Betrayed by My Ex, Marked by His Alpha Emperor Brother novel Chapter 59

Chapter 59: Chapter 59

Elara’s POV

"And this one is called a gladius!"

Valerius stood on tiptoe, both hands wrapped around an invisible hilt, swinging at the air with the kind of ferocity only a five-year-old could muster. His dark curls bounced. His gold eyes blazed with the fire of imaginary conquest.

Finnian crouched beside him, nodding with genuine seriousness. "A Roman short sword. Excellent choice. You know what made it so effective?"

Valerius froze mid-swing. "What?"

"The length. It was short enough to use in tight formations. Soldiers stood shoulder to shoulder, shields locked, and thrust forward. No wide swings. No wasted movement. Pure efficiency."

My son’s mouth fell open. He looked at Finnian the way other children looked at candy.

"What about Viking axes?" Valerius whispered, as though asking about forbidden treasure.

"Ah." Finnian settled onto one knee. "Now you’re speaking my language. The bearded axe—beautiful weapon. Long handle, curved blade, light enough to throw but heavy enough to split a shield in two."

"Can you throw one?"

"I’ve thrown a few at the forge. Mostly into stumps. Your mother would kill me if I taught you that particular skill."

Valerius turned to me with enormous pleading eyes. "Mommy, can I—"

"Absolutely not."

He deflated. Then perked up again almost instantly. "What about Crusader swords? The long ones with the cross guards?"

Finnian laughed. The sound was warm and easy, filling the small front room of our borrowed house like sunlight. He launched into a description of longswords—the weight distribution, the pommel, the way knights trained for years just to master the basic cuts.

I leaned against the doorframe and watched them.

Something loosened in my chest. A knot I hadn’t realized I’d been carrying. Valerius didn’t warm to strangers. He was cautious by nature—my fault, probably. I’d taught him to be careful without meaning to. The world had taught us both.

But Finnian spoke to him like a person. Not a child to be humored. Not a nuisance to be managed. He answered every question with patience and detail, and when Valerius inevitably asked several more questions before the first answer was finished, Finnian just laughed and kept going.

I’d tried to give Finnian an out earlier. A gentle nudge toward the door. "You must be tired from working the forge all day," I’d said. "We don’t want to keep you."

Finnian had opened his mouth to respond, but Valerius beat him to it.

"Do you want to see my room? I have drawings of swords on the wall. I drew them myself."

And that was that.

Finnian had followed my son down the narrow hallway without a backward glance, ducking slightly under the low doorframe. I heard Valerius chattering at full speed, heard Finnian’s low murmurs of approval, heard the rustle of parchment being pulled from walls and presented with ceremony.

When they finally emerged, Valerius had his small hand wrapped around two of Finnian’s fingers, tugging him toward the kitchen.

"You have to stay for dinner," Valerius announced. Not a question. A royal decree.

"Valerius," I started. "Finnian might have plans—"

"I don’t," Finnian said, glancing at me with a half-smile. "If it’s not too much trouble."

"It’s pasta!" Valerius declared, as though this settled all possible objections in the known universe.

So here we were.

An hour later, the three of us were happily cooking together in my small kitchen. The counter ran along one wall beneath a window that looked out onto the darkening street. A single oil lamp hung from a hook above the stove, casting everything in amber. Steam rose from the pot of boiling water. The air smelled of garlic and olive oil and the dried herbs I’d found in the pantry.

Valerius stood on a stool at the far end of the counter, tossing lettuce into a wooden bowl with the concentration of a surgeon. Leaves went everywhere. Roughly half made it into the bowl.

Finnian stood beside him, slicing garlic bread with steady, practiced hands. The knife moved through the crusty loaf in clean, even strokes. He’d rolled his sleeves to his elbows. Flour dusted the front of his shirt where Valerius had enthusiastically "helped" earlier.

I stood at the stove, stirring the sauce. Tomatoes, basil, a splash of red wine I’d found in the back of a cupboard. Simple. Warm. The kind of meal that fills more than just your stomach.

"Finnian," Valerius said, not looking up from his lettuce operation. "Are you married?"

I nearly dropped the wooden spoon.

"Valerius—"

"It’s a fair question," Finnian said mildly. He set down the bread knife and looked at my son. "No, I’m not married. I take care of my mother, and between the forge and the house, there’s not much time for courting."

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