---
The dreamscape stretched before him like a wound in reality.
Giovanni stood at the base of a throne that towered impossibly high, its back disappearing into darkness so complete it seemed to swallow light itself. The throne was wrought from black iron and melted gold — the metals fused together in grotesque harmony, as if they had been heated until they bled into one another and then left to cool in that eternal embrace. Veins of gold ran through the iron like rivers of frozen fire, and at its base, flames licked upward with hungry tongues.
But these were not natural flames. They moved wrong. They curled and twisted with deliberate slowness, like living things that understood the value of patience. Like predators who knew their prey had nowhere to run.
The throne room stretched endlessly in every direction. Obsidian pillars rose from the floor and vanished into the darkness above, their surfaces so polished that Giovanni could see distorted reflections of himself in them — a thousand fractured versions of a four-year-old boy standing alone before an empire's seat of power. The crimson carpet beneath his feet was impossibly long, stretching from the massive doors behind him to the dais ahead, and it drank in the firelight until it seemed to glow with its own inner heat.
*Where am I?*
The thought came to him in his own voice, but it sounded wrong. Distant. As if he were hearing himself through water.
He tried to turn around, to look for the doors he must have entered through, but his body wouldn't obey. His feet were rooted to the carpet. His neck wouldn't twist. He could only face forward. Only look at the throne.
The faceless nobles lined the hall on either side.
They stood in perfect rows, their bodies draped in the regalia of the Diamond Kingdom — rich silks and velvets in deep purples and blues, embroidered with silver thread that caught the firelight and glittered like stars. Medals adorned their chests. Rings weighted their fingers. Crowns and coronets rested on heads that held no faces.
Where there should have been eyes, there was only smooth, pale skin. Where there should have been mouths, only blank expanses of flesh. They had no features at all, these nobles. No way to read their expressions. No way to know if they were watching him or looking through him.
They did not speak.
They did not move.
They simply *were* — standing in judgment, silent and eternal.
Giovanni's heart hammered against his ribs. He could feel it in his throat, in his temples, in the tips of his fingers. The heat from the flames was building now, pressing against his skin like a physical weight.
*"You were never meant to sit here."*
The voice came from everywhere and nowhere. It echoed off the obsidian pillars, reverberated through the crimson carpet, vibrated in his very bones. It might have been his own voice — but deeper. Older. It might have been someone else's entirely. He couldn't tell.
*"You were never meant to be anything."*
The fire surged.
It didn't burn him immediately. That would have been a mercy. Instead, it *crawled*.
Flames licked at his ankles first, curious and gentle, like a cat investigating something new. They wound around his legs in spiraling patterns, leaving trails of heat that built slowly from warmth to discomfort to pain. They climbed his calves, his knees, his thighs — patient, methodical, as if they wanted him to feel every single inch of their progress.
Giovanni tried to scream.
His mouth opened. His throat worked. But no sound came out. His voice had turned to ash before it could leave his lips, crumbling and scattering into nothing.
The fire reached his torso.
He looked down at his hands — and watched them crumble.
His fingers flaked away like burnt paper, curling and blackening at the edges before dissolving into grey flakes that drifted lazily toward the ground. The skin of his palms cracked, revealing orange light glowing from within, as if his bones had been replaced with embers. The cracks spread up his wrists, his forearms, his elbows.
He was burning from the inside out.
The smell hit him then — not smoke, not charred flesh, but something metallic and sharp. Like blood left in the sun. Like copper coins held too long in a sweaty palm. It filled his nostrils, his lungs, his brain, until he couldn't think of anything else.
The silence was the worst part.
No crackling fire. No screams. No pleas for mercy. Just the wet, soft sound of ash settling — his ash, falling to the crimson carpet in gentle drifts. The faceless nobles watched in absolute quiet, their blank faces giving nothing away.
*"You are nothing,"* the voice said again. *"You have always been nothing. You will always be nothing."*
Giovanni collapsed.
His legs gave way, and he fell forward onto hands that were no longer hands — just stumps of glowing ember and crumbling ash. The carpet caught him, or what was left of him, and he watched his body disintegrate piece by piece. His arms. His chest. His shoulders. All of it flaking away, scattering across the crimson fibers like snow.
And then the nobles moved.
They stepped forward in unison, their movements synchronized as if they shared a single mind. They walked toward him — toward what remained of him — their fine shoes crushing the ash beneath their heels. They didn't look down. They didn't pause. They simply stepped *over* him, one by one, indifferent to the boy who had once stood in their midst.
The ash scattered under their boots.
The last thing Giovanni saw before the dream fractured was the throne.
And on it — a silhouette.
Unclear. Undefined. Just a shape of darkness against the dying firelight, watching him with eyes he couldn't see but could *feel*.
Waiting.
---
Elizabeth drifted in the void.
