A woman sits opposite him. She is middle-aged, kind-faced, with a patience that seems as deep and unshakeable as the ocean outside. She is one of the best speech therapists in Europe, discreet and generously compensated for her work. She has no idea the true nature of her employers. If she does discover who the boy is, then she will be eliminated before she can breathe a word of it to anyone.
“Now, Ezra,” she says, her voice a soft, melodic instrument. “The fox. Can you tell me what the fox says? Rememberour sound?”
She holds up a card with a picture of a cartoon fox. Ezra’s eyes fix on it. His little body is tense, a coiled spring. I see the struggle in the tight line of his jaw, in the way his small fingers clutch at the fabric of his trousers. The trauma did not just steal his voice; it built a fortress around it, and he is the lone, terrified prisoner inside.
He opens his mouth. A faint, dry click comes out. Nothing more. His shoulders slump in defeat.
A cold fury stirs in my gut, a black tide I quickly force back down.
Not here. This is his sanctuary. He has to feel safe here.
My fury is for the ones who did this, who put that emptiness in his eyes where light should be, who made him watch as his mother was butchered. Konstantine is lost to his own bottomless grief, his rage a whirlwind that threatens to consume the entire Brethren. So Ezra is mine. My ward. My responsibility. The most important relic of our order.
Senhora Almeida doesn’t flinch. “It is a hard sound, I know. ‘Ffff’. Like the wind. Let’s try together. Fff…ox.”
She leans forward, exaggerating the shape of her lips. Ezra watches, appearing mesmerized and then tries again. This time, a breathy rush of air escapes. “Ff…f…”
It is not a word. It is a shattered piece of one, but it is a sound. It is effort, it is a crack in the fortress wall.
A warmth, unexpected and fierce, spreads through my chest. Pride. It is such a foreign feeling, so pure amidst the corruption that defines my life that it almost feels like pain.Good boy, I think, the words a silent command sent across the room.Fight your way back to us.
I do not make my presence known. My watching is a pressure he does not need. I am a reminder of the world that broke him, a world of violence and shadowy secrets. Here, with the kind woman and the sunlit blocks, he is just a boy trying to remember how to speak. I will not intrude on that.
I push away from the doorframe and continue down the hall, the fragile warmth of the moment receding, replaced by the familiar, comfortable chill ofmy own reality. My peace is not found in sunlit nurseries. It is found in the clarity of control, in the acknowledgement of my own nature.
I descend a narrower, older staircase. One that leads to the south side of the castle, to the parts that were built not for family but for utility, for defence. The air grows cooler, damper. The sound of the sea is louder here. A constant, vibrating hum through the stone.
I push open a heavy, iron-bound door and step out into the Cloister.
It is not a true cloister, not in the monastic sense. It is a wide, flagstoned courtyard nestled between the high outer wall of the castle and the southern keep, open to the sky but sheltered from the worst of the wind. Along one side runs a covered arcade, its arches framing breathtaking, terrifying views of the churning Atlantic.
This is their domain. My sanctuary.
And they are here, as they often are. The three of them.
Anya is dancing. Barefoot on the cold stone, wearing a simple, sleeveless linen shift, her fiery red hair loose and whipping around her like a banner. Her movements are as perfect as the days she performed on stage for the world to see. Right now, there is no music, no orchestra. Her body responds to the rhythm of the crashing waves, a physical expression of the wildness I have allowed her to keep. She is all grace and untamed energy.
Julie is curled up in a deep stone alcove of the arcade, half dosing under the warm rays. She looks up as I enter, and a slow, serene smile touches her lips. Her eyes, a calm grey, meet mine with placid acknowledgement before she drops to her knees.
Then there is Felice. She sees me and immediately abandons the flowers she was weaving into a chain. She rises and pads toward me, a smile of pure, unadulterated joy on her face. She is the most affectionate, the most openly needy. She comes to a stop before me, dropping with a thud in a gesture of submission that is also an invitation. She doesn’t speak. They rarely do, unless asked a direct question. Their communication is more subtle, more physical.
I reach out and run my fingers through her light brown hair. She leans into the touch, a soft sigh escaping her. As always she is a contented animal, pleased by its master’s attention.
This is the peace I understand. Uncomplicated. Absolute.
Their love for me is a real, tangible thing, forged in the fire of their conditioning and polished by years of unwavering devotion.
They are my living art. My beautiful, broken things that I stole away, and I am their entire world.
I am not their jailer. I am their god, and a god must be present.
“Did you miss me?” I ask, my voice low.
Felice nods fervently, her eyes wide. Anya has stopped her dance and watches from a distance, her chest rising and falling with her breath. Julie creeps forward, crawling to sit beside her sister.
“I missed you all,” I say, and it is true. Their presence is a balm, a reminder of the order I can impose on a chaotic world.
Outside these walls, everyone wants something from me. They smile, they flatter, they pretend at loyalty, but every gesture hides a blade. I am the Kingmaker, the hand that decides who rises and who falls, and no one dares to forget it. Trust is a currency I can’t afford. But these three women, I can trust them, I have ensured that by the way I have broken them entirely and remade them. They want my wants, they desire whatever makes me most happy. I do not have to work for anything here; these women provide me with everything a man could wish for. I simply have to snap my fingers, and they come running.
