The door closed.
The sound was soft.
It was just wood meeting wood.
But to Ace, it sounded like the end of the world.
He stood in the hallway.
It was long and dark and cold.
Torches flickered on the walls, making shadows dance.
The stones under his feet were the same stones he had run across as a child.
He knew every crack, every worn spot.
Now, they felt like a stranger’s floor.
He could still hear the noise from the council room.
It was a muffled rumble through the thick door.
They were talking.
Arguing.
Deciding his life now that they knew he was nobody.
His body felt heavy.
Like his bones were made of iron.
He couldn’t move.
He just stared at the wall opposite him.
At a tapestry of a great black wolf.
The symbol of House Valebane.
His house.
Not your house.
The thought was a cold whisper in his mind.
He saw flashes behind his eyes again.
His fifth birthday.
His father—the Duke—had given him his first practice dagger.
It had a little wolf on the handle.
“A Valebane warrior starts young,” he had said, kneeling to look Ace in the eye.
Ace had been so proud.
He had run to show Alex.
“Look!
I’m a warrior now!” Alex, who was eight and already serious, had nodded.
“You have to train hard.
A warrior protects his family.” His family.
The winter he was twelve and got sick.
A bad fever.
He had been burning up, shaking.
His mother—Lady Roseline—had stayed by his bed for three days and nights.
She sang old northern lullabies.
She wiped his forehead with a cool cloth.
When he finally woke up, weak and confused, she was asleep in the chair, her hand still holding his.
He remembered the feeling.
The safest feeling in the world.
My mother is here.
I am home.
Training with Alex in the yard.
He was fourteen, all elbows and knees.
Alex was seventeen, already strong and fast.
Ace had been trying a new move, a tricky spin with his dagger.
He had messed it up, fallen hard, scraping his palms on the gravel.
Alex had stopped immediately.
He hadn’t laughed.
He walked over, offered a hand to pull him up.
“Again,” Alex said.
“Do it slower.
I will watch.” And he did.
He watched until Ace got it right.
My brother.
He always helps me.
All of it.
Every memory was painted with the colors of family.
Of belonging.
Of love.
Now, someone had thrown black paint over the whole picture.
It was all fake.
A beautiful, kind, loving lie.
A sound escaped his throat.
It was not a cry.
It was not a sob.
It was a short, choked gasp.
Like someone had punched him in the stomach.
He finally made his legs move.
One step.
Then another.
He walked down the hallway, away from the council room.
He didn’t know where he was going.
He had no destination.
There was no place for him.
He passed a maid carrying linens.
She saw him and quickly bowed her head.
“Prince Ace,” she murmured.
He flinched.
The title was a slap.
He wasn’t a prince.
He wasn’t Ace Valebane.
Who was he?
He had no answer.
He was a ghost.
A boy made of stories that weren’t true.
He turned a corner and found himself in the portrait gallery.
Long rows of paintings of past Valebanes.
Stern men and women with black hair and crimson eyes.
Warriors.
Dukes.
Duchesses.
His ancestors.
Not your ancestors.
He stopped in front of the painting of Duke Aster as a young man.
He looked so much like Alex.
The same strong jaw, the same calm eyes.
Ace had always been told he looked like his mother’s side of the family.
He has her spirit, they would say.
Her fire.
More lies.
He didn’t look like anyone.
He was a leftover piece from a dead puzzle.
The pain in his chest was getting sharper.
It was turning into anger.
A hot, red, messy anger.
Why didn’t they tell him?
All those years.
All those times he got in trouble, acted out, was too loud, too wild.
They would sigh and say, “That’s just Ace.” Did they think it was because of his real blood?
Because he was some wild tribe child they found in a cave?
Did they love him less because of it?
Did they look at him and see the ghost of a dead woman instead of their son?
The anger mixed with the hurt.
It was a terrible stew inside him.
He wanted to break something.
He wanted to scream.
He wanted to go back into that council room and set it on fire.
But more than anything, he wanted to disappear.
He left the gallery.
He walked faster now.
His boots echoed too loudly in the empty halls.
He headed for the only place that had ever felt like his when he needed to escape.
The old library tower.
It was dusty and mostly unused.
He had a secret spot there, behind a shelf of old maps, where he would go to read or just be alone.
He climbed the narrow, winding stairs.
His hand on the stone wall was the only thing that felt real.
He pushed open the heavy wooden door to the tower room.
Dust danced in the slants of light from the high windows.
It smelled of old paper and quiet.
He went straight to his spot.
He moved the shelf of maps—it was on a secret hinge he had discovered as a boy.
Behind it was a little nook with a worn velvet cushion and a blanket.
There was a small, high window here too.
He used to watch the stars from here.
He didn’t sit.
He stood in the middle of the nook, breathing hard.
And then, the dam broke.
The tears came.
They were not quiet tears.
They were huge, wrenching sobs that tore out of his chest.
He cried for the father who wasn’t his father.
He cried for the mother who wasn’t his mother.
He cried for the brother who was now a stranger.
He cried for the name that wasn’t his name.
He cried for the little boy who had lived a happy lie for twenty years.
He sank to his knees on the cold stone floor.
He wrapped his arms around himself, but it was no comfort.
He felt like he was coming apart.
Like his skin couldn’t hold him in anymore.
He didn’t know how long he stayed there, shaking and crying in the dusty dark.
Finally, the storm passed.
The sobs turned into hiccups.
Then into silence.
He was empty.
Drained.
He sat back against the wall, pulling the old blanket around his shoulders.
It smelled like dust and memories.
He thought of Jade.
Jade, who had looked just as shocked as he was.
Jade, who had whispered “brother” like it was a fragile thing.
Jade had spent his whole life knowing he didn’t belong.
He had been the secret, the shame, the bastard.
He had come here with papers and laws to claim what was his by blood.
Ace had spent his whole life thinking he belonged.
He had been the beloved second son.
The wild prince.
He had laughed and flirted and fought, secure in his place.
Now, they had switched.
Jade was the true son.
Ace was the nobody.
Ace had hated Jade for trying to take his family.
But Jade wasn’t taking anything.
He was just claiming what had always been his.
Ace was the one living in a stolen house.
The anger flickered again, but it was weak.
Mostly, he just felt tired.
And so, so alone.
Down below, in the heart of the castle, life went on.
The Duke and Duchess were dealing with the council.
Alex was trying to understand.
Jade was… whatever Jade was doing.
And Ace was here.
In a hidden hole.
A boy with no past and no future.
The light from the high window began to fade.
Evening was coming.
He had nowhere to go.
No one to go to.
For the first time in his life, Ace Valebane was completely and utterly lost.