The Reverie of a Mother

The sun filtered gold through the canopy above, dappling the forest path in light and shadow. The hunting party had spread thin, lords and their sons laughing, barking commands to their hounds, and raising their voices to be heard over the thunder of hooves. It was the season's first hunt, hosted in honor of Crown Princess Seraphine's return to court, and nearly every noble house within a hundred leagues had sent a representative.

House Edelhardt had sent Micheal.

And, as a courtesy, they had allowed Liora to accompany him, though not to ride.

She remained at the edge of the clearing with the younger nobles and companions, seated under a pavilion where the servants poured chilled wine and laid out roasted meats. Her presence was, by tradition, tolerated. Barely.

She wore a modest gown in forest green, stitched by Annalise's hand the week before. It was well-made and carefully hemmed, but the silk was plainly dyed, no embroidery, no crest. Not yet.

Some looked away politely when she approached. Others did not.

"That's the girl Lady Edelhardt took in, isn't it?" murmured a voice behind a fan.

"A stray, more like," said another. "She's not even legitimate."

"And wearing silk, too. I suppose kindness makes one blind."

Liora didn't turn around. She didn't flinch. But her hands tightened around her goblet, and her gaze flicked toward the trees, toward Micheal's shadow disappearing among the riders.

He hadn't wanted to come. Neither had she.

It happened just before the second horn.

A boar had been spotted, and the young heirs were eager to prove themselves. Micheal rode at the front, eyes sharp, muscles taut beneath his hunting coat. By his side was Leonce Westergarde, the heir of a house older than Edelhardt, known for its steel mines and arrogance in equal measure.

Leonce had been pestering Micheal since breakfast, draping his arm around him like they were old friends and making thin remarks about "charity projects raised in noble nurseries."

But when they dismounted briefly for water near the riverbank, the comments turned sharper.

"You're generous, Edelhardt," Leonce said, sipping from a silver flask. "Giving your dogs names and your servants titles. It's sweet, really."

Micheal didn't reply.

"I wonder, do you kiss her hand like a lady's? Or just toss her a coin when she behaves?"

Something snapped.

A sound like bone against stone.

Micheal's fist struck Leonce's jaw cleanly, dropping him onto the grass with a thud.

Gasps erupted. One of the noblemen pulled back his horse in alarm. Another called for the steward.

Leonce spat blood into the ferns and groaned. Micheal stood over him, chest rising, eyes burning.

"Say her name again," he said, voice low. "Say it, and I'll break your teeth next."

By the time word reached the estate, it was already reshaped into scandal.

"The young Edelhardt heir struck a Westergarde during a royal hunt!""A common girl's honor, defended like a duchess's.""He lost his temper, over a nothing."

Servants whispered before they bowed. Tutors paused when Micheal entered the room. Letters from lesser houses arrived sealed in colors not quite friendly.

The name Liora was suddenly in every mouth, spoken with disdain, wonder, curiosity, and contempt.

Amalia summoned him the moment he returned.

He stood in the solar like a guilty boy, coat wrinkled, jaw clenched, as she sat beneath the arched windows in a chair too large for her now.

"I taught you better," she said softly. "You never raise your hand first. Not in court. Not in politics. Not in hunting parties surrounded by heirs and eyes."

"He insulted our family," Micheal said through gritted teeth.

"He insulted a girl who does not yet bear our name," she countered. "And now he's made you look foolish for caring."

Silence stretched between them. Her breathing had grown shallow again. She coughed into a handkerchief when she thought he wasn't looking.

"You should apologize, formally. We cannot afford Westergarde as an enemy."

"No."

Amalia raised her brows.

Micheal's voice was quieter now. "He called her a dog."

Her lips pressed into a thin line. She rose, slowly, with effort, and stepped toward him.

Then she did something she had not done in many years.

She reached out and held his face in both hands.

Her fingers were cold.

"Thank you," she whispered, "for seeing her."

Micheal's eyes burned. He didn't look away.

"She's not just the girl I took in," Amalia said. "She's what I'd hoped a daughter would be. And she needs to know that not everyone sees her as glass."

Liora stood outside the solar, back pressed against the wall, breath caught in her throat.

She hadn't meant to listen. She'd come to return a book and stopped when she heard her name. Her heart thundered with confusion, shame, and something too warm to name.

She waited until Micheal left the room before approaching him.

He looked startled to see her, but not unkindly so.

"You didn't have to," she said softly. "What you did. You didn't have to do it for me."

"I didn't."

He paused. Then: "I did it because I was tired of watching them talk like we don't hear them."

Liora's mouth twitched. "You'll be lucky if Westergarde doesn't challenge you to a duel."

"I hope he does. I'd rather die fighting than sit smiling while they spit."

She stepped closer, brushing her hand briefly along his sleeve.

"Still," she whispered, "thank you."

Micheal studied her face for a moment.

Then, without smiling, without shifting his voice to something sweet or ceremonial, he simply said:

"They'll learn one way or another that you're one of ours."

That night, the wind howled through the halls like a storm approaching.

But inside the heart of Edelhardt, a quiet seed had rooted deeper.

Not in spite of the world.

But because of it.