The Reverie of a Mother

The clang of steel rang out in the cold morning air.

Sweat rolled down Michael's brow as he ducked under a practice blade, boots skidding slightly on the gravel yard. The opponent, a seasoned Edelhardt knight, not holding back, pressed forward with a quick pivot and jab. Michael blocked it just in time, but his grip was off. He winced. Too slow. Too distracted.

"Again," came Ser Rodrik's voice, flat and unimpressed.

Michael didn't argue. He set his feet and raised his wooden blade again.

The other knights watched from a distance, some with fond amusement, others with calculating eyes. Michael was thirteen now, growing into the long-limbed awkwardness that would one day shape into power. But today, he was all elbows and hesitation.

And it wasn't because of the sword.

It was her.

A few nights earlier

The blossom tree had been lit with golden lanterns. A soft breeze moved Liora's hair like riverweed under light. Michael had meant to speak to her, really speak.

He remembered the way she laughed when Elias had spilled strawberry jam on his tunic, remembered how she gently wiped his face with a napkin and kissed the top of his head like Amalia used to.

He remembered thinking, I'll tell her.

They had been walking along the garden wall that night. She had hummed some old lullaby as they walked, her arms wrapped loosely around herself. Michael had almost said it then, almost taken her hand, almost asked what she saw when she looked at him.

But then she had turned to him and said softly, "Do you ever miss being little, Michael? When everything felt... safer?"

And he had nodded. Swallowed the words like bitter herbs. Because in her voice was grief, not love. And he wasn't sure he could carry both.

The blade hit his side. Not hard, just enough to sting.

"Focus," Rodrik barked.

Michael stepped back, chest heaving.

"Your footwork's worse than a drunk duckling."

Michael sheathed the practice sword and bowed stiffly. "May I rest?"

Rodrik studied him, then gave a curt nod. "You're no good to the family if you train without your mind. Clear it, or come back tomorrow."

Michael nodded again and turned.

As he walked across the yard toward the washbasin, he saw her. Liora stood beneath the training hall's arch, Mathilde by her side holding a basket of towels too big for her tiny arms. Liora's expression was soft, amused even. She had clearly watched part of the spar.

Their eyes met.

She smiled.

Michael felt a wave of warmth and then shame. He hadn't been impressive. He'd looked like a sulky boy with no control. But she didn't mock. Didn't correct. She only tilted her head and mouthed, You okay?

He nodded once. Then turned away.

Inside the training hall, he dunked his hands in cool water, rubbing the grime from his wrists. A quiet set of footsteps approached.

Michael stiffened.

"I would've parried left," Hadrian said smoothly, folding his gloved hands behind his back.

Michael didn't answer. He knew better than to speak first.

"Your stance is improving. But your mind… you've let it drift." Hadrian's tone was deceptively warm.

Michael reached for a towel.

"I've seen that look before," Hadrian continued. "The way you gaze at Liora."

Michael's shoulders stiffened.

"She's… family."

Hadrian raised a brow. "And yet not truly."

Michael turned to face him, jaw clenched.

"She is Edelhardt now."

Hadrian smiled, thin and patronizing. "In name. And yet, names don't always mean belonging. You understand that better than most."

Michael said nothing. The tension coiled in his chest like wire pulled too tight.

"You're growing, Michael," Hadrian said softly, stepping closer. "One day, you'll lead this house. And you must ask yourself, where will your loyalties lie?"

Michael narrowed his eyes.

"You can't serve two loyalties. Not forever."

That night, as the candles dimmed and the hall grew still, Michael lay in his bed staring at the ceiling.

From the adjoining room, he could hear Leopold humming to himself, some off-key tune that Elias had probably taught him. A child's lullaby. Comforting.

He remembered when they were younger, when he'd chase Leopold around the halls with wooden spoons and Annalise would braid Liora's hair in lopsided plaits. When Mathilde still sucked her thumb. When Amalia's laughter filled the entire estate.

Now the halls felt colder.

Liora was changing. He was changing. The house was watching.

Hadrian was watching.

Michael turned over and buried his face in the pillow.

He wanted to be brave. To fight like he promised. To protect her.

But he didn't yet know how.

The next day, he joined the others for breakfast.

Amalia was too ill to join, her place at the table painfully empty. Liora poured tea for each of them without a word. She had tied her hair with Linna's old ribbon, the yellow one. Her hands were steady, but her eyes were far away.

Michael watched her.

She had not once cried in front of the household.

Not once wavered when nobles snubbed her.

Not once asked for comfort.

He admired that. Feared it, too.

Leopold was feeding Elias pieces of toast, pretending it was "battle rations." Annalise muttered under her breath about the upcoming embroidery lesson. Mathilde dipped her entire sleeve in the honey pot and giggled.

And through it all, Liora sat, silent but present. Watching. Enduring.

Michael couldn't stand it.

"I want to train with real swords," he said suddenly.

Everyone went still.

Even Liora raised her eyes.

"You're not of age yet," Annalise muttered.

"I don't care."

Liora set the teapot down. "Why the rush?"

Michael looked at her.

"Because if I don't learn to protect this family now… we might lose everything."

She said nothing for a moment.

Then, with a voice just above a whisper: "We won't. Not while we still hold each other."

Later, as the household drifted apart to their lessons and duties, Michael stood beneath the blossom tree.

Its petals were beginning to brown at the edges. A change in the wind.

He pressed a hand to its bark, grounding himself.

He could feel the fight coming. In the halls. In the court. In his heart.

And he knew what Hadrian meant now.

He'd have to choose.

But not today.

For now, he watched the wind carry a blossom past his hand and thought of Liora's ribbon.

And hoped it would never unravel.