It wasn't sleep — not really. She had learned that much in her time bound to the grimoire. Sleep implied rest, recovery, the gentle release of consciousness. This was something else entirely. This was *waiting*. A holding pattern. A pause between moments.
The void stretched around her in every direction, black and infinite and strangely comfortable. She had grown accustomed to it, this nothingness. She had learned to fill the hours with her own thoughts, her own memories, her own plans for the future she might never have.
She was thinking about her mother when she felt it.
A *pull*.
Not from the grimoire — that connection was always there, a constant thread tying her to the physical world. This was different. This was sharper. More urgent. A hook behind her sternum, yanking her toward consciousness.
*Giovanni.*
She materialized beside his bed before she fully understood what was happening.
The bedroom was dark, lit only by moonlight streaming through the window. The curtains had been left partially open, and silver light pooled on the floor, on the furniture, on the small figure thrashing beneath the bedsheets.
Giovanni was caught in the grips of a nightmare.
His body twisted and jerked, sheets tangled around his legs like restraints. His face was contorted — brow furrowed, jaw clenched so tight she could see the muscles jumping beneath his skin, eyes squeezed shut as if he were trying to block out something he couldn't escape. Sweat soaked through his nightshirt, darkening the pale fabric in patches.
And then he made a sound.
Not a scream. Something worse. A *whimper* — small and broken and so utterly unlike the boy who had killed an assassin without flinching. It was the sound of a child in pain. The sound of something young and vulnerable and terrified.
Elizabeth's chest tightened.
"Giovanni?" She reached for him, her hand passing through his shoulder like mist. She was still not fully solid — the transition from the void always left her half-there, half-not. She focused, pulling at her mana, pushing it into her form until she could feel the weight of her own body. Until her fingers could touch fabric. Until she could *grip*.
She shook him gently. "Giovanni. Wake up. It's just a dream. Wake up!"
His eyes snapped open.
But they weren't his eyes.
For a split second — just a heartbeat, just a breath — his eyes were hollow. Empty sockets filled with dying embers, orange light flickering in the depths of nothing. The eyes of a corpse. The eyes of something burned from the inside out.
Then they were brown again.
Wide.
Terrified.
---
Giovanni couldn't breathe.
His chest heaved, desperate for air that wouldn't come. His heart pounded so hard he could feel it in his teeth, in his fingertips, in the hollow spaces behind his eyes. Cold sweat drenched his entire body, and despite the warmth of the room — despite the blankets tangled around his legs, despite the summer heat lingering in the walls — he was shivering.
He stared at his hands.
They were shaking. Trembling like leaves in a storm. But they were *there*. Solid. Flesh and bone and skin. Not crumbling. Not flaking away. Not ash.
*I'm here. I'm here. I'm alive. I'm here.*
The mantra repeated in his mind, a desperate loop that he couldn't stop. He clenched his fists, felt his nails dig into his palms, focused on the pain. The pain was real. The pain meant he was real.
Elizabeth was saying something.
Her voice sounded like it was coming through water — muffled and distant and impossible to parse. He could see her lips moving, could see the concern etched into her features, but the words wouldn't reach him. They dissolved before they could form meaning.
"Giovanni? Giovanni, can you hear me? What's wrong? What did you see?"
He opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
His thoughts were scattered — fragments of the dream still clinging to his mind like cobwebs. Ash. Fire. The throne. The silhouette. The faceless nobles stepping over him, over what was left of him, indifferent to his destruction.
He tried again.
"I... I was..."
His voice cracked.
He had never heard his own voice crack before. Not when he was poisoned. Not when he was smothered. Not when the assassin's blade had whistled past his ear. He had always been controlled, composed, *cold*. But now his voice broke like glass, and he couldn't put it back together.
He looked at Elizabeth.
And for the first time since she had known him — for the first time since she had watched him command a room of adults, since she had seen him scheme and smirk and declare his dreams with absolute conviction — he looked *small*.
Not like a prodigy.
Not like a noble.
Not like a killer.
Just a four-year-old boy who had woken up from something terrible and couldn't remember how to be okay.
Elizabeth's heart cracked.
She had seen Giovanni calm. She had seen him cold. She had seen him smirk and scheme and declare his dreams with absolute conviction. She had seen him face down assassins and poison and the weight of his own family's expectations without flinching.
She had never seen him like this.
And it hit her — truly hit her, like a physical blow to the chest — *he's four years old*.
Four years old. He had been poisoned. Smothered. Attacked by assassins. He had been treated like a political tool, a potential heir, a threat to be managed and controlled and molded into something useful. He had been told to be strong, to be perfect, to be *better* than everyone around him.
But no one had ever just... held him.
No one had ever wrapped their arms around him and told him it was okay to be scared. No one had ever let him cry. No one had ever treated him like a child instead of a chess piece.
