Chapter Text
The armored vehicle thundered down the mountain road, steel plates rattling, its matte paint dulled by dust and frost. The valley seemed to tighten around it, trees bending like gaunt sentries, branches clawing at the metal. It was the kind of machine that didn’t belong in a place like this — and that was precisely why Lenore Solis chose it.
Inside, the glow of a single bulb illuminated the trio.
Lenore sat centered, straight-backed despite the bumps of the road. Her black curls framed her face in untamed waves, catching the lamplight. A slender figure dressed in a tailored coat of black wool and crimson silk, she exuded a beauty that was sharp rather than soft, the kind that struck rather than soothed. Her green eyes burned with calculation, cool and alive all at once. Every gesture was deliberate — a gloved hand adjusting the fall of her collar, a measured exhale of cigarette smoke into the stale air.
She was every bit the empress of her domain: a woman who bought and sold information with the precision of a surgeon and the ferocity of a wolf. Where she moved, fortunes shifted, syndicates rose or crumbled.
Across from her sat Manuel and Mateo, her guards, her shadows, her family by choice if not by blood.
Manuel, the elder, was built like stone. Shoulders thick, jaw marked by an old scar that cut across his stubble. His dark eyes rarely strayed from the window, scanning for threats with the habit of a soldier who had seen too many ambushes. He had once belonged to men who fought in jungles and deserts where names didn’t matter — only survival. To Lenore, he was a wall: immovable, silent, loyal.
Mateo, leaner and younger, was all restless energy. He tapped his boot against the floor, smirking as though danger was a game. His hair was close-cropped, his smile quick and crooked, but his eyes carried the same shadow as Manuel's. Where Manuel was the hammer, Mateo was the knife — swift, unpredictable, lethal. Together, the brothers had carved a bloody path through mercenary contracts before swearing their lives to Lenore.
“Carajo,” Manuel muttered in Spanish, peering through the slit window as the crooked rooftops of the Village appeared through the fog. “Place looks like it’s been rotting since the Black Plague.”
“Rot feeds secrets,” Lenore replied coolly, not looking up from the cigarette balanced between her fingers. “And secrets are worth more than gold. Don’t wrinkle your nose yet, niño.”
Mateo finally spoke, his voice deep, steady. “The people won’t like us here. Outsiders don’t walk into places like this without consequence.”
Lenore flicked ash onto the metal floor, her lips curving in a faint smile. “Then let them glare. I didn’t cross continents in this steel beast to bow to peasants.” She leaned forward slightly, her green eyes sharp as glass. “We came for one thing. To find my Papá. And if this village thinks it can keep him, it is wrong.”
Manuel grunted in approval, but Mateo only laughed softly, shaking his head. “Every time, Lenore. You pull us into a pit and expect us to dig our way back out.”
She arched a brow at him, smoke curling from her lips. “And yet, here you are, still digging.”
The vehicle growled to a stop on cobblestones slick with frost. Outside, the sound of a market rose — bartering voices, the bleat of a goat, the ring of an axe splitting wood. It was life, but brittle, starved.
The rear doors slammed open.
Cold air rushed in, along with silence. The villagers had turned to look.
Lenore descended first, heels striking the ground with regal precision, crimson silk flashing beneath her coat. She adjusted her gloves, her expression cool and unreadable, though the hostility of the stares pressed against her like a weight.
Manuel stepped down behind her, rifle strapped across his back. Mateo followed, twirling a knife once before sheathing it, his smirk taunting the eyes that dared linger.
The market had gone quiet. Suspicion and hatred swam in every glance, every mutter of a word Lenore did not recognize but understood well enough. Outsider. Intruder. Stranger.
“Pueblo podrido,” Lenore murmured in Spanish, surveying them with sharp disdain. Rotten village.
Villagers fell into wary silence, their eyes narrowing as Lenore stepped down. Her black curls framed a face as sharp and elegant as the steel sheathed beneath her tailored coat. Manuel and Mateo followed, dark-suited and coiled with the quiet menace of men who had killed before.
