Chapter 86: Blood in the Sun

The sun beat down on the Arenavida, high and fierce at noon. Golden light poured over the dusty ridges of the southern desert, where heat shimmered like ghosts in the distance. Dry wind whispered through the mountain passes, stirring the trees that grew stubbornly at the border between desert and forest. Shade was precious here, and so were secrets.

Phineus Matteo strode through the bustling heart of the rebel camp, the cracked leather of his boots kicking up red dust with every step.

He barely noticed the heat anymore.

The destruction of the Matteo estate had aged him far beyond his years. Where once he'd fretted over books and dress codes, now he carried himself like a soldier- tall, lean, and wary. He was fourteen, but his sharp features, squared jaw, and steel-backed posture made him look older. The same glint of silver shimmered in his eyes, just like his uncle Niegal and late brother Seamus. The two men who'd shaped his world more than any father ever had.

And both were gone.

One to death. The other to shadows.

Sometimes he swore he could see Seamus' shadow out of the corner of his eye.

So he threw himself into the only thing left: the rebellion.

He labored like a warhorse, side-by-side with the older fighters, never complaining, never hesitating. The other teens poked fun at his accent, his posture, his past wealth- but he gave it right back. And beneath the swagger and wit, they knew better than to underestimate a Matteo.

He stepped into the low canvas tent he shared with his mother.

Inside, it was mercifully cool. The walls had been tied open just enough to let breeze roll in, the cloth walls billowing like lungs with every breath of the mountain wind.

Phineus's eyes softened.

His mother, Aurora, was curled on her cot, fast asleep.

One hand covered her eyes, shielding her from the rays filtering through the tent. Even in slumber, she held tension in her jaw, like she was half-bracing for bad news.

Phineus paused, a quiet, rare smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

He thought of Elena, his brother's beloved. He remembered her placing a gentle hand on his shoulder as they once stood beneath a clouded sky.

"Temperature drops mean a storm's on its way," she had whispered. "Storms always clear the air."

He sat at the small wooden table, the chair creaking beneath him. It reminded him of the manor's kitchen table, the one the maids used to grumble about needing oil. That life felt like another lifetime now. Another boy.

Phineus poured himself some water from the clay jug and drank deeply, letting the coolness clear the dust from his throat and the thoughts from his head.

No time for a pity party, he reminded himself.

He rose quietly and stepped to his mother's side. He drew the thin blanket up over her and pressed a soft kiss to her cheek.

That's when he noticed it.

A scrap of blue silk, crumpled in her clenched fist.

Something stirred in his memory.

Didn't she have an entire desk drawer full of those, back at the estate?

But he shook it off. Another question he didn't need an answer to. He turned toward the tent flap, mind already moving back to logistics and work to be done.

And nearly walked straight into a man.

A tall figure stood just outside the tent, his hand raised like he'd been about to knock on the air. Phineus blinked, startled for only a breath, before instinct took over.

"Apologies," he muttered, stepping aside to keep from waking Aurora.

The man bowed slightly, a curious expression flickering across his face.

"Phineus, I presume?"

Phineus narrowed his eyes.

The man was older, fifties maybe, but stood tall and broad-shouldered, his cloak slung stylishly over one arm like a gentleman rogue. Something about him looked suspiciously familiar. His smile was too wide. His teeth too white. His hair: gold streaked with silver, wild as the wind.

His smile… reminded him of Seamus.

Phineus didn't return the smile.

He extended his hand, cool and formal.

"Lord Phineus Matteo," he corrected smoothly, "at least until my uncle returns."

The man's eyes gleamed. His grip was firmer than necessary.

So was Phineus's.

"I'm Alejandro Roberto," the man said, grin still fixed. "Chairman of the Bluehawk Trading Commission."

He winked.

Phineus raised a skeptical brow, slowly withdrawing his hand.

"The long-dead pirate lord?"

Alejandro chuckled darkly, leaning one elbow on a nearby barrel. "They certainly tried, I'll tell you what."

Phineus snorted, despite himself. He knew what that felt like.

Alejandro's eyes swept over him, assessing. The boy was young, yes, but his stance, his silence, the pride in his shoulders; it reminded Alejandro of himself.

He dropped the grin, just a little.

"You have no idea who I am, do you?"

Phineus didn't blink.

He crossed his arms, expression cool and unreadable.

"Am I supposed to?"

Alejandro hesitated. And then, in a rare moment of emotional carelessness, blurted out:

"She never told you I'm your father, did she?"

Silence fell between them like a blade.

Phineus's jaw tightened. His lips pressed into a line; his mother's exact expression.

"My father died a long time ago," he said evenly. "If you're trying to sell me something, I'm not the guy, pendejo."

Alejandro laughed, a mad, manic grin spreading over his face.

"Only my son could talk to me like that without catching a bloody lip."

A few nearby rebels turned to stare, murmurs rising in the shade of the marketplace tents. A crowd was forming.

Phineus didn't care. His silver eyes burned like moonlight on metal.