Elizabeth moved before she thought.
---
She wrapped her arms around him.
It was awkward at first — she was still translucent, still flickering at the edges, not entirely solid. Her arms passed through him once, twice, and she had to focus, had to push her mana into her form until she could feel the warmth of his body against hers. Until he could feel *her*.
Until she was as real as she could be.
Giovanni froze.
His entire body went rigid, every muscle locking up as if he had been struck by lightning. He didn't know what to do with this. Physical affection wasn't something he received. Not like this. Aunt Elara patted his head. Lord Cassius clapped his shoulder. Servants bowed and curtsied and kept their distance.
No one had ever just... *held* him.
"It's okay," Elizabeth said.
Her voice was soft. No jokes. No teasing. No sharp edges or playful barbs. Just her. Just warmth.
"It was just a nightmare. You're here. You're safe. I've got you."
Giovanni didn't respond.
He couldn't.
His throat was tight — so tight he couldn't swallow, couldn't speak, couldn't breathe. His eyes were burning, and he refused — *refused* — to let the tears fall. He was better than this. He was stronger than this. He had killed a man. He had survived poison and suffocation and assassination attempts. He would not cry because of a dream.
Elizabeth kept talking.
Her voice was a lifeline, a rope thrown into the dark water he was drowning in. He clung to it.
"Whatever you saw... whatever scared you... we'll face it together. Okay? You're not alone anymore. You're never going to be alone again. I promise."
Her arms tightened around him, pulling him closer. He could feel her chin rest against the top of his head. Could feel the steady beat of her heart — or whatever passed for a heart in a spirit bound to a grimoire. It was warm. It was real. It was *there*.
"We're partners, remember? That means I'm not going anywhere. Ever."
He wanted to believe her. He wanted to believe that someone would stay, that someone would choose him and keep choosing him, that he wouldn't have to face the fire alone. But belief was dangerous. Belief was a weakness he couldn't afford.
"So you can stop pretending to be okay." Elizabeth's voice dropped to a whisper. "Just for tonight. Just... let me be here."
Giovanni's hands moved.
Slowly. Hesitantly. They came up from his sides, trembling, and hovered over her back. He didn't know what to do. He didn't know how to accept comfort, how to receive affection, how to let someone take care of him. He had been taking care of himself for so long — protecting himself, defending himself, building walls so high that no one could climb them.
But Elizabeth was already inside the walls.
She had been inside them since the moment she appeared in his bedroom, since the moment she called him "partner" and meant it. She had seen his schemes and his coldness and his carefully constructed masks, and she had stayed anyway. She had stayed when he pushed her away. She had stayed when he didn't deserve it.
He pressed his hands against her back.
He didn't grip. He didn't pull her close. He just... held on. Barely. His fingers curled into the fabric of her dress — or what passed for fabric in her spectral form — and he held on like she was the only solid thing in a world that was crumbling around him.
It was enough.
They stayed like that for a long time.
Elizabeth didn't move. Didn't speak. Didn't do anything except hold him and breathe and *be there*. The moonlight shifted across the floor as the hours passed. The sounds of the estate — the distant footsteps of night guards, the creak of old wood settling, the whisper of wind through the curtains — faded into the background until there was nothing but the two of them.
Eventually, Giovanni's breathing slowed.
His heart stopped racing. His muscles relaxed, one by one, until he was no longer rigid but simply *tired*. Exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with physical exertion.
His eyes drifted closed.
He didn't dream again.
---
Giovanni woke slowly.
No nightmares. No pain. No fire. Just... warmth. A gentle, encompassing warmth that wrapped around him like a blanket. For a moment, he didn't remember where he was. He didn't remember what had happened. He just existed in that soft, hazy space between sleep and waking, content to float there forever.
Then he opened his eyes.
And there she was.
Elizabeth's face was inches from his. She was still holding him — or was he still holding her? He couldn't tell anymore. At some point during the night, they had shifted, tangled together on the bed like two children who had fallen asleep mid-embrace. Her arm was draped over his waist. His hand was still clutching the fabric of her dress.
She was solid now.
More solid than he had ever seen her. Her skin had color, a soft pink flush on her cheeks. Her black hair was spread across the pillow like a dark river, strands of it catching the golden morning light. Her dark brown eyes were closed, her lashes long and delicate against her skin.
Her mouth was slightly open.
And she was *snoring*.
Softly. Barely audible. A tiny, rhythmic sound like a cat purring in its sleep. It was so utterly undignified, so completely at odds with the image of the mysterious spirit she usually projected, that Giovanni felt something shift in his chest.
He stared at her.
He didn't move. He didn't want to wake her. He didn't want this moment to end — this strange, quiet moment where the world felt safe and warm and *right*. He didn't want to go back to being the cold, calculating heir. He didn't want to put on his masks and play his games.