The three moved through the cobblestones with a presence that did not belong here. Vendors’ hands stilled over their wares, conversations cut short, and a cold wind seemed to curl through the air, heavy with suspicion. Children were tugged behind skirts. Old men spat in the dirt.
Lenore’s green eyes scanned the marketplace like a hawk’s. And then she saw him.
The Duke.
He sat behind a cart piled high with goods, bartering with a nervous farmer. His laughter rolled like thunder, rich and familiar even after years apart. For a heartbeat, Lenore’s resolve wavered—the untouchable broker became a daughter again, small and vulnerable in her chest.
“Papá,” she said, low but certain, the word carrying across the hush of the square.
The Duke’s head snapped up. For an instant, disbelief froze him. His jovial mask slipped, eyes widening, mouth opening in shock. Then his face broke—surprise melting into joy, sorrow, and a shadow of fear.
“Lenore…?” His voice cracked despite its booming timbre. “Dios mío… my child!”
The farmer muttered a curse and snatched his goods, retreating as villagers shifted uneasily, whispers darting like knives.
Manuel moved closer to Lenore’s side, murmuring under his breath in Spanish: “Todos nos miran como si fuéramos el enemigo.”
(They look at us like we are the enemy.)
“Ignore them,” Lenore replied in the same tongue, never breaking her gaze from her father. “They are nothing.”
She crossed the space, her guards keeping step. The villagers edged back but did not look away, their hostility a living thing pressing against her shoulders.
The Duke leaned forward, his large hands gripping the edge of his cart as if to anchor himself. His smile quivered, torn between relief and dread.
“You should not have come here, hija mía,” he whispered urgently, his eyes flicking to the watching crowd. “This place… it is not safe for you.”
Lenore took his hand without hesitation, her slender fingers tightening around his. “You did not answer my messages. You vanished into silence. Did you think I would sit idly while my father might be in danger?”
The Duke swallowed hard, his jovial facade nowhere to be found now. “There are… powers here, Lenore. Shadows that do not welcome strangers. Not even blood.”
Her lips curved into a dangerous smile, green eyes flashing like cut emerald. “Then the shadows will learn to tolerate me. I did not cross oceans, Papá, only to be chased away by whispers and glares.”
The villagers kept watching, the marketplace alive with tension—but between father and daughter, the world seemed to narrow, heavy with things unspoken.
---
The Duke squeezed her hand, warmth and tremor both in his grip. “Lenore, listen to me,” he whispered, his booming voice low for once. “The eyes that watch us now do not forget. And they do not forgive.”
Mateo shifted, his sharp gaze sweeping over the villagers. His hand brushed the edge of his jacket where his pistol waited. Manuel was less subtle—he cracked his knuckles slowly, deliberately, a warning to anyone thinking too hard about stepping forward.
But the villagers were bold in their hatred.
“She doesn’t belong here,” one woman spat, clutching her shawl tighter. “Foreign blood brings nothing but ruin.”
Another man added, “We have enough devils without more riding into our home.”
The whispers swelled, bitter voices circling like carrion birds. Lenore straightened, her slender frame radiating authority. She did not flinch, nor lower her eyes. Instead, she smiled—a sharp, calculating smile that sent a shiver down the spines of those nearest.
“I see your village has forgotten its manners,” she said coolly in English, her accent rich and lilting. Then, switching fluidly into Spanish so only her guards and father could follow: “Son ovejas, nada más. Déjalos balar.”
(They are sheep, nothing more. Let them bleat.)
The Duke tried to laugh, but it came out strained, his joviality cracking under the weight of unease. “My girl, I beg you… do not provoke them.”
But it was too late.
One of the younger men stepped forward, gripping a pitchfork white-knuckled. His jaw was tight with fury, his voice rising to carry through the square. “Take your gold and your secrets back to whatever city vomited you out. We don’t want your kind here.”
Manuel moved instantly, placing himself between Lenore and the villager, shoulders squared like a wall. “Say that again,” he growled in accented English, his tone thick with promise.
