ASHES OF A NAME

The rain had stopped, but the storm inside Adrien hadn't.

The manor was quiet again—too quiet. And in that silence, memories had claws.

Adrien sat in his late mother's study, the fireplace casting flickers of orange against the dark wood walls. Dust particles drifted in the air, almost suspended in mourning. On the desk lay an envelope, yellowed with age, sealed in wax.

His mother had left him a letter. Her final truth.

He stared at it for hours before breaking the seal.

"My son,

If you're reading this, I'm gone. And there are things you never knew—things I never dared to say aloud…"

The words blurred as he read.

She had known.

She had known everything.

About his father—the real one.

Not the man Adrien believed had died when he was a child. Not the one whose portrait hung grimly in the west corridor. No. That was just a cover. A lie woven to protect him.

The more he read, the more he understood

Adrien's real father had been a monster.

An arms dealer. Ruthless, soulless. A man who trafficked people like objects and treated Adrien as an heir to his bloodlust. He trained Adrien with cruelty disguised as legacy. Had tried to force the darkness into him. The beatings weren't punishment—they were preparation.

It was Adrien's mother who staged his death. She faked his identity, faked the boy's name, and ran.

They changed everything to give Adrien a chance at being free.

But the shadows caught up.

And Adrien had become a monster anyway.

By the time he finished the letter, his hands trembled. He wasn't just the son of a criminal. He was bred for it. Molded in violence. Sharpened by pain.

The worst part?

He didn't even know who he would've been without it.

---

The next morning

Ravenna lingered near the garden's edge, unsure whether to approach the dining area or return to her room. Ever since she overheard Adrien crying, something inside her had shifted.

She didn't fear him the same way.

Now, she felt him.

Saw him.

And she wasn't sure if that was worse.

She gathered courage and entered the room, finding Adrien seated alone, coffee steaming in front of him, unread documents scattered on the table.

His eyes were red-rimmed, but guarded. He didn't look up as she stepped in.

She hesitated. "I… I'm sorry."

His pen paused.

"For your loss," she added quickly, voice soft.

Adrien said nothing.

He tapped the pen twice on the paper, as though deciding what mask to wear.

"Noted," he replied coldly, then resumed writing.

She took a few slow steps closer. "You don't have to pretend, you know."

He looked up now.

His gaze locked with hers—no anger, no arrogance. Just quiet devastation hiding behind a wall.

"I'm not pretending," he said, voice low. "I'm functioning."

"Barely."

His jaw tightened. "Careful."

She didn't flinch. "You may own my body, Adrien, but you don't own the truth."

Something in his expression cracked. For a moment, just one heartbeat, he looked like that boy in pain again.

Then he blinked and the armor returned.

"You think you know the truth?" he asked bitterly. "You don't know the half of it."

"Then tell me."

The challenge hung in the air.

He looked at her for a long time—like he was measuring her soul.

Then he stood and walked to the window, facing the garden where his mother used to sit and hum old French lullabies.

"She gave up everything for me," he said quietly. "Changed our names. Hid me. She spent her whole life running from the man who made me."

Ravenna's breath caught. "Your father?"

Adrien nodded. "He wasn't a man. He was a nightmare wearing a face."

He closed his eyes.

"She thought I could be different. But here I am… exactly like him."

"No," Ravenna said firmly. "You're not."

He turned, surprised.

"You feel. You grieve. That's not weakness, Adrien. That's humanity."

Silence stretched between them.

He didn't respond.

But this time, when he sat down, he didn't look away.

And Ravenna didn't leave.