He just wanted to stay here.
And then — without meaning to — he smiled.
It was small. Barely there. A slight curve of his lips that most people would have missed entirely. But it was genuine. The kind of smile that reached his eyes, that softened the hard edges of his face, that made him look like what he was: a child.
The kind of smile he hadn't worn in a very long time.
Elizabeth woke to the feeling of being watched.
She opened her eyes.
And there was Giovanni. Smiling at her. *At her*.
Her heart did something weird.
It stuttered in her chest — or whatever passed for her chest in this spectral form — and she felt a warmth bloom in her cheeks that had nothing to do with the morning sun. She ignored it. She *definitely* ignored it. She was sixteen years old. She was dead. She was a spirit bound to a grimoire. She was not going to get flustered by a four-year-old's smile, no matter how genuine or sweet or unexpectedly adorable it was.
She grinned instead.
Triumphant. Teasing. Back on familiar ground.
"Well, well, well. Look who's smiling." She propped herself up on one elbow, her dark eyes sparkling with mischief. "Did you like being hugged that much?"
---
Giovanni's face immediately reverted to neutral.
It was impressive, actually — the speed with which he could shutter his expressions. One moment he was soft and smiling, the next he was a marble statue of aristocratic indifference. Elizabeth would have been awed if she wasn't so determined to annoy him.
"I have no idea what you're talking about," he said.
His voice was perfectly level. Perfectly controlled. Perfectly *infuriating*.
Elizabeth's grin widened. "You were smiling. I saw it. You were all cozy and warm and happy."
"I was not *cozy*." Giovanni's nose wrinkled slightly, as if the word itself offended him. "I was... resting. My facial muscles were simply relaxed."
"Your facial muscles were *smiling*." Elizabeth leaned closer, her eyes narrowing playfully. "You liked it. Admit it."
"I will admit nothing of the sort."
"You're blushing."
Giovanni's hand flew to his cheek before he could stop it. He caught himself mid-motion, his fingers hovering just above his skin, and his eyes widened with horror. He dropped his hand immediately, but the damage was done.
"I am *not* blushing," he said, his voice slightly higher than before. "This is... the morning light. It's warm."
Elizabeth glanced at the window. The sun was barely peeking over the horizon, casting pale golden light across the room. It was autumn — late October — and the air outside was crisp and cool.
"It's autumn," she said flatly.
Giovanni's jaw tightened. "...The sun is warm."
Elizabeth burst out laughing.
She couldn't help it. The sound bubbled up from somewhere deep in her chest — or wherever her laughter came from now — and spilled out into the morning air. It was bright and genuine and completely unguarded, the kind of laugh she hadn't made in years.
"You're adorable," she said, wiping tears from her eyes. "You know that? You're a tiny, grumpy, adorable little noble who secretly likes being coddled by an older woman."
Giovanni's expression shifted from neutral to deeply offended. "I am *not* being coddled. And you are not an 'older woman.' You are sixteen. That is barely older than—"
"Barely older than what?" Elizabeth interrupted, her grin returning. "You're four. I'm twelve years older than you. That makes me practically your grandmother."
"You are *not* my grandmother."
"Then what am I?" Elizabeth tilted her head, enjoying the way Giovanni's composure was crumbling. "Your big sister? Your nanny? Your—"
"You are my partner." Giovanni's voice was firm, almost defensive. "And partners do not *coddle* each other."
"Partners *absolutely* coddle each other." Elizabeth nodded sagely. "It's in the partner handbook."
"There is no partner handbook."
"There is now. I'm writing it." She held up her hands, framing an invisible title in the air. "Rule one: cuddle your partner when they have nightmares."
Giovanni stared at her. "...That is not a rule."
"It is now." Elizabeth crossed her arms, her expression challenging. "And I've decided we're doing it every night."
There was a pause.
Giovanni looked away. His ears — the tips of them, just barely visible beneath his sleep-mussed hair — had turned red. When he spoke again, his voice was smaller. Quieter. Almost... hopeful.
"...Really?"
Elizabeth's teasing demeanor softened.
She looked at him — this strange, brilliant, broken little boy who had seen so much and felt so little, who had built walls so high that no one had ever been able to climb them. She looked at the way he was trying not to hope, the way he was bracing himself for rejection, the way he was already preparing to pretend he didn't care.
She reached out and poked his cheek.
"Really," she said. "Every night. That's the deal."
Giovanni swatted her hand away, but there was no real force behind it. He was still looking away, still hiding whatever was flickering behind his eyes.
"Well." He cleared his throat. "If you *desire* my companionship so much, I suppose I have no choice but to agree. For the sake of our future cooperation."
Elizabeth's jaw dropped.
"Excuse me?" She leaned forward, her voice rising with incredulity. "*You're* doing *me* a favor? You're the one who was clinging to me like a baby koala!"