The market fell into dead silence, every eye fixed on the standoff.
Lenore’s green eyes flashed as she lifted her chin, placing a calming hand on Manuel’s arm. “No, hermano,” she murmured. “Not here. Not now.” Her gaze swept the villagers with icy grace, then returned to the Duke.
“Papa,” she said softly, though her words were steel, “we cannot have this conversation in the open. Take me somewhere we can speak. Now.”
The Duke hesitated, torn, then nodded quickly. “Yes, yes… come. My carriage.” He shuffled to his cart, gesturing hastily, his bulk moving with surprising urgency.
As he led them away, the villagers parted reluctantly, glaring, spitting, whispering curses. But none dared step closer with Mateo and Manuel’s watchful stares cutting through them.
When they reached the Duke’s traveling carriage—a massive, ornate thing reeking of incense and smoke—he pulled aside the curtain with shaking hands. “Inside, quickly,” he urged, voice low and fearful. “Before eyes sharper than theirs take notice.”
Lenore glanced at him, suspicion and concern flickering in her gaze. “What are you hiding, Papa?”
The Duke sighed, his jovial mask gone entirely now. “Only the truth, hija mía. And the truth is… there are lords here who rule by terror. And if they know you are here, it may already be too late.”
---
Inside the Duke’s carriage, the world outside seemed to dull into muffled hostility. The scent of incense and spices hung heavy, mingling with the faint creak of wood beneath the Duke’s immense weight. Lenore sat with perfect poise opposite him, her green eyes cutting through the haze like emerald fire.
The Duke regarded her in silence for a moment, as if to reassure himself she was real. His lips pulled into a wistful smile. “Ah, Lenore… you’ve traveled far, and in your usual style.” His gaze flicked to the curtained window, no doubt noting the armored vehicle and her armed shadows outside. “I almost didn’t believe my eyes.”
Her expression softened for only a heartbeat before she leaned forward, voice cool, deliberate. “I sent word, Papa. Again and again. And when no answer came, I feared for you.”
The Duke lifted a hand in a calming gesture, his smile slipping into something more measured. “No harm has come to me, hija mía. This village is… not what you are used to, no. But I am quite comfortable here.” He spread his hands toward the crates and curios stacked within the carriage. “The rulers tolerate me because I provide what they need. They value trade, and I value survival. We understand one another.”
Her brows knit, suspicion sharpening her features. “And yet you did not answer me. You left me in silence.”
He sighed, heavy and long, as though the weight of her anger pressed into him. “Not for lack of wanting. But because here, outsiders are not welcome. This village is sealed, Lenore. Every stranger is a potential threat in their eyes, and those in power enforce their will with… severity.”
From outside, Mateo’s voice carried through the thin wall in low Spanish: “Nos vigilan.”
(They’re watching us.)
Lenore’s lips curved into a faint smile, though her tone was iron. “I’ve never cared for gates or rules, Papa. Rules are written by those who fear losing power.”
The Duke chuckled, though uneasily. “Spoken like a true broker. But here, the rulers are not politicians or barons with titles you can strip away. They are… different. Each with their own domain. Outsiders are seen as sparks near dry hay—one small flame could ignite everything. That is why I remain cautious.”
“And why you fear for me.”
“Yes,” the Duke admitted, his jovial tone breaking into solemn honesty. “Because your presence cannot go unnoticed. Already the villagers whisper. If the lords take interest…” He shook his head. “Business may shield me, but you? You are a question they will want answered. And they do not ask gently.”
Lenore leaned back, crossing one leg over the other with practiced elegance. The faint lamplight caught the sharp line of her cheekbones, her beauty edged with defiance. “Then let them ask,” she said coolly. “I am not some lost sheep, Papa. I have stood across from worse than provincial tyrants.”
The Duke studied her for a long moment, pride and worry warring in his gaze. “You are your father’s daughter,” he murmured. Then, lowering his voice: “But even a wolf must mind when it strays into another pack’s territory.”
