Chapter 66: Chapter 66: First house tour

Two hours later, Rafael began to deeply, personally regret his own curiosity.

He had expected a fortress. He had expected armories, training halls, and hidden chambers carved into reality with ether and violence. And yes, those existed. He had seen rooms where strategies lived, where maps became breathing things etched in glowing script across an entire wall. He had passed spaces where Shadows trained with the quiet focus of predators who didn’t need noise to prove lethality. He had walked through corridors so dense with layered warding that even breathing in them felt curated.

That part made sense.

What did not make sense was everything else.

“Why does he have three libraries?” Rafael demanded, stopping short as they entered yet another hall lined in towering shelves and immaculate order. “Who needs this many books? I thought your Duke prefers stabbing problems, not reading them.”

“His Grace reads extensively,” Peter replied, entirely unfazed, adjusting his gloves. “Particularly history, military doctrine, and… essays.”

“Essays,” Rafael repeated flatly.

“Yes.”

“Of course.” He rubbed his temple. “Naturally. That seems appropriate for a man who burns nations before breakfast.”

Peter inclined his head as if that were a compliment.

They moved again.

The hallways curved. Stairs appeared where logic insisted there shouldn’t be stairs. Windows appeared where stone had existed moments earlier. The manor wasn’t simply large, it shifted as if reality here politely cooperated with Gregoris’s architectural preferences.

Rafael began to suspect that maps would give up midway through and declare theological crisis.

They turned another corner.

Stopped.

Rafael stared at the room beyond the open archway. It was… wrong.

Nothing violent or threatening. Just incorrect in the context of everything he knew. Soft northern light filtered through tall glass windows. The air smelled faintly of oil and turpentine. Cloth-draped easels lined one wall. A table sat beneath them, stacked with brushes, carved palettes, and jars of pigment. A half-finished canvas rested on a stand, its surface carefully veiled.

A painting studio.

Rafael turned slowly to Peter.

Peter did not react.

He had the expression of a man who had lived here too long to be surprised by contradictions.

“…No,” Rafael said.

Peter blinked once. “No, my lord?”

“No,” Rafael repeated firmly, pointing at the room. “This. No. Absolutely not. He does not paint.”

“He does,” Peter said.

“He shouldn’t,” Rafael argued, irrationally offended. “He shouldn’t be allowed hobbies. Or…” He gestured helplessly. “…gentle creative outlets.”

Peter remained perfectly calm. “And yet, he possesses them.”

Rafael stared into the room like it had insulted his worldview.

Images collided in his head. Gregoris drenched in battle, silver eyes cold, ether carving through air like judgment itself. Gregoris standing beside Damian, expression blank as executions signed themselves. Gregoris demanding a kiss at four in the morning.

Gregoris with a paintbrush…

Rafael’s brain made a small, broken sound.

He took one slow step forward, drawn despite himself. The studio held warmth in a way no other room in the manor did. The same ruthless discipline Gregoris used to break men applied to color and texture and… whatever he was foolish enough to put on canvas.

Rafael stopped just shy of the threshold.

“What does he… paint?” he asked carefully.

Peter hesitated.

Which was immediately concerning.

“Landscapes,” he said finally. “Architecture.”

“Does he paint them with the blood of his enemies?” Rafael heard himself talking.

Peter didn’t even flinch.

“No, my lord,” he said, with a patience that felt dangerously close to judgment. “Oil paint.”

Rafael stared at him.

Then at the room.

Then back at him.

He dragged a slow breath through his teeth, as if the universe had personally inconvenienced him.

“So not… dramatic symbolism,” he clarified. “Not tortured art fueled by internal darkness. Just… landscapes.”

“Yes,” Peter replied.

“Architecture.”

“Yes.”

Rafael’s eye twitched.

“Does he at least paint them while thinking about the blood of his enemies?”

Peter considered this with commendable seriousness.

“I believe His Grace thinks about warfare in every room of this manor,” he said diplomatically.

Rafael pressed his lips together, unsure whether that helped or made it worse.

His gaze drifted slowly across the space again. The easels. The careful arrangement of tools. The faint scent of turpentine and canvas. There was an order to everything here. Even his hobbies were disciplined.

“So he… stands here,” Rafael murmured aloud, more to himself than anyone. “Looks at a blank canvas. Mixes colors. Paints… sunlight. City roofs. Empty streets. Probably perfect angles because, of course, he’d do that right too.”

Peter did not comment, which was its own answer.

“And nobody dies while he does it,” Rafael added, still trying to reconcile the image with the man who vanished to war like a blade being drawn. “He doesn’t turn around halfway and decree an execution?”

“No,” Peter said gently.

Rafael stared at the veiled painting again.

He expected something in him to relax.

It didn’t.

“Where did he run off to?” he asked at last, giving up on the tour, on the house, and on pretending he was just… sightseeing. The words came out tired instead of sharp.

Peter folded his hands behind his back with the air of a man selecting his phrasing very, very carefully.

“There was a rebellion in the south,” he said. “It seems that Prince Christian’s reassignment to Donin… created a vacuum in local authority.” A measured pause. “Certain factions attempted to… interpret that as an opportunity.”

Rafael shut his eyes for a second.

“So someone was stupid enough to try and fill it by force,” he finished, exhaling slowly. “God forbid nobles would understand common sense.”

He leaned against the doorframe for a moment, letting his head tip back just enough to stare at the ceiling. It was beautifully carved. Like everything else here. He suddenly resented it too.

“When does he come back?” Rafael asked, and the question sounded like something pulled from somewhere tight in his chest and forced to exist out loud.

Peter hesitated.

For the first time since the morning began, the hesitation wasn’t politeness or court manners, but human understanding.

“When war allows him to,” he said quietly.

Rafael’s jaw tightened.

“That’s not an answer.”

“It is the only one,” Peter replied, just as quietly. “His Grace does not half-finish wars. He does not retreat unless commanded. And His Majesty did not command restraint this time.”

Rafael said nothing for a while. The bond Gregoris etched into his nape was pulsing faintly, it was warm and fuzzy. Something that shouldn’t be associated with an executioner’s face.

“I want to leave the mansion.”

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