"I was *not* clinging." Giovanni finally met her eyes, his expression indignant. "I was... maintaining proximity. For warmth. It was practical."
"You had a death grip on my shirt."
"I did not."
"You literally tore a button off."
Giovanni glanced down at her dress. There was, indeed, a button missing from the collar — a small detail he had somehow overlooked in his post-nightmare haze. His cheeks flushed, but he rallied magnificently.
"...A minor detail."
"A *minor*—"
"Do not sweat the minor details, Elizabeth." He waved a hand dismissively. "It is unbecoming."
Elizabeth groaned, flopping back onto the pillow. "You're impossible."
"And yet you stay."
The words were out before she could stop them. They hung in the air between them, heavy with meaning neither of them wanted to examine too closely.
Elizabeth turned her head.
Giovanni was looking at her. Not with his usual guarded expression, not with the cold calculation he wore like armor. He was just... looking. His brown eyes were soft, almost vulnerable, and his lips were curved into the ghost of that smile again.
"...Yeah," she said quietly. "I do."
---
Elizabeth looked at him.
*Really* looked.
The way he was sitting up now, trying to smooth his sleep-tangled hair into something resembling order. The way his ears were still red despite his best efforts to appear unaffected. The way he kept glancing at her when he thought she wasn't looking — quick, furtive glances that he probably didn't realize she noticed.
*He's just a kid.*
She had known this, intellectually. She had known his age — four years old, barely more than a toddler — and she had known his circumstances. She had seen the weight he carried, the expectations that pressed down on him from every direction, the way he had been forced to grow up far too fast.
But somehow, seeing him like this — soft and grumpy and *young* — it hit different.
She was sixteen. She was dead. She was trapped in a grimoire, bound to a four-year-old nobleman for reasons she still didn't fully understand. But she was also the adult here. The one who had lived longer. The one who had watched more. The one who remembered what it was like to be normal, to be human, to be *loved*.
Giovanni had never had that.
He had been raised by servants and tutors and relatives who saw him as an asset rather than a child. He had been taught to be strong, to be perfect, to never show weakness. He had been poisoned and smothered and attacked, and no one had ever just... held him.
Until last night.
*I should be the adult.*
The thought settled into her mind like a stone dropping into still water. Ripples spread outward, touching every corner of her consciousness.
*I'm the one who knows how to be a person. I'm the one who knows how to laugh and cry and feel things. He doesn't. He's forgotten. Or maybe he never learned.*
She nodded to herself.
Decision made.
"Okay." She sat up, her voice firm. "From now on, I'm the adult."
Giovanni paused mid-hair-smoothing, his expression instantly suspicious. "What does that mean?"
"It means I'm in charge of making sure you act your age." Elizabeth ticked off points on her fingers. "Which means: no more training until you collapse, no more skipping meals, and *definitely* no more pretending you're fine when you're not."
Giovanni's eyes narrowed. "...I don't like this."
"You don't have to like it." Elizabeth shrugged. "You just have to live with it."
"You are insufferable."
"And yet you stay."
Giovanni opened his mouth to retort — and then closed it. The words seemed to catch in his throat, and for a moment, his expression softened into something almost tender.
---
The Rosenthal dining hall was bathed in morning light.
Tall windows lined the eastern wall, their curtains drawn back to let in the golden autumn sun. The light fell across the long mahogany table, glinting off silver cutlery and fine porcelain, warming the rich tapestries that hung from the walls. A fire crackled in the massive hearth, more for ambiance than warmth — the day promised to be mild.
Giovanni entered precisely on time.
He was dressed and composed, his dark hair neatly combed, his expression carefully neutral. To anyone watching, he was the picture of aristocratic poise — a young lord going about his morning routine with practiced ease.
No one would have guessed that he had spent the night clinging to a ghost.
Elizabeth was back in the grimoire. She couldn't be seen by others, and she had learned to give him privacy during family moments. But he could feel her presence in the back of his mind — a warm, steady pulse that reminded him he wasn't alone.
*Are you watching?* he thought.
*Always,* she replied.
The table was set for three. Lord Cassius sat at the head, his posture formal, his expression distant. Aunt Elara's seat was conspicuously empty.
Giovanni took his place to his uncle's right.
"Good morning, Uncle."
"Giovanni." Lord Cassius nodded, his eyes not quite meeting his nephew's. "I trust you slept well?"
"Yes, Uncle."
It was a lie. But Lord Cassius didn't notice. He was too focused on his own concerns — the dark circles under his eyes, the worry lines creasing his forehead, the way his hands kept twitching toward the pocket watch he wore on his belt.
Aunt Elara had been in labor for three weeks now.
Not actively — the midwife said that was normal. First pregnancies often ran long, and Aunt Elara was small, and the baby was large. But the waiting was wearing on everyone. Especially Lord Cassius.
