But inside, it wasn't strength. It was noise. Too much of it. Maria's voice. Her laughter. The way she used to run after him when they were children, barefoot, stubborn, refusing to be left behind even when he told her to stay inside. He had been a boy trying to act like a man. She had been a child who believed he already was one.
And now, he stepped out into the open air. The sea stretched before him, restless, darkening under the fading light. Waves rolled in with a steady rhythm, like a heartbeat that refused to stop. The wind carried salt and something colder, something heavier.
Edmond walked along the shore, boots sinking slightly into wet sand. "She came to me." The words slipped out before he could stop them. No one was there. No one to hear.."She came to me for help." His jaw tightened. "I turned her away."
The memory didn't ask for permission. It came anyway. Maria standing before him in his chambers, her hands trembling but her voice trying to stay firm. She had always tried to be brave in front of him. Always. Even when she was afraid.
"Edmond, please. We are the only family that you have."
And he had looked at her like a ruler, not like a family. Politics, alliances, timing, reputation, and oath.
All the things that suddenly felt worthless. Edmond's steps slowed. "Now she is dead." The words cracked this time.
A tear slipped down his cheek. He didn't notice it at first. When he did, he wiped it away quickly, almost angrily, like someone might see. "I could have saved her."
The sea answered with another crashing wave. He kept walking, because stopping felt dangerous. Because if he stopped, he might break in a way he couldn't recover from.
The shoreline curved slightly, leading toward a stretch where the sand met the edge of a dense forest. The trees stood tall and quiet, their shadows stretching long as the light faded.
And then, a small hand slipped into his.
Edmond froze.
It wasn't fear that stopped him. It was something else. Something fragile. He turned slowly. For a moment, just a moment, his breath left him completely.
"Maria…" The face staring up at him was hers. Not the woman she had become, but the child she used to be. Wide eyes. Soft cheeks. That same stubborn spark hiding behind innocence.
His fingers tightened slightly around the small hand. "Maria," he said again, quieter now, like saying it too loud might make her disappear.
Then the girl tilted her head. Her voice wasn't Maria's. "Follow me."
Something in Edmond's chest shifted. Not quite a relief, not quite dreadful either.
"I want to show you something," the girl added, already tugging at his hand.
Edmond didn't pull away. He didn't ask questions, he followed her.
The sand gave way to soil as they stepped into the forest. The air changed almost immediately. Cooler. Still. The sound of the sea faded behind them, replaced by the soft rustle of leaves and the distant call of something unseen.
"What is it," Edmond asked after a while, his voice steady again, "that you want to show me in the forest?"
The girl glanced back at him, smiling. "Just follow me. We will soon be there."
Soon.
That word lingered.
Edmond's hand slowly moved to the hilt of his sword. He didn't draw it yet, but his fingers rested there, ready. Instinct had returned. Grief didn't erase danger. If anything, it made it sharper.
They walked deeper. The light thinned. Shadows thickened between the trees.
Then, the girl stopped. So suddenly that Edmond nearly stepped past her. She lifted her small hand and pointed.
Edmond's gaze followed. A figure stood ahead, half-hidden between the trees.
Still, and watching, wearing a dark hoodie that covered her face.
Edmond's sword came free in one smooth motion. The sound of steel cutting through air broke the silence. "Who are you?" His voice was sharp now. Commanding. Familiar. The kind of voice that didn't ask twice. "Show yourself."
The figure didn't move immediately, a breath passed, then another. And then slowly, The figure turned. The hood shifted just enough.
Edmond's grip on his sword faltered. "…Evelyn?"
Lady Evelyn Oblak stepped fully into view. Her face looked older. Not by years, but by something heavier. Something that sat behind her eyes and refused to leave.
She gave a small nod. On her arms, was a child. Whimpering softly.
Edmond lowered his sword, but not completely. "Evelyn," he said again, as if confirming she was real.
She stepped forward, then paused, noticing the little girl beside him. Her gaze lingered for a moment, something unreadable passing through her expression.
Then she bowed. "My lord." Her voice was steady, but it carried weight. She crouched slightly and reached into her garment, pulling out a small coin. She pressed it into the little girl's hand.
The child's face lit up instantly. No hesitation, no fear.
She turned and ran, disappearing back the way they came, as if she had only ever been a guide, and nothing more.
Edmond watched her go. For a second too long. Then his attention snapped back to Evelyn. To the child in her arms. To everything that didn't make sense.
Tears welled in his eyes again, but this time he didn't hide them. "How…" His voice failed him for a moment. He swallowed. Then tried again. "How did you survive the slaughter?"
Evelyn shook her head slowly. "I wasn't there." The answer came too quickly. Too clean. "Everyone died," she added, her voice tightening slightly. "Except this child."
Edmond's brows pulled together. "Whose child is this?" The question came out harder than he intended.
Evelyn stepped closer. Close enough that Edmond could see the child clearly now.
Red hair.
Even in the dim light, it burned. A quiet kind of fire. Evelyn's eyes glistened as she looked down at the child, then back at Edmond. She didn't answer immediately. Instead, she held the child out.
Offering him to Edmond.
Edmond hesitated, just for a breath. Then he took him. The moment the child settled into his arms, something shifted.
Weight, warmth, and reality. "He is a Dragarian," Edmond said, almost under his breath.
It wasn't a question, but Evelyn nodded. "His name is Drexo Dragaria."
The name hung in the air. Heavy, and unavoidable. She let out a shaky breath. "He is your nephew."