---
The lantern swung gently with the movement of the carriage as a breeze outside shifted the fabric walls. Lenore’s eyes narrowed, her voice low and deliberate.
“Papa, you’ve always told me that in business, knowledge is the only true currency. Better to have the knowledge of the wolf than to remain in the dark as its prey.” She leaned forward, fingers steepled, her emerald gaze pinning him. “So tell me—what kind of wolves rule here?”
The Duke’s jovial mask cracked further. For a long moment, he only drummed his thick fingers against his knee, as though weighing the cost of each word. His eyes flicked to the curtained window again, as if even the wood and fabric might carry whispers to the wrong ears.
“Lenore…” he began, voice softer now, touched with gravity, “you do not know what you ask.”
“I know exactly what I ask.” Her tone was steel, though quiet. “And you will answer me.”
He exhaled heavily, sinking deeper into the cushion, his bulk shrouded by the lantern glow. Finally, he nodded once, the decision reluctant but inevitable.
“There are four,” he said, his deep voice a careful whisper. “Each… a lord in their own right. Each with a domain where their word is absolute. And above them all, the one they call Mother Miranda—the village’s true sovereign.”
The names seemed to weigh on him, his usual buoyancy drained.
“The villagers worship her as a god, and in truth, they fear her more than death itself. The lords serve her, in their fashion, and she permits no disobedience. Their power is not… natural, hija mía. Nor is it the kind you can buy, or charm, or threaten.”
Lenore’s expression didn’t flinch, though her grip on her cane tightened. “Then tell me of them, these four.”
The Duke shifted uncomfortably, but continued.
“There is Lady Dimitrescu, mistress of the castle on the cliff. Towering in stature and pride, her reach extends far beyond those walls. To cross her is to invite a swift and… bloody reprisal.”
He paused, watching for Lenore’s reaction. Her face betrayed nothing but cold attentiveness, so he pressed on.
“Heisenberg, master of the factory. Cunning, rebellious, always scheming. He plays with machines like a child with toys, but his ambition burns hotter than his furnaces. One must never underestimate him.”
A flicker of distaste crossed his features before he continued.
“Donna Beneviento, cloaked in shadows with her dolls. Few dare approach her domain. They say her very presence unravels the mind, and her silence is more dangerous than another’s roar.”
The Duke’s voice fell even lower now, his joviality gone entirely.
“And lastly, Moreau. A tragic soul, twisted by the gift Miranda bestowed. Pitied by some, reviled by others—but his domain is his, and he defends it with a loyalty that borders on madness.”
Lenore leaned back slowly, her expression unreadable, though her green eyes gleamed with thought. She repeated their names under her breath like weights added to a scale. “Dimitrescu. Heisenberg. Beneviento. Moreau.”
“And Miranda above them all,” the Duke finished, his massive hands folding tightly together. “Do you see now, hija mía, why I feared for you? This village has no tolerance for interlopers. They will not see you as my daughter—they will see you as a threat.”
Silence fell, heavy and absolute, broken only by the muffled shifting of her guards outside. Then Lenore smiled—slow, sharp, and deliberate.
“Then they are correct to see me so.”
The Duke’s eyes widened, both pride and dread flickering there.
---
The lantern swayed faintly, throwing golden light across Lenore’s face as she considered her father’s words. Her green eyes sharpened, voice smooth but edged with command.
“You’ve spoken of this Mother Miranda,” she said, each syllable measured. “And the gift she bestowed upon the lords. What is this gift, Papa? Knowledge? Wealth? Or something darker?”
The Duke shifted in his seat, his jovial nature buried under the weight of her question. His large hands clasped together, knuckles whitening.
“She is… not as other mortals, hija mía,” he rumbled, his voice pitched low. “Her gift is one of transformation. A curse to some, a blessing to others. Miranda molds her chosen as clay, reshaping them in ways neither natural nor merciful.”
Lenore arched a brow, the glint of a smile at her lips. “Alchemy, then? Or a kind of science?”
