"Don't you know," Lord Glimor said, each word measured, precise, sharpened like a blade, "How to respect a woman?"

The corridor seemed to shrink around the question.

Killian opened his mouth, then closed it and opened it again.

"Father, I wasn't—"

"Silence!"

The word cracked through the hallway like a whip, sharp.

The servants lining the far end of the corridor flinched instinctively, shoulders drawing in, eyes dropping to the polished floor as if the marble itself had suddenly become more interesting than survival.

Killian froze.

The half-formed excuse died in his throat.

Cyrus Glimor didn't raise his voice again. He didn't need to. The silence that followed was heavier than shouting. It pressed down on Killian's chest until even breathing felt like defiance.

Cyrus turned his gaze away from his son and toward Agnes.

"Go," he said.

His voice was calmer now. Lower. Meant to carry authority without violence.

"You can rest for the day."

Agnes startled, as if she hadn't expected mercy to exist as an option. Her fingers tightened reflexively around the folded linens clutched to her chest, knuckles whitening before she realized and forced herself to relax.

"Y-Yes, my lord," she said quickly, her voice thin but steady through sheer effort. "Thank you."

She dipped into a hurried curtsy, the motion stiff with residual fear, then turned to leave.

Her steps were careful at first. Measured. Controlled.

Don't run.

Don't look afraid.

Don't give him a reason.

The thought repeated in her mind like a prayer as she walked away, every footstep echoing far too loudly in the corridor.

She was almost past him.

Almost—

Then Killian's eyes locked onto hers.

The look he gave her wasn't explosive. It wasn't loud. It didn't need to be.

It was cold and promising.

His lips moved, slowly, deliberately, forming words without sound.

"This isn't over yet."

Agnes felt it like a physical blow. Her breath caught, chest tightening as if invisible fingers had curled around her ribs. Her steps faltered for half a heartbeat before she forced herself forward again.

Faster now.

Still not running.

Not until she reached the corner.

Her footsteps echoed, then vanished, swallowed by the turn in the corridor.

Only when she was out of sight did she allow herself to hurry, nearly breaking into a run as the walls closed in around her.

Cyrus waited until she was gone.

Only then did he turn back to his son.

"She was just a maid," Killian said, the words tumbling out too fast, too defensive, his tone edged with sullen resentment. "I wasn't going to—"

"So was your mother."

The sentence landed like a slap.

Killian flinched, his head snapping back slightly as if struck, color draining from his face. His mouth opened again, but this time no sound came out.

For the first time, something flickered across Cyrus's expression.

Not rage.

Not control.

Something darker.

He moved.

The distance between them vanished in an instant.

Cyrus's hand shot out and closed around Killian's throat, fingers locking tight as iron bands. He slammed his son back against the wall hard enough to rattle the framed portraits lining the corridor, the impact shuddering through stone and bone alike.

Killian's eyes went wide.

His hands flew up instinctively, clawing at his father's arm, nails scraping uselessly against fabric and muscle. His feet scrabbled against the floor, boots slipping as panic exploded through him.

"You're only breathing," Cyrus hissed, his face inches from Killian's, voice low and venomous, "because you carry her blood. Because you're a piece of her that I can't bring myself to destroy."

His fingers tightened.

And air vanished for Killian.

His vision blurred at the edges, spots dancing violently as his throat burned and his lungs screamed for oxygen. His legs kicked weakly.

"But don't mistake that for love," Cyrus continued, unrelenting. "Don't mistake that for protection."

Something ugly slipped through his composure then, just for a second.

"Instead of fucking around with whoever you see," he went on, his voice dropping even lower, each word carved with disgust, "do something useful. Make yourself worth the air you breathe."

Then he let go.

Killian collapsed instantly, knees slamming into the floor as he sucked in desperate, ragged breaths.

His hands went to his throat, fingers trembling as he gasped, coughed, retched for air like a drowning man dragged too late to shore.

Cyrus straightened, smoothing his coat with practiced movements, the mask sliding back into place as if nothing had happened.

"Go back to the main estate," he said. "Take your brother."

Killian barely registered the words, still fighting to breathe.

"There have been reports of unusual activity near the eastern borders," Cyrus continued. "Possible smuggling. Possibly worse."

