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R ufe stopped Princess on a hilltop overlooking his childhood home, apprehension singing through his veins.

When he entered Myerly Hall, it wouldn’t be as the bastard son, but the heir.

Would the servants who’d made snide comments about his parentage still gossip in the hallways?

What about Ronwith’s friends? And more threatening, the friends and servants of his uncle and cousin vying for the title.

This might be the most dangerous battlefield he’d ever approached.

He’d come alone, without even a valet or luggage, behaving no differently than he ever had, wearing his uniform. Until Father made the formal announcement, Rufe would present himself as a Cormiran soldier. Emperor Avestan hadn’t widely communicated Rufe’s change of circumstances.

Would that he could continue as a mere soldier. The thought niggled in the back of Rufe’s brain that Ronnie’s death might not have been an accident. Maybe the castle intrigue of Delletina made conspiracies appear everywhere.

The mule must’ve sensed a barn ahead and nickered. Rufe didn’t want to hurry. He’d arrive just before the dinner hour, with time to freshen up and hopefully have a plate brought to his room. He’d rather not have judgmental eyes on him tonight. Let him rest first.

He clicked his tongue, setting Princess into motion—his mule something else for the locals to laugh about.

But in the mountains, he wouldn’t trade her for any horseflesh.

This vain yet sure-footed creature possibly saved his life, becoming a comrade-in-arms, or hooves, rather.

Like Niam, who’d gifted her, she was a beauty, tightly muscled with her head held high. The name Princess suited her.

Back and buttocks hurting from too much time spent in the saddle and sleeping on the ground, Rufe traveled the packed-earth road where countless generations of Ferunds once traveled.

No servants waited by the door to greet him, proving Father hadn’t made announcements yet. Should Rufe be happy or terrified?

He rode around the hall to the stables, where a young lad of perhaps fourteen summers stepped forward for his mount, far too young to have worked here for Rufe’s last visit.

Rufe swung down from the saddle, grimacing at his sore muscles, handed Princess’s reins to the boy, and removed his meager pack from her back.

The lad rubbed Princess’s nose, earning a gentle nicker. “Take good care of her.” Rufe slipped the boy a coin.

The boy nodded and tucked the coin into his pocket without looking while leading Princess away. Rufe watched her go, perhaps his only friend here, and judging how she nuzzled the stable lad, a fickle one. An apple might make her forget Rufe entirely.

Time to face the music. The path to Myerly Hall seemed familiar, yet totally unfamiliar at the same time.

Mother’s small rose patch now covered an entire corner of the garden, preparing to bloom with Cormiran spring weather on the way.

At least he’d been able to change into better clothing and no longer watched the sky for snow.

What would his genteel mother have thought of his appearance mere days ago? The image of her horrified expression coaxed a chuckle from Rufe.

He trudged to the servants’ door, where he’d often entered the house as a child, to shed muddy boots and clothing before advancing into the house proper.

The door opened before he arrived. A pleasantly plump woman stopped short, eyes wide. “Master Rufe!” Her surprise turned to mirth. She grinned, made to grab him, and stopped herself, dropping her gaze to the ground. “My apologies, Milord.”

Rufe eyed the woman up and down. More gray streaked her blond hair, and lines crinkled her eyes and the corners of her mouth. “Hello, Emma.”

Emma peeked sheepishly from beneath dark lashes and dove when he dropped his bag and threw his arms wide. Her head rested on his shoulder—she’d seemed much taller in his youth when young Rufe fancied himself in love with her.

And her brother.

“The day you can’t embrace me is the day they lay my sorry carcass in the ground,” he told her. Emma, who’d doted on Rufe and snapped at the other servants to be more respectful when they gossiped .

She stepped back, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, sniffling loudly. “I’d begun to think I’d never see your handsome face again.” Emma reached up to ruffle his dark curls. He’d allow few people the liberty.

“I hadn’t intended to come back.” The confession hurt. Rufe hadn’t merely cut himself from his brother’s life, but also his parents and the servants who’d been good to him.