“Neither,” the Duke replied quickly, eyes narrowing. “And both. It is power, Lenore. Power rooted in something… older. Her lords are not bound to her by chains, but by what she has made of them. Their lives, their strengths, their very forms are hers to command.”
Lenore leaned back, slender fingers tightening around her cane. “And the villagers? Do they share in this gift?”
The Duke’s face darkened, his deep voice quiet. “No. The villagers are but her flock. Tools for her lords. Sacrifices when the whim strikes.”
From outside, a muffled scrape of boots against stone carried through the carriage wall. Mateo’s voice, low and steady in Spanish, cut through: “La multitud se inquieta. Están perdiendo la paciencia.”
(The crowd is getting restless. They are losing patience.)
Manuel answered with a short growl: “Que lo intenten. No me asusta un montón de campesinos con palos.”
(Let them try. A mob of peasants with sticks doesn’t frighten me.)
Their words were underscored by a faint rise in noise outside—the murmur of villagers swelling, sharper now, like bees agitated in their hive.
Lenore’s smile only grew more dangerous at the sound. She turned her gaze back to the Duke. “And you sit here, in the middle of this hive, trading honey with the bees, untouched.”
The Duke inclined his head, not denying it. “Because I am useful, hija mía. Miranda has little patience for what does not serve her purpose. I provide… and so I am allowed to remain.”
Her green eyes gleamed, fierce and unyielding. “Then perhaps I, too, must prove useful.”
The Duke’s face paled, his booming voice dropping to a warning hush. “Careful, Lenore. To attract her gaze is not a thing you want. Miranda’s favor is as lethal as her wrath.”
Outside, a voice shouted—angry, accusing. The villagers had begun to gather, their fear fermenting into open hostility.
Mateo’s hand fell to the weapon beneath his jacket. Manuel murmured through clenched teeth: “Dime cuándo.”
(Tell me when.)
The Duke’s heavy form shifted forward, urgency flashing across his eyes. “We cannot stay here. Already their whispers will carry. If Miranda or her lords learn you are here…”
He trailed off, shaking his head.
Lenore tapped her cane lightly against the floorboards, her emerald eyes burning with a dangerous calm. “Then it seems the wolves already scent fresh prey.”
---
The air outside the Duke’s carriage thickened with unease. Villagers had gathered, drawn by the presence of strangers who looked too well-fed, too clean, too foreign to belong. Their mutters turned sharper with each passing moment.
Lenore, seated with poise inside, glanced at the Duke as his heavy hand rested over his stomach, his tone patient yet firm.
“Mother Miranda,” he explained, “is worshipped as both goddess and ruler. The Lords she created are feared, yes, but also… indispensable. Her ‘gift’ is their power. Each is… unique, monstrous perhaps, but vital to her rule.”
Lenore tilted her head, green eyes keen. “And the people accept this tyranny?”
“They have no choice,” the Duke said gravely. “Her will is law. Those who resist, vanish.”
Before she could press further, a sharp thud outside jolted the carriage.
“¡Oye, perro!” one of the villagers barked. “Take your foreign faces and leave before the crows eat you!”
Mateo’s low growl answered first. The broad-shouldered guard stepped forward, his shadow cutting across the dirt as one hunter swaggered too close. The man, bow in hand, spit on the ground at Mateo’s boots.
“You don’t belong here.”
Quicker than a blink, Mateo’s fist crashed into the hunter’s chest, knocking him flat on his back in the dust. The crowd gasped, outrage and fear clashing in their throats.
Manuel, the older of the two guards, stood tall beside his companion. His voice cut through the noise like a whip:
“¡Basta! Mind your place, all of you! We are no threat unless you make us one. Show respect, or taste the dirt like your friend.”
A hush followed, tense and bristling. The fallen hunter scrambled to his knees, clutching at his chest, his pride more wounded than his ribs. The villagers murmured but did not press further, their anger cowed by the glint of steel at Manuel’s hip and the cold fire in Mateo’s eyes.