"Where is Aunt Elara?" Giovanni asked, though he already knew.
"Resting." Lord Cassius cut into his breakfast with mechanical precision. "The midwife insisted. She's been having trouble sleeping."
*Because she's uncomfortable,* Elizabeth supplied in Giovanni's mind. *And she's worried. And she's exhausted from carrying a child for nine months.*
Giovanni didn't respond. He simply nodded and turned his attention to his own meal.
They ate in silence for a while.
The food was excellent, as always — fresh bread and pastries, preserves from the estate's gardens, eggs cooked to perfection by the kitchen staff. But Giovanni barely tasted it. His mind kept drifting back to the nightmare, to the fire and the ash and the faceless nobles who had walked over his crumbling body as if he were nothing.
*Stop,* Elizabeth said softly. *It was just a dream.*
*It felt real.*
*That's what nightmares do.*
Giovanni pushed the thought away. He couldn't afford to dwell on it. He had more pressing concerns — training, lessons, the political machinations of the Diamond Kingdom. He had no time for dreams.
Lord Cassius cleared his throat.
"I received word this morning," he said. "Fanzell's training has concluded."
Giovanni looked up.
"The royal family has assigned him to a command post near the border." Lord Cassius's voice was carefully neutral. "He'll be leaving by the end of the week."
Giovanni nodded.
He didn't show any emotion. His expression remained precisely controlled, precisely appropriate for a noble child receiving such news. But inside, something shifted. Something small. Something he couldn't quite name.
Loss?
Gratitude?
He wasn't sure.
Fanzell had been his tutor for a few months. The man was strict, demanding, and utterly relentless — he had pushed Giovanni to his physical limits and beyond, training him in marksmanship and combat until his small body screamed for mercy. But he had also been... *honest*. He had never treated Giovanni like a child to be coddled or a pawn to be maneuvered. He had treated him like a student. Like someone worth teaching.
And now he was leaving.
"I see," Giovanni said. "Will I be assigned a new tutor?"
"You will." Lord Cassius nodded. "Though the selection process is still underway. The royal family wants someone experienced — someone who can continue your education in the manner they deem appropriate."
*Meaning someone who will report back to them,* Elizabeth noted. *Someone who will keep tabs on you.*
Giovanni agreed. But he said nothing.
The rest of breakfast passed in silence.
---
Aunt Elara's chambers were warm and soft.
The afternoon sun filtered through gauze curtains, casting everything in a gentle golden glow. The room smelled of lavender and clean linen, with a hint of something sweet — honey, perhaps, or the herbs the midwife was using to keep her comfortable. The bed was large and deep, piled with pillows, and in the middle of it all sat Aunt Elara.
She looked exhausted.
But she smiled when she saw him.
"Little star." She held out her hand, her voice warm despite its tiredness. "Come here."
Giovanni crossed the room and sat on the edge of her bed. He took her hand — her palm was warm, her fingers slightly swollen, but her grip was strong. She looked at him with those kind eyes, the ones that had never once treated him like a threat or a tool, and some of the tension in his shoulders loosened.
"You've been worrying," she said. It wasn't a question.
"I always worry."
"You always *work*." She squeezed his hand gently. "There's a difference."
Giovanni didn't have a response to that. He simply sat there, letting her hold his hand, letting the warmth of her presence seep into him.
"I've been thinking about names," Aunt Elara said after a moment. "For the baby."
"Yes?"
"If it's a girl, I'm considering Amara." She smiled softly. "It means 'eternal' in the old tongue. Or 'beloved.' Depending on who you ask."
Giovanni nodded. "That's a good name."
"And if it's a boy, I'm thinking Aldric." She paused, her smile turning wry. "After the king. Cassius suggested it. I think he's hoping it will curry favor with the royal family."
Giovanni's lips twitched. "Uncle Cassius is nothing if not pragmatic."
"He is." Aunt Elara laughed softly, then winced as the movement jostled her belly. "But I'm not sure I want to name my son after a man I've never met. Even if he is the king."
"You could name him Elias," Giovanni suggested.
Aunt Elara's eyebrows rose. "Elias? Why that name?"
Giovanni shrugged, a rare gesture of uncertainty. "It's... strong. It means 'the Lord is my God,' but that's not why I like it. It's got a good sound. Solid. But not overly common."
Aunt Elara studied him for a long moment. Then she smiled.
"I like it," she said. "Elias. I'll keep it in mind."
She shifted in the bed, trying to find a more comfortable position, and Giovanni immediately moved to help — adjusting a pillow here, offering support there. Aunt Elara accepted his assistance with a knowing look, as if she understood exactly what he was doing and why.
"You'll be a wonderful cousin," she said. "I know it."
Giovanni's throat tightened.
