The quiet should’ve soothed me, but it didn’t. My mind still echoed with my mother’s voice from that morning—her shaking hands, her refusal to speak my father’s name. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the way she’d looked at me, as though the truth itself might shatter us both if spoken aloud.
The wind shifted, carrying the scent of the sea. That was when I heard it—the steady rhythm of hooves against stone, coming fast down the road.
I turned toward the sound, frowning. No merchant rode that hard at this hour.
Dust lifted from the path in a golden haze, and through it, a figure appeared—cloak snapping in the wind, horse heaving and slick with sweat. Even before I saw his face, I knew.
Salvatore.
But something in the way he rode made my stomach knot. Reckless. Desperate. Like he was being chased by something unseen.
He reined the horse to a hard stop in front of me. The animal snorted, foam dark on its mouth, eyes rolling white. Salvatore’s hands shook as he gripped the reins, his breath coming rough.
“Salvatore—”
“Don’t,” he rasped, swinging down from the saddle. The leather straps groaned; his sandals struck the earth hard enough to raise a puff of dust. He looked… ruined. His tunic clung to him in tatters, linen dark with sweat, grime, and streaks of blood that had dried to rust. His hair, once bound back with pride, hung loose and damp against his face, brushing the short beard along his jaw. His eyes—dark-blue, fever-bright—burned beneath the grime, a light caught between fury and despair. The air around him reeked of horse, dust, and salt—but beneath it lingered something sharper—the scent of shame, and the echo of rage that had nowhere left to go.
I stepped closer. “What happened?”
He lifted his head slowly, eyes hollowed by exhaustion. “My worst nightmare,” he said, voice raw. “It’s over now, Lazarus.”
For a heartbeat, the world went still. Even the wind seemed to pause. Then his shoulders sagged, heavy as if the weight of his house and his father’s wrath still pressed upon them.
“My father disowned me,” he said, each word dragging like a wound reopening. “Forbade me from using his name. From claiming his blood.”
His gaze drifted toward the barley fields, unfocused, as if he were staring into a pit too deep for light to reach.
“He found out everything,” he went on, quieter now. “The demotion. The men I failed. Helena. Every disgrace laid bare before him.” His jaw tightened until the muscle jumped along the side of his face. “He said I am no longer his son. Stripped me of my name, my title—of everything. I have nothing now.”
I swallowed, stepping forward before the silence could turn to something worse. “Come,” I said, slipping an arm beneath his. His body sagged against me, heavier than armor, heavier than guilt. Together we crossed the threshold into the dim light of the cottage.
His tunic brushed my arm—stiff where the blood had dried, warm with sweat beneath it.
“Don’t worry, Salvatore.” The words came before I could stop them, too fast, too eager, as if I could will them true. “It’s time for new beginnings, yes? We won the war. I have gold now—enough for us both. We’ll share it. We’ll find our way. Together, brother.”
The promise hung between us, as fragile as a spider’s thread trembling in the wind.
We stepped inside the cottage, and the air was thick with the scent of rabbit stewing over the brazier. Smoke coiled toward the low ceiling, clinging to the plastered walls.
Amara turned from the hearth, knife still in her hand, the edge glinting in the lamplight. Her linen tunic brushed the packed earth as she moved toward him, eyes wide. “Salvatore—you look like ruin itself.” She set the knife aside, reaching for him. “Sit. Let me see your wounds.”
He flinched back, the motion almost defensive. “I’m fine, Amara. Don’t waste yourself on me.”
I studied him in the dim glow. The swelling along his jaw had already begun to purple; blood crusted along his temple. His hands were torn raw across the knuckles, the skin split from striking something harder than flesh.
“You sure about that?” I asked quietly. “You look as though the cliffs themselves threw you back.”
He gave a hollow laugh, then winced at the pain it stirred in his ribs. “My father and I fought,” he said at last. “Not with words.”
My chest tightened. “He struck you again?”
Salvatore’s mouth curled in something bitter. “He beat me bloody. Fists, shouting, blood on the floor. He disowned me after. Said I was nothing to him—no longer his son.”
The room fell still. Even the stew quieted on the brazier, the bubbling fading to a low hiss, as though the house itself held its breath.
Amara cleared her throat. “I’ve got an idea,” she said, voice steady but threaded with determination. “Why don’t we all get away tonight? To the shore. We can eat under the stars. With both of you home again… we should celebrate your return.”
Before I could reply, she was already moving—quick, purposeful. Her sandals whispered over the reed mat as she took the pot from the brazier, spooned the rabbit and herbs into clay bowls, and wrapped them with linen to keep them warm. She tore flatbread from the stack on the table, bound it with a strip of cloth, filled a small jar with wine, and packed it all into a woven basket. The motion of it—the quiet urgency—felt like a spell to drive sorrow from the room.
