“What?” Cornelia gasped, her violet eyes wide with disbelief. “How dare you—what right do you have to stay here?”
Eric stepped over the body of a fallen assassin, his gaze steady. “The right of your husband.”
The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the distant shouts of the guards. Cornelia’s face twisted in a mask of pure, incandescent fury.
“A husband? You’re actually claiming that title now? I’ve been a ghost for five years, Eric! I was dead to you, dead to the world, and dead to that wretched family!”
“Yes,” Eric said, his voice a low, painful rasp. “But you’re alive. And since no divorce was ever finalized, we are legally joined. Until the state declares otherwise, you and the child are my responsibility.”
*You’ll hate me even more for this,* Eric thought, his heart feeling as if it were being flayed. *But I don't care. I will be your jailer if it means I can be your shield.*
He looked at Marquis Philippe, who was standing behind Cornelia. He knew the Emperor had hidden Cornelia here, but that didn't make the old man an ally. The Emperor was still obsessed with securing the throne for the incompetent Franz. He might use Cornelia’s jade mines as a 'carrot' to bring Marquis Arguin back into the fold, or he might use Damian as a political pawn.
Cornelia let out a harsh, derisive laugh. “Responsibility? You never treated me as a wife when I was begging for your attention, and now you want to act the part? Do you think I’m some damsel you can just reclaim?”
Eric didn't answer. He couldn't. He knew he didn't deserve to be in the same province as her, let alone by her side. But the memory of his five-year search—the nights spent staring at a ruined portrait, the days spent tracking rumors of her ghost—made the idea of leaving her now impossible.
*I will never lose you again,* he vowed silently. *Not to the river, and not to the shadows.*
“Damian,” Cornelia said, turning to her son. “Go inside. Now.”
Damian pouted, his small hands on his hips. “I’m going to scold Dad! He’s being a meanie!”
“Sardin,” Cornelia commanded, ignoring the boy’s protest. “Take Damian into the palace. Keep the doors locked.”
She looked at Janet, who had moved toward the boy. “Not you, Janet. Stay here.”
I didn't trust her. Eric had found his way to a secret estate that only a few people knew existed. Someone had to have led him here, and Janet had always been too quiet, too observant.
Sardin, despite his bleeding shoulder, stepped forward and scooped Damian up. The boy squirmed, reaching for Eric, but Sardin turned and began to run toward the manor entrance.
At that moment, Eric’s head snapped toward the roof of a nearby warehouse. His body moved before the sound even reached them—a flash of blue light that crossed the courtyard in a heartbeat.
*CRACK!*
The gunshot echoed through the square. Janet lunged for me, pushing me toward the ground. Sardin spun, shielding Damian with his own body.
But Eric was faster. He stood behind Sardin, his arm extended, his fist clenched tight.
“Eric?” I gasped, my heart hammering.
He opened his hand. A flattened lead bullet clattered onto the stone tiles.
*Klang.*
My legs went weak. I stumbled, Janet catching my arm, but I shook her off and rushed to Damian, pulling him from Sardin’s arms.
“Are you okay? Damian, are you hurt?”
“I’m okay, Mummy! Dad caught the bad bean!”
I looked at the flattened bullet and then at Eric. His face was a mask of murderous intensity as he stared at the distant rooftop.
“They’ve fled,” Eric said, his voice a dangerous growl. “They’re moving into the crowded market district. They know how to disappear.”
“Why didn't you go after them?” I snapped, the terror in my chest turning into a sharp, defensive anger.
“Because if I had, the second shooter would have finished what the first one started,” Eric replied, pointing to another building. “There were two of them. One to draw me out, one to kill the boy.”
My breath hitched. “Arguin... he’s trying to kill my son?”
“No,” Eric said, shaking his head. “The assassins I killed in the alley were Arguin’s. Their goal was a kidnapping—to use the child for leverage over the mines. But this? This was a clean assassination attempt. They didn't want a hostage. They wanted a corpse.”
He looked at the bullet casing he had caught. “And they’re using 'it'.”
He looked at Marquis Philippe’s waist, where the official Imperial pistol was holstered. “That shot came from a replica of the Royal Guard’s firearms. But the range was too long for a standard Barakiel design. It was a custom job.”
I went cold. I had designed those weapons. I knew the weight, the range, and the mechanics of every piece in the Imperial armory. If someone was producing superior replicas with extended range, it meant the rebellion wasn't just armed—they were innovating.
The 'Rebel Mastermind' wasn't just a political threat. He was a strategic one. And he had just tried to execute my son in broad daylight.