“Janet,” Eric’s voice cut through the air, cold and devoid of any warmth. “You’ve clearly forgotten your place and allowed your presence to incite my mother. Return to your quarters and await my judgment. I will decide your fate later.”
“Yes, my lord,” Janet whispered, her head bowed.
“Escort the Duchess to her room on your way out.”
It was a dismissal that stung twice over. He was sending his loyal subordinate into isolation, while simultaneously ordering her to rid him of the "nuisance" that had caused the scene in the first place.
I looked at Janet, seeing the red welt on her cheek where the Dowager’s rings had torn the skin. A wave of self-loathing hit me. I should have thanked her. I should have apologized. But under Eric’s icy gaze, the words died in my throat. I followed her up the stairs in a silence that felt like lead.
*You’re a coward, Cornelia,* I thought as I reached my room. *You let a girl take a blow meant for you, and you didn't even say thank you.*
***
Back in the office, the door had barely clicked shut before Bianca’s hand whipped across Eric’s face.
*Slap!*
The sound was louder and more violent than the one that had hit Janet. Eric’s head snapped to the side, a trickle of blood immediately appearing at the corner of his mouth.
“How dare you!” Bianca shrieked. “How dare you touch me! How dare you defy me in front of that... that woman!”
For five years, the "fake" son she’d pulled from the gutter had been perfectly subservient. He’d played the role of the grieving, dutiful heir to perfection, likely out of guilt for the life he’d usurped. But today, he had broken the unspoken rule.
“I wish I had never lost my real son,” Bianca hissed, her eyes filling with a poisonous vitality. “He would never have raised a hand to me for the sake of a common soldier.”
Eric wiped the blood from his lip with the back of his hand, his expression as unreadable as a stone wall. “Mother, let’s discuss this in private. The servants have already heard enough to fuel a month of gossip.”
“I don't care about the servants!”
“You should. If it becomes common knowledge that the real Eric Brant is missing, your position in this house—and in this Empire—ends the same day.”
Bianca’s jaw tightened. She looked at him with a look of pure, concentrated loathing. “Fine. Let’s talk.”
They entered the inner study, the air thick with the scent of old paper and suppressed violence.
“I was stopping you from committing a crime, Mother,” Eric said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, clinical register.
“A crime? I was disciplining a servant!”
“You were swinging wildly at the daughter of the Emperor,” Eric said. “If you had hit Cornelia—if even a single ring had left a mark on her face—my father-in-law would have had his soldiers at our gates by nightfall. He’s been looking for an excuse to dismantle the Brant duchy for years. You were about to hand it to him on a silver platter.”
Bianca’s expression hardened. She knew he was right, but her pride wouldn't allow her to admit it. “I had no intention of hitting her. I was aiming for the knight.”
“You were aiming at a pregnant princess,” Eric corrected. “A woman who, according to the laws of this Empire, is still a member of the Royal Family. If she’d fallen... if she’d lost the child... do you think the 'fake' Duke of Brant could have protected you from the gallows?”
Bianca let out a hollow, mocking laugh. “So that’s what this is about? You’re playing the hero now? You think you’re actually her husband?”
“I’m the master of this house,” Eric said, leaning over the desk. “And as long as I wear this title, you will not touch her. If you do, I will ensure that the Emperor finds out exactly whose blood flows through the veins of the man sitting in this chair.”
It was an open threat. Bianca stared at him, her chest heaving. This puppet had finally found its teeth.
“Don't get ahead of yourself, boy,” she hissed. “You may wear the title, but I hold the signet. You are nothing without me. And once I find my real son... once Eric returns... you’ll be lucky if I let you return to the dirt I found you in.”
She turned on her heel and stormed out of the office, heading toward the private annex where she lived in self-imposed exile from the "main" house.
As she reached her chambers, a figure stepped from the shadows.
“Madam.”
It was Zenon. He bowed low, his expression one of perfect, deferential professionalism. “I have a letter for you. From my master.”
Bianca took the envelope, her fingers trembling. “Does he have news? Has he found him?”
“My master is doing everything in his power,” Zenon said, a crooked smile touching his lips. “But he asked me to convey another message. He’s noticed the... difficulties you’re having with the Duchess. He wanted you to know that if you need her 'removed' from the board, he would be happy to facilitate the process.”
***
Eric stood alone in his office, the sting on his cheek a dull, throbbing reminder of his mother’s rage. But it wasn't the slap that was haunting him.
It was the look on Cornelia’s face.
*She let it happen,* he realized, his stomach churning. *She stood there and waited for the blow. She wanted my mother to hit her.*
He’d seen the look in her eyes—the cold, tactical calculation of a woman who was willing to use her own body as a weapon. She’d wanted the injury so she could hand it to the Emperor. She’d been willing to risk herself, and the baby, just to win a point in her war against this house.
“Why doesn't she care about herself?” he whispered, his voice cracking. “How can she be so reckless with her own life?”
A sudden, sharp pain flared in his chest—a phantom echo of the bond he wasn't supposed to have. He’d told himself that if the baby disappeared, his problems would be solved. He’d told himself that he didn't care about the child of a "cowardly wanderer."
But seeing her standing there, willing to take a blow for a political advantage, made him feel a protective fury that was almost physically painful.
“It’s my responsibility,” he muttered, trying to convince himself. “The child exists because of my brother. I have to protect what’s left of him.”
***
I stayed in my room for three days.
I told Janet to stay away, ostensibly to protect her from the Dowager’s wrath, but mostly because I couldn't look at her without feeling the weight of my own silence. I spent the time reading reports from the Information Guild, brought to me in secret by Sardin.
The reports on **Zenon Reiner** were the most interesting.
According to the official records, Zenon was a unremarkable student. He’d graduated from the Imperial Academy with grades that were perfectly average—the kind of student who was forgotten a week after commencement. His swordsmanship scores were even worse; he’d barely passed the basic certification.
And yet, the Zenon I knew was a tactical genius who had guided Eric through years of border wars. He was a man who moved with the grace of a trained killer and possessed a sharp, incisive wit that could cut a man to pieces in a verbal sparring match.
*Genius tacticians don't just 'appear,'* I thought, tapping the documents against my chin. *And men who can't hold a sword at eighteen don't become the right hand of a Sword Master at twenty.*
I looked at the portrait sketched by the guild’s informant. The face was the same as the one in the office, but the "soul" described in the academy records was entirely different.
*It’s an identity theft,* I realized. *The real Zenon Reiner was likely a nobody who died in the war, or was paid to disappear. The man in this house is someone else entirely. Someone who borrowed a name to get close to the Duke of Brant.*
The question was: Who was he really? And who was the "Master" he served?