He thought of the nightmare — the ash, the fire, the indifferent nobles stepping over his remains. He thought of the blood on his hands, the assassin he had killed without hesitation, the coldness that lived inside him like a second heart.
He was not kind. He was not gentle. He was not *good*.
But Aunt Elara looked at him like he was still the little boy who used to fall asleep in her lap, the one who had cried when she got sick, the one who had made her paper flowers because he had nothing else to give.
"I will protect them," he said quietly. "No matter what."
Aunt Elara's smile faltered.
She looked at him — really looked — and something flickered in her eyes. Something sad. Something knowing.
"I know you will," she said. "That's what scares me."
Giovanni didn't understand what she meant.
Not yet.
---
The gardens at the Rosenthal estate were renowned throughout the kingdom.
Visitors came from far and wide to see the roses — acres of them, in every color imaginable, arranged in intricate patterns that formed the family's crest when viewed from above. The fountains were marble and gold, the walkways paved with crushed white gravel, and the hedges trimmed into perfect geometric shapes.
But on this particular autumn morning, none of that mattered.
All that mattered was the small group walking slowly along the main path: Lord Cassius, Aunt Elara, and Giovanni.
Lord Cassius walked on one side, his arm steady beneath his wife's hand. Aunt Elara leaned on him heavily, her enormous belly making every step a careful negotiation. The midwife had insisted on light exercise — "good for the baby, good for the mother, good for everyone's sanity" — and so they walked.
Giovanni walked on the other side.
He kept close, ready to assist if needed, but silent. He didn't have Aunt Elara's gift for easy conversation or Lord Cassius's practiced social grace. He was just... there. A small shadow at the edge of their happiness.
But it was enough.
Aunt Elara talked about names again. She had settled on Amara for a girl, and she was still considering Elias for a boy. She asked Giovanni what flowers he liked best, and when he said he didn't have a preference, she laughed and told him he needed to develop one.
"Everyone should have a favorite flower," she said. "It says something about who you are."
"What does it say?" Giovanni asked.
"That's for you to figure out." She smiled at him, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "And when you do, I'll tell you if you're right."
Lord Cassius said little. He was watching Aunt Elara with a fierce intensity, as if she might shatter at any moment. His hand never left her arm. His gaze never strayed from her face.
Giovanni noticed.
He noticed the way his uncle's hard edges softened when he looked at her. The way his voice dropped when he spoke to her, gentler than Giovanni had ever heard it. The way he seemed to breathe in time with her, as if their hearts were connected by some invisible thread.
*That's what love looks like,* Elizabeth said quietly in his mind. *That's what it's supposed to look like.*
Giovanni didn't respond. But he filed the observation away, tucking it into a corner of his mind where he kept all the things he didn't quite understand.
They reached the central fountain.
It was a beautiful thing — three tiers of marble, carved with scenes from the kingdom's history, water cascading from the top and splashing into the basin below. The sound was soothing, a gentle murmur that filled the air with quiet music.
Aunt Elara sank onto the marble edge with a sigh of relief.
"Thank you," she said. "I needed that."
Lord Cassius sat beside her, his hand moving to rest on her knee. "We should go back soon. You need to rest."
"I know." She leaned her head against his shoulder. "Just a few more minutes."
Giovanni stood a few feet away, watching them.
For a moment, everything was perfect.
The sun was warm on his face. The roses were blooming, their perfume drifting through the air. Aunt Elara was laughing at something Lord Cassius had murmured in her ear — a soft, genuine sound that made Giovanni's chest ache. Lord Cassius was smiling, actually smiling, his stern face transformed by the simple act of making his wife happy.
*This,* Giovanni thought. *This is what I'm fighting for.*
And then—
Aunt Elara gasped.
Her hand flew to her belly, her face going pale. The laughter died on her lips, replaced by something else entirely — confusion, then understanding, then fear.
"Cassius—"
Lord Cassius was on his feet instantly, his face ashen. "Elara? What's wrong?"
She didn't answer.
She just looked down.
The front of her dress was wet.
---
"The baby," Aunt Elara whispered. "It's coming."
For one heartbeat, no one moved.
Then everything happened at once.
Lord Cassius shouted. Giovanni had never heard his uncle shout before — not like that, not with that raw edge of panic. Servants materialized from everywhere, drawn by the commotion, their faces going wide-eyed as they took in the scene.
The midwife was summoned. Someone ran for hot water. Someone else ran for clean linen. The careful quiet of the garden shattered into a chaos of movement and noise.
Lord Cassius scooped Aunt Elara into his arms.
She cried out — not in pain, not yet, but in surprise. She was not a small woman, even without the weight of the pregnancy, and Lord Cassius was not a young man. But he carried her as if she weighed nothing. As if the strength of his fear had given him the power to do anything, anything at all, to get her to safety.
He ran.
Giovanni followed.