Inside, Lenore’s lips curved—not quite a smile, but satisfaction flickered there. She looked back to the Duke, voice smooth as glass.
“As I said, better to know the wolf than stumble blindly into its jaws.”
The Duke sighed, his jowls quivering with unease. “Señora, in this land… sometimes the wolf does not reveal itself until it has already bitten.”
---
Lenore sat back against the velvet seat, her slender frame poised with the elegance of someone always in control. Her green eyes never left her father, studying him as if weighing every word he had said since their reunion.
“You’ve done well hiding yourself here,” she said finally, voice low and edged with steel. “Too well. I know little of this village beyond whispers—Umbrella’s ties, the Connections, scraps of stolen reports. Yet still, you chose it as your refuge.”
The Duke shifted uncomfortably, his large hands folding over his stomach. “It is a place where business thrives, my dear. These people, for all their suspicions, always need something. Food. Medicine. Bullets. I am tolerated because I provide.”
“‘Tolerated,’” Lenore repeated, her dark brows arching. “And the rulers you spoke about? The ones who keep their claws sunk into these people?”
His smile was thin, weary. “Best not to speak too openly of them. Their eyes are long, their ears are longer still. You must trust me when I say this—remain discreet. Blend into the shadows rather than stand in the firelight.”
Lenore’s lips curved faintly, though it was not amusement but challenge. “I’ve never been one to fade into shadows, Papá. I am the shadows.”
The Duke chuckled softly, though his eyes darted toward the curtained window as if he could feel the hostility seeping through it. “I know. I’ve thought of somewhere more suitable. A cottage on the outskirts of the village—quiet, removed from prying eyes. There, you and your men will not be disturbed. I will send whatever you need—supplies, comforts, information.”
Her gaze lingered on him, sharp and searching, before she leaned back with an elegant sigh. “A cottage. Very well. But understand, I came because your silence worried me, not to sit idly by in exile.”
Outside, muffled through the thick wood of the carriage, Mateo’s low voice carried like gravel: “Estos campesinos nos miran como si fuéramos demonios.”
Manuel answered sharply, his tone edged with warning: “Que miren. El primero que se acerque, perderá los dientes.”
Their words were followed by a ripple of unrest from the crowd, the faint sound of insults spat in their direction—“outsiders,” “carrion.” The heavy boots of the brothers scraped against the stones as they shifted closer to the carriage, their presence a wall between Lenore and the villagers.
Inside, Lenore’s eyes flicked briefly toward the door, then back to her father. She murmured, "I want to know what you’ve bound yourself to, Papá.”
The Duke dabbed his brow with his handkerchief, his smile faint and tired. “All in time, my dear. For now, let us see you settled.”
---
The van rolled in the shadow of the Duke’s carriage, its armored frame humming steadily against the rough road. Inside, the dim lights cast sharp lines across tense faces.
Manuel was the first to speak, his voice low, laced with disdain. “Those villagers—they weren’t cursing us like common folk. They were praying through their hatred. Calling us enemies of their ‘Black God.’” He spat the last words. “That’s not anger, Lenore. That’s devotion. Blind, fanatical. They’re slaves to something.”
Mateo’s knuckles tightened on the wheel. “Fanatics with pitchforks don’t frighten me. But your father’s words… they trouble me more. He said this place has rulers, didn’t he? That they keep the leash on these people.” His dark eyes flicked to the mirror, meeting his sister’s calm green gaze. “Who are they, Lenore? What did he tell you?”
She sat with her arms crossed, posture flawless even as the van jolted over uneven stones. “Not names,” she said finally, her tone clipped. “Only that there are four of them, bound to a woman they call Mother Miranda. She, apparently, grants them a gift. Power enough to keep this entire place bent to her will.”
Manuel turned in his seat, frowning deeply. “A cult of peasants is one thing. But four rulers under some self-styled goddess? That smells of something worse. Experiments. Corruption. Maybe even Umbrella’s hand.”