He turned away, already dismissing his son from relevance.

"Investigate," he said. "Handle it. Prove you're capable of something beyond this."

His footsteps were measured as he walked away.

Then he stopped.

Slowly, he looked back over his shoulder.

"Don't make me regret not killing you the day you were born," Cyrus said quietly. "The day you took my wife."

Then he was gone.

The corridor felt cavernous in his absence.

Killian remained on the floor, shaking, gasping, hands still pressed to his bruised throat as humiliation and hatred twisted together into something sharp and poisonous in his chest.

****

Scarlet moved from rooftop to rooftop, her boots barely making a sound as she crossed the tiled spines of the city.

Her expression was twisted with irritation, frustration coiling tight in her gut.

Three days.

Three fucking days.

And nothing.

Wrong Agnes after wrong Agnes after wrong lead entirely.

She'd checked servant districts until they blurred together, followed half-heard rumors that dissolved the moment she got close. All because that hooded bastard had given her almost nothing to work with.

Brown hair.

Green eyes.

Late twenties.

Former servant.

Might as well have said "find a woman in Greyford."

Her jaw clenched as she vaulted another narrow gap, landing lightly despite the ache settling into her legs. She'd chased worse leads before. Survived worse hunts. But the lack of direction gnawed at her patience in a way that felt personal.

She paused atop a rooftop overlooking the wealthier district, chest rising and falling as she caught her breath.

Below her, an estate sprawled outward, large, pristine, surrounded by manicured gardens and high walls. Multiple buildings. Private guards.

Rich people territory.

Not her usual hunting ground.

She was about to dismiss it and move on when movement caught her eye.

A balcony. Second floor.

A maid stepped out briefly, carrying folded linens, her posture tired but practiced.

Scarlet's vision sharpened instantly, the world narrowing as her enhanced sight locked onto the woman.

Chestnut brown hair, tied back neatly.

Green eyes.

Scarlet stilled.

Her heartbeat stumbled.

Wait.

That was…

The description matched too well to ignore.

She shifted her weight, muscles coiling as she prepared to jump, to get closer—

Then she froze.

As her gaze fell onto a man who stepped out from the estate's main entrance below.

Dark hair, wearing dark coat.

Scarlet's breath caught so sharply it hurt.

Her heart slammed against her ribs, fast and brutal, as recognition crashed into her with the force of a physical blow.

No.

No, no, no—!

Time slowed.

Sound dulled.

She couldn't move. Couldn't blink. Couldn't think.

Why?

Sweat broke out across her skin despite the cold, her chest tightening until each breath felt forced, shallow, wrong. Panic clawed up her spine, cold and electric, her vision tunneling as the man paused and turned his head slightly.

Scanning.

His gaze swept across the rooftops.

Then... toward her.

And when she saw his eyes locked onto her figure.

She didn't even think. Didn't plan and bolted.

Her feet pounded against tile as she ran, leaps growing reckless as she cleared gaps without checking distances. Tears burned in her eyes, blurring her vision as adrenaline drowned out pain and reason alike.

"No, no, no!"

Her foot slipped on loose gravel. She stumbled, windmilling for balance, barely catching herself before she went over the edge. Her heart slammed harder as she forced herself upright and kept moving.

Below, voices shouted as she dropped to street level, shoving through startled pedestrians with desperate strength.

"Watch it!"

"Crazy woman—"

She didn't hear them.

Didn't stop.

Didn't look back.

Why is he here?

How did he find me?

Her thoughts spiraled under the weight of pure terror as she barreled through the crowd, knocking into a merchant and sending his wares crashing to the ground.

She didn't apologize.

Didn't slow.

Just ran.

Get away.

Get away.

Get away.

Meanwhile, back at the Estate...

The man tilted his head, eyes still fixed on the distant rooftops where something, or someone, had been watching.

With deliberate care, he rolled up his left sleeve.

On his underarm, a mark glowed faintly. Then it dimmed and went dormant.

His lips curved into a smile that held no warmth, no kindness.

"Found you," he murmured softly. "Run all you want, little fox. The leash only stretches so far."

He rolled his sleeve back down, adjusted his coat, and turned toward the estate entrance.

"Three years is long enough," he said calmly. "Time to come home."

His smile widened.

"Whether you want to or not."

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