He didn't know what else to do. His legs moved without his permission, carrying him through the garden paths, through the estate corridors, past servants who pressed themselves against the walls to get out of the way. He had never seen his uncle move like this. Had never seen him so utterly, completely *undone*.
They reached the midwife's chambers.
The midwife was already there, a sturdy woman with gray-streaked hair and hands that had delivered hundreds of babies. She took one look at Aunt Elara and nodded sharply.
"Bring her in. Everyone else stays out."
Lord Cassius hesitated.
His arms tightened around his wife. His face was pale, his eyes wild, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. He looked like a man teetering on the edge of a cliff, terrified of falling but unable to step back.
"Cassius." Aunt Elara's voice was soft but firm. She reached up and touched his cheek. "I'll be fine. I promise."
He shook his head. "I can't—"
"You can." She smiled — a real smile, despite everything. "You have to. For me."
For a long moment, he didn't move.
Then, slowly, he lowered her to the ground. The midwife and her assistants took over, guiding Aunt Elara through the door and into the room beyond. The door closed behind them with a soft click.
And just like that, the world stopped.
Lord Cassius stood outside the door.
He didn't move. He didn't speak. His hands were shaking — Giovanni could see them trembling at his sides, fingers curling and uncurling as if searching for something to hold onto. His face was pale. His breath was ragged.
Giovanni stood beside him.
Neither of them spoke. Neither of them moved. They simply stood there, side by side, listening to the sounds that drifted through the door — muffled voices, the rustle of fabric, the occasional low moan that might have been Aunt Elara or might have been the wind.
The minutes stretched into an eternity.
Giovanni's mind was racing. He thought of the nightmare — the fire, the ash, the throne. He thought of Aunt Elara's smile, her warm hands, her kind eyes. He thought of the baby, the cousin he had promised to protect, the family member he had never met but already loved.
*Please,* he thought. *Please let them be okay.*
He didn't know who he was praying to. He didn't believe in gods or spirits or the stories the priests told. But he prayed anyway, silently, desperately, the only way he knew how.
Beside him, Lord Cassius drew in a shaky breath.
"Giovanni."
"Yes, Uncle?"
There was a long pause. When Lord Cassius spoke again, his voice was rough. Broken.
"If anything happens—"
"Nothing will happen."
"You don't know that." Lord Cassius turned to look at him, and Giovanni was struck by how *old* he looked suddenly. How tired. How afraid. "You don't know anything. You're four years old. You're a child."
Giovanni met his gaze.
"I know that Aunt Elara is strong," he said. "I know that the midwife has done this a hundred times. I know that you love her, and she loves you, and that means something. It has to."
Lord Cassius stared at him.
Then, slowly, something in his expression shifted. The fear didn't disappear — it couldn't. But it softened. Became something more manageable. Something he could carry.
"You sound like her," he said quietly. "Your mother. She used to talk like that. Like she knew things no one else knew."
Giovanni's chest tightened. "Did she?"
"She did." Lord Cassius's eyes were distant, lost in memory. "She was the smartest person I ever met. The bravest, too. And she was kind. Truly kind. Not the way people pretend to be kind — actually kind. She saw the good in everyone, even when there was no good to see."
Giovanni didn't know what to say.
He had never known his mother. She had died when he was barely a year old, before he could form memories of her face, her voice, her touch. All he had were stories — pieces of a person he would never truly know.
"She would be proud of you," Lord Cassius said. "I know she would."
Giovanni looked away.
He didn't believe that. How could he? He was not kind. He was not brave. He was cold and calculating and ruthless — everything his mother had supposedly not been. He had killed a man. He had blood on his hands. He was a monster in a child's body.
But he said nothing.
The door opened.
The midwife stepped out, her face unreadable. Lord Cassius straightened immediately, his whole body going rigid with anticipation.
"Well?" he demanded. "What's happening? Is she—"
"The baby is coming," the midwife said. "It will be some time yet. But there are complications."
Lord Cassius's face went white. "What kind of complications?"
"The baby is positioned wrong." The midwife's voice was calm but serious. "I'm doing what I can. But I need you to prepare yourself. This may not be... straightforward."
Giovanni felt cold.
He watched as Lord Cassius absorbed the words, watched as the color drained from his uncle's face, watched as the strongest man he knew seemed to crumble before his eyes.
"Can I see her?" Lord Cassius asked. His voice was barely a whisper.
"Not yet. We need to focus." The midwife paused, her eyes softening slightly. "But I'll come for you as soon as there's news. I promise."
She disappeared back into the room.
The door closed.
Lord Cassius stood there, motionless, staring at the wood as if he could see through it if he tried hard enough.
Giovanni stood beside him.
Neither of them spoke. Neither of them moved. They simply waited — in the hallway, in the silence, in the space between hope and fear.
----
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