
Lucrezia trailed behind Giuliano like a lovestruck kitten.
And Alexander—Alexander simply faded into the background.
He didn't resent Giuliano, not exactly. The boy was charming, talented, even kind in his rehearsed way. But there was something… off. The way he walked the halls without ever asking directions. The way he called certain servants by name, before being introduced. Once, Alexander caught Lucia saying, "Just like when—" before she stopped mid-sentence, face going pale.
He pretended not to notice.
One evening, months later, he found Tom in the corridor after dinner. The butler's expression was weary, eyes shadowed with something close to pity.
"Is everything all right, Tom?" Alexander asked quietly.
The man hesitated. "Everything is as it has been, my lord," he said, but his tone betrayed him. "Try to sleep early tonight. The Count wishes to speak with you in the morning."
Alexander frowned. "About what?"
Tom bowed his head. "It is not my place to say."
And then the butler left, his steps heavy on the polished floor.
Alexander stood there for a long time, the silence pressing in around him. Somewhere downstairs, laughter floated up from the drawing room—Giuliano's laughter, smooth and easy, echoed by his mother's.
He turned toward his room, the faint chill of unease settling in his chest.
His sixteenth birthday was tomorrow.
The night before his sixteenth birthday was cold and quiet.
Draven slept beneath a thin mist, the kind that muffled the world and made even the city's bells sound far away. In the Di Luca mansion, the halls were dark; the servants dismissed early, the fire in his hearth burning low.
Alexander couldn't sleep. He sat by the window, watching the lamps flicker in the distance, feeling that same strange weight that had been building for weeks — the sensation that something was ending, though no one had told him what.
He heard the knock around midnight.
"Enter," he said, expecting Tom.
But it wasn't Tom.
It was two guards — men in the Count's livery, faces blank as iron masks.
"Master Alexander," one said stiffly. "You're to come with us."
"Now?" he asked, standing slowly. "At this hour?"
"By order of His Excellency."
For a moment, he considered asking which His Excellency — his father, or Guiliano. But the guards' expressions left little room for humor.
He dressed quickly, throwing a cloak over his nightclothes. The air in the corridor was heavy, almost funereal. As they led him down the stairs, he caught a glimpse of Tom standing at the end of the hall, motionless. The butler's eyes met his, and Alexander saw it there — that same pity, sharper now, almost desperate.
He knows something.
The carriage waited in the courtyard. His parents were already inside.
Lucia sat rigid, hands clasped in her lap, eyes fixed on nothing. Lysandro's face was carved from stone. Neither spoke as the carriage began to move.
"May I ask," Alexander said finally, voice calm but dry, "why I'm being dragged out of bed in the middle of the night?"
Lysandro's jaw tightened. "It's an order from Her Grace."
"The Duchess?" he frowned. "What for?"
Lucia's fingers twitched, her knuckles pale. "It will be quick," she murmured.
He turned to her, startled. "What will?"
She didn't answer. Neither did Lysandro.
The rest of the ride was silence — the kind that presses against your ribs and whispers truths you don't want to hear.
The palace loomed like a mountain of marble and shadow, its banners swaying lazily in the cold wind. The guards didn't even bother to announce them; the gates opened as if they'd been expected.
Inside, torches lined the walls, their flames guttering in the draft. The Duchess waited in the throne hall, seated high upon her chair of black oak, her silver hair glinting under the light.
She looked old — older than any portrait painted of her — but her eyes were sharp, the kind that had seen far too much in far too short.
Alexander bowed stiffly, his parents behind him.
"Alexander Di Luca," the Duchess said, her voice smooth, almost kind. "Do you know why you stand before me?"
He forced a small smile. "I was hoping you'd tell me."
She studied him. "You are the eldest son of Count Lysandro and Countess Lucia Di Luca?"
"That's what they tell me."
A faint, humorless smile touched her lips. "Then I am afraid your blood carries a stain."
She rose, the hem of her gown whispering across the stone floor. "Eighteen years ago, when I ascended as Grand Duchess, my brother—Prince Aron—raised his banners against me. His rebellion cost me my sons, my husband, and half my kingdom. And so I decreed that the firstborn child of every house that sided with him would pay for their fathers' treason—upon reaching adulthood."
Her gaze fixed on him like the blade of a knife. "Your father fought for my brother."
The hall fell silent. Alexander turned to his parents. They did not meet his eyes.
He laughed softly, the sound echoing in the vaulted space. "You can't be serious."
"It is justice," the Duchess said simply. "And justice does not forget."
Lucia made a small, strangled sound. Lysandro's hand found her arm, holding her still.
They didn't speak. They didn't beg.
They just stood there, statues carved from guilt.
And in that instant, Alexander understood.
He turned to them slowly. "Giuliano," he said. "It was supposed to be him, wasn't it?"
Lysandro flinched.
Lucia's lips trembled, but no words came.
The Duchess' tone turned mocking. "A clever ruse, Count. To offer me a bastard in place of your trueborn heir. Pity it failed."
Alexander stared at them, cold fury slowly replacing disbelief. "So that's it," he said softly. "I was born to die for him."
"Alexander—" Lucia began, her voice breaking.
He cut her off. "Tell me something, Mother. When you looked at me, did you see your son, or just the shield meant to save the one you actually loved?"
She sobbed, quietly, miserably. Lysandro said nothing.
He almost pitied them. Almost.
The guards came forward. The Duchess gestured lazily, as if swatting away a thought.
Alexander didn't resist as they led him to the execution block.
It was almost comical, he thought — dying twice before turning thirty.
As they forced him to his knees, he looked up at the Duchess. "Do you ever get tired of killing children for someone else's sins?"
Her expression didn't change. "Perhaps. But justice is not mercy."
"Then may your justice choke you."
The executioner raised the axe. The world seemed to narrow — the cold stone beneath his palms, the metallic taste of fear on his tongue, the weight of a lifetime that had never really been his.
Somewhere behind him, his mother whispered his name.
He smiled faintly.
"Dying sucks," he thought.
The axe fell.
He felt the pain for only a heartbeat — a flash of fire, then nothing.
And yet, in that nothing, something stirred.
A voice like wind and thunder whispered through the void:
"And so finality brings forth a new origin."
That was the second time Halfdan Skarsgård died.
It didn't stick either