First message
I flung the doors wide, the sound of oak striking stone like a cannon-shot. My voice rose hot, sharp, demanding what was mine. “I am your son, Benedict! Your blood, your flesh, your very shadow! No more will I be whispered of in alleys and taverns—I will stand before you as heir, or I will tear my rights from your cold hand!”
The words burned my tongue, my fists clenched tight, the old rage thrumming through me like a drumbeat. I wanted to see fear in his eyes, or fury, or at the very least acknowledgment. But then—I saw her. Standing in the corner, pale as ivory, her gaze not scornful but steady, as though she alone saw me not as bastard, not as wretch, but as man.
In that instant, my voice faltered. My chest tightened, my anger choking upon itself. For she is the only soul who does not sneer at my name, the only one who has given me words free of venom. I trust her, God help me, though my trust is poisoned with something else—something that twists in my gut.