"Huh, so where are we heading, sir?" Mickael asked with a grin, his tone dripping with sarcasm.
"To my family's domain in the north the Sebastien lands," Ivaar replied, leaning back in his seat.
"…The Sebastiens?" Mickael blinked. "Wait you mean the Sebastiens? The count's family?"He let out a small laugh. "Well, that explains your overflowing purse. Your folks are loaded — industry, trade, and all that fancy stuff."
Ivaar smirked. "You should be way more impressed, Mickael. This is the part where you gasp dramatically and go, 'What?! You're the son of Count Sebastien?! Oh, my noble friend, I'm honored!'"He