29

  Durante stood on the ridge overlooking Diospyrus, the wind carrying the scent of cedarwood and distant rain. The land spread below him like a memory half-faded—familiar in shape, foreign in its color. Diospyrus had once been a kingdom of open gates, where merchants and farmers walked freely through tree-lined courtyards, where druids and common folk ate at the same tables, speaking of the balance of life and land.

  Now, fortified walls encircled the kingdom. Banners of deep maroon and iron-gray hung from battlements like heavy accusations. Guards in blackened armor patrolled in steady formations, their expressions cold and hollow. No laughter, no music, no open gardens—only silent order.

  Durante exhaled, steady but slow. Two decades, he thought. The land remembers. But the people… do they?

  He descended the winding path, passing through the outskirts of the city. Vendors still lined the streets, but their voices were quiet, contained. The woodcraft stalls displayed elegant carvings of beasts of the forest—owls, wolves, stags—symbols once revered. Leather shops still gilded their goods with vine patterns and sun motifs. Gem merchants still polished Diospyrus opals that shimmered green like dew on leaves. And the fruit sellers still smiled when offering the crimson Suri-pear, native only to this soil.

  But the light in their eyes was dimmed, guarded.

  Kindness had become habit, not spirit.

  Durante nodded to those who greeted him, though none recognized him. That was good. His presence was not meant to stir memory.

  He made his way to the western edge of the city, where the old watchtower rose against the sky—vines crawling up its stone walls like grasping fingers. The port had moved long ago; new docks sprawled to the east now, leaving this tower a forgotten sentinel.

  He slipped inside.

  The interior was dark, dust-filled, but untouched. Durante traced his hand along the wall until he found the hidden seam. A gentle press—stone shifted—revealing a stairway descending into shadow.

  At the bottom was a chamber—small, circular, lit faintly by the cracks where sunlight leaked through the upper stones.

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  A small library.

  A cramped alchemy corner.

  A hearth of smooth river stone.

  A round wooden table with three chairs.

  He stood there, breathing slowly.

  Reni. Myself. And her.

  His chest tightened—not painfully, but deeply. The kind of ache that comes from remembering something precious that could never return.

  He sat for a time, letting memory settle. Laughter, debates over formulas, arguments about spell structures, the scent of dried herbs, and the sound of pages turning under candlelight.

  And then—he remembered the box.

  He moved to the hearth, pushing aside old logs and a draped canvas. There—carved with spiraling vines and constellations—was the wooden box. Diospyrus craftsmanship from the old age.

  He lifted the lid.

  Inside lay a letter, aged and brittle, edges curled.

  He unfolded it slowly.

  The handwriting was familiar—Reni’s. Strong strokes, softened only where grief had weighed down the pen.

  My Brother, Durante,

  I hope this reaches you. I do not know what days await me. Perhaps I have already fallen. If you are reading this, I entrust my final words to you.

  Thank you—for standing beside me when the crown weighed too heavy. Thank you for reminding me that a king is not stone, but flesh and heart.

  But now my heart is broken.

  My people—our people—curse the bloodline they once loved. And they are right to. The land rejects us now. My child was born healthy—but as the first breath came, his skin changed. I saw the color drain from him. I saw the life fade from my wife’s eyes in the same moment.

  I held them both.

  I screamed until my voice broke.

  The healers were powerless.

  The priests turned away.

  In despair, I sought Baldirion. I believed—foolishly—that he would understand, that he would help. But darkness clings to him now. I fear I have doomed my son placing him near that man.

  Durante… if somehow fate is not cruel… if somehow you still walk this world…

  Please.

  Take my son, Rowan.

  Take him away from this kingdom—before it becomes something twisted beyond redemption.

  Raise him far from crowns, away from blood burdens.

  You are the only one I trust.

  You always were.

  Your brother in all but blood,

  Reni.

  The ink had bled in some places—tear marks, long dried.

  Durante lowered the letter slowly.

  He said nothing.

  No grief.

  No anger.

  Only stillness.

  He had known—deep inside—that Reni was gone. The letter only confirmed the shape of the loss.

  He closed the box.

  His face remained unreadable. The world of Maharlika, Diospyrus, its politics, its kings, its curses—they meant nothing to him. The land could rot. The nobles could fall. The banners could burn.

  Only one thing mattered.

  Rowan.

  Reni’s son.

  The child who now walked the world under another name.

  A boy who did not know who he was.

  A boy who, even now, lived unaware of the blood running through him.

  Durante stood.

  No grand speeches. No vows. No tears.

  His purpose was set.

  He would find Rowan.

  He would take him.

  He would keep him alive.

  The rest of Maharlika could burn.