Emma’s smile fell. “I cannot blame you, but for every person who disrespected you, there are two here who have always loved you.”

Really? “I take it my parents didn’t tell anyone to expect me.”

“They had us looking for a group, not a single rider. We prepared your room.”

Oh. So maybe they didn't intend the lack of greeting as a slight after all.

Emma stepped back, linking her arm through Rufe’s but glancing around to ensure no one saw. “Welcome home.” Her smile dimmed. “I’m very sorry about your brother.”

Emma, who heard all the gossip and usually knew more about the estate than even Father. “Tell me the truth, Em. Do you think Ronnie’s death was an accident?”

Emma glanced around once more before leaning in and whispering, “No. I don’t. He hated hunting.”

Rufe climbed the stairs, resting his hand on a banister he’d slid down as a child. A banister he’d slid down with Ronwith. Why did death let him put aside the bad times and recall the good?

The servants were likely busy elsewhere at this time of day, explaining why he didn’t meet any. Emma had bustled off to work on dinner preparations.

Rufe stood at the open door to his father’s study, watching the robust man, relatively untouched by time, recording in a journal.

While many of Rufe’s features came from his mother, there’d been no denying his parentage, as he’d inherited his curly dark hair, wide mouth, and intense, dark eyes from his mother’s then-lover.

Father didn’t notice Rufe’s arrival, too engrossed in his work. A hint of darkness shadowed his eyes. He’d lost a son. His heir. Did he believe the “hunting accident” was a ruse, as Emma did?

Rufe placed his bag on the floor and tapped gently on the doorframe. Father glanced up, tired eyes lighting when his gaze fell on Rufe.

“Rufe!” Father leaped from his chair, crossing the room in a few long strides to envelop Rufe in a hug, erasing all doubts about his welcome.

Father’s arms felt warm and safe, carrying Rufe back to days gone by.

He’d been blessed with a good father who always accepted his son, even though Father hadn't been married to Mother at Rufe’s birth.

Their shared child expedited the ending of their arranged marriages, and they married each other shortly after his arrival.

Ronwith made an appearance a few seasons later .

“Father,” Rufe said, voice choked, suddenly regretting his decision to stay away so long.

Father held on, rocking Rufe back and forth, a soft sob escaping. “Rufe, I’m so glad to see you. Your brother…”

“Shh… I’m here now.” What else could Rufe say to a man who’d recently lost a child? Everything will be all right? Rufe avoided lying whenever possible. While grief tore at his own heart, Father likely felt gutted, wondering if he could’ve prevented the death.

Rufe never fooled himself into believing his father couldn’t be ruthless and go after what he wanted—like Mother—but he never denied his actions or expected others to clean up his messes. He never used his position of power over others. He didn’t need to, preferring to win their respect instead.

Now he stood, broken by loss. Would Rufe have even come home if not for Avestan and Draylon?

Father pulled back, letting his tears show, and held Rufe at arm’s length. “Damnation, son, it’s good to have you home. I’ve missed you terribly.” Once more, he wrapped his arms around Rufe, squeezing him nearly painfully tight.

Rufe spoke words he’d never have considered before today. “It’s good to be home.”

The soft tap of footsteps came through the door behind him. Slender arms encircled him as the familiar scent of lavender teased his nose. Mother said nothing, merely held Rufe and quietly sobbed.

The Ferund family reunited in mourning .

Rufe pulled happy memories from the recesses of his mind, refusing to think of anything past Ronnie’s twelfth birthday when he’d become enamored of the privileges of becoming Duke one day. Rufe had loved Ronnie—perhaps still did—regardless of any faults.

He mourned the closeness they’d lost, how they could’ve been good friends, the nephews and nieces he’d never get to coddle. A small, selfish part of him also mourned the loss of his freedom, for Ronwith’s existence spared Rufe the responsibility of the family name and title.

If Ronnie’s death truly hadn’t been an accident, woe be to those responsible, for Rufe would show no mercy.