Frost bit at his arm where metal met skin, and he rubbed his shoulder, hoping he didn’t get frostbite. Even his thick fur-lined coat couldn’t keep the chill out. He rarely visited the estate in the winter. His mother would have spirited him off to the Academy in the fall, and he wouldn’t return until the lilies were blooming again in the spring.

“I’ll wait right here with the skysailer, Smolder,” said Elara, curling her Cercian fur-lined cloak around her. “You go do your thing. Yell if anyone kills you.”

He rolled his eyes. “Thanks. You’re a big help.”

“I try— Wait.” She grabbed him by the shoulder and nodded up toward the mansion. The hearing apparatuses flickered bright purple in her ears. “I hear something.”

“Right, I’m sure,” he sighed, and she squeezed his shoulder tighter.

“I’m not joking.”

Oh. That wasn’t good. “Messiers?”

She hesitated. “I’m . . . not sure. Be careful. I don’t like this.”

“I never liked this place.” He pulled his lightsword cross-body over his shoulder and started up the long path to the Valerio estate. Snow crunched underfoot. The grounds looked to be empty as he wandered up the driveway to the main house, but he didn’t trust the silence.

It was too quiet.

The estate had been a castle in ancient times, but over the years it was outfitted and refortified until only the front wall was the ancient, crumbling sandstone of old. He made his way up the steps to the front door, his breath coming out in puffs of steam. It didn’t look like anyone was here. He tried the front door, expecting it to be locked—but it eased open at his touch. There were scrapes against the doorway. Someone had forced their way inside.

Fear curled in his gut like a poisonous snake, tail rattling. He didn’t like this at all. Was he too late?

Quietly, he stepped into the foyer and hung his coat on the hook by the door, resituating his lightsword on his back and closed the door behind him.

“Hello?” he called.

But there was no answer.

His mechanical arm twitched, and he pulled it tight against his chest to keep it from moving. The stairs whined loudly as he ascended to the second floor, toward his mother’s study. Upstairs, his old room had been completely renovated, his things sold, but his mother’s room had gone untouched. A thin layer of dust covered the armoire, the dressing table she’d loved so much, where he had the most vivid memories of her sitting, brushing her long peppery-black hair with a fine-toothed comb. Nothing was out of order or misplaced. Her dresses were in her wardrobe, her bed made, her books neatly displayed on a wall of shelves.

But she was gone.

In the blink of an eye.

And while he’d loved her, he hadn’t always liked her—and he was sure she’d never liked him. Which was why he never understood why she had shielded him with her body so that he, the son she clearly despised, could live. The son who, just a few hours before, had disavowed his Valerio name.