Mateo let out a dry laugh, though it carried no humor. “Or perhaps just tyrants who know how to keep dogs in line.” He shook his head. “Either way, I don’t like it. Your father deals with them, yes? Does business in their shadow. That means they tolerate him. But you?” His jaw clenched. “You are no merchant. You are fire. Fire draws eyes.”
Lenore leaned forward between them, her presence sharp as the point of a dagger. “Then let them look. I didn’t come here to cower in the dark. My father hides truths from me because he fears the wolf. But I will not be prey. If this Mother Miranda and her so-called Lords are as powerful as he suggests, then their power has roots—and roots can be pulled.”
Manuel gave a low hum, uneasy. “And if the roots run deeper than you think?”
Her lips curved into a smile, thin and dangerous. “Then I dig deeper.”
The van followed the Duke’s carriage as it crested a rise. Ahead, the cottage appeared at the edge of the forest, small but sturdy, smoke curling from its chimney. A place meant for safety—or concealment.
Lenore’s gaze lingered on it, unreadable, as the brothers exchanged another wary glance.
---
The carriage stopped a few yards from the stone cottage, its lanterns casting long shadows against the treeline. The Duke leaned heavily on his cane as he climbed down, his great belly swaying slightly with the effort.
“My dear,” he said, turning back to her through the van’s open door, “this place will serve. Quiet, away from the villagers’ suspicions. I have already had it stocked for you.” He offered a strained smile, tugging at his vest. “I must go now—there are obligations I cannot ignore. Lady Dimitrescu waits at her castle, and she is not a woman one keeps waiting.”
At the mention of the name, Manuel stiffened near the door. Mateo’s dark eyes narrowed. But Lenore only regarded her father steadily, her emerald gaze catching the carriage lamp’s glow.
“You will come back,” she said—not as a question, but a command.
“Of course,” the Duke replied, though his voice was careful. “After my business, I will visit. You will want for nothing while you stay. Trust me, hija.”
Lenore’s lips curved faintly, sharp as ever. “I trust what I see, Papa. Not words.”
The Duke sighed, clutching the handle of his carriage. “Then see for yourself. I shall return.” With that, he hauled himself inside, and the carriage rolled away, its lanterns vanishing into the misty dark.
---
The brothers wasted no time. Mateo stalked the perimeter with a soldier’s discipline, his boots crunching against gravel as his sharp eyes combed the trees. Manuel forced the cottage door open with his shoulder, then moved through the rooms with practiced efficiency—checking corners, windows, the chimney, even the rafters.
“Secure,” Manuel reported when they regrouped. “No signs of recent intrusion. Supplies are stacked in the pantry—dried meats, flour, wine, lamp oil. Enough to last weeks.”
“And weapons?” Mateo asked.
Manuel’s lips thinned. “None. Just kitchen knives and firewood. The Duke meant this for living, not fighting.”
Mateo grunted. “We’ll change that.”
---
Inside, Lenore had already claimed the hearth. The fire cracked and hissed, casting her in golden light as she spread a sheaf of papers across the table. Her black curls spilled like ink over her shoulders as her gloved fingers sifted through the stolen documents—Umbrella letterhead, Connection records, scraps of coded reports she had risked much to obtain.
Among them were photographs, worn and yellowed from too many hands. She sorted through them with surgical precision, her green eyes scanning each face, each note scrawled in the margins.
One photo made her pause.
A little girl, pale and fragile, stood stiffly in a sterile room. Beside her, a man in a lab coat looked down at her as though inspecting a specimen rather than a child. The girl’s name was scrawled beneath in neat black ink: Eveline.
Lenore’s brow furrowed. She set the photo down carefully, tapping a finger against it. “So you’re part of this puzzle,” she murmured in Spanish, voice barely above the crackle of the fire. “¿Qué te hicieron, pequeña?”
The flames flared, as if answering, while the cottage groaned in the evening chill.
Behind her, the brothers kept their silent vigil—Manuel at the window, Mateo leaning against the doorframe, their presence solid, unyielding.
And still, outside the treeline, something unseen watched with the patience of the dark.
---