Winter came to Veridias.
The wind howled around the manor like a hungry wolf. Snow piled against the walls. The sea turned dark and angry, and no ships passed the island.
Kael had been at Veridias for three months.
He had grown used to the manor's ways. The servants who moved like ghosts. The creaking floors at night. The paintings that watched him from every wall. But some things he could not get used to.
The locked doors.
There were many in the manor. Doors that led to wings of the house where no one went. Doors that Cassian kept locked tight. When Kael asked about them, Seraphina changed the subject. When he asked the servants, they looked away.
One door in particular caught his attention.
It was at the end of a long hallway on the third floor. Unlike the others, this door had no lock. But it was always closed. And no one ever went in or out.
Kael asked about it one morning at breakfast.
"What is behind that door? The one at the end of the hall?"
Cassian's hand stopped mid-reach for his bread. Seraphina's face went pale.
"Nothing," Cassian said. "An old storage room. Nothing important."
But his voice was too quick. Too firm.
Kael did not ask again. But he did not forget.
---
A week later, he found his chance.
Cassian had gone to the village on business. Seraphina was in her rooms with a headache. The servants were busy in the kitchens.
Kael walked quietly to the third floor. The hallway was empty. The door stood before him, plain and ordinary.
He reached for the handle.
It turned easily. The door swung open.
Inside was not a storage room.
It was a bedroom. A child's bedroom. The bed was made, the curtains drawn. Toys sat on a shelf—wooden soldiers, a rocking horse. Clothes hung in the wardrobe. A small desk held paper and pens.
It looked like someone had just stepped out and might return any moment.
Kael walked inside slowly. His heart pounded. On the desk, he saw a drawing—a child's drawing of a man and a woman holding hands. In the corner, someone had written a name.
Darian.
His father's name.
Kael picked up the drawing. His hands shook. This was his father's room. From when he was a boy. They had kept it exactly as it was.
But why?
A floorboard creaked behind him.
Kael spun around.
Seraphina stood in the doorway. Her face was sad.
"You should not be here," she said softly.
"This was my father's room," Kael said. "Why did you hide it? Why did you lie?"
Seraphina walked to the window and looked out at the snow. "Your father was my brother. I loved him very much. When he died, my father could not let go. He kept this room exactly as it was. He would come here and sit for hours. He did it for years."
"But why hide it?"
"Because it hurts him to see it. Because keeping it hurts, and letting go hurts more." She turned to face him. "He did not tell you because he did not know how. Some things are too hard to say."
Kael looked around the room again. The toys. The bed. The drawing in his hand.
"Tell me about him," he said. "Tell me about my father."
Seraphina sat on the edge of the bed. She patted the space beside her.
"Your father was brave," she began. "Too brave, some said. He was kind to everyone—servants, strangers, even his enemies. He laughed easily and often. He loved the sea and would sail whenever he could. He was my best friend."
Kael listened. His chest ached, but he did not know why.
"When he went to war, I was eight years old. I begged him not to go. He lifted me in his arms and promised he would come back." Her voice broke. "He did not keep that promise."
Kael put his small hand on hers.
For a long time, they sat together in the room of the dead. The snow fell outside. The wind howled. And somewhere in the house, a clock ticked away the minutes of a life that might have been.
---
That night, Kael dreamed of fire.
A great house burning. Screaming in the dark. A woman's voice calling his name—not Kael, but something else. Something he could not quite hear.
He woke with tears on his face and the taste of smoke in his mouth.
The dream faded, as dreams do. But one thing stayed with him.
A name. Whispered in the woman's voice.
Aidan.
He lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling.
Was that his real name? Had someone loved him enough to call it in the fire?
He did not know. But for the first time since the shipwreck, he had something. A thread. A tiny piece of who he might be.
He held onto it like a lifeline.
And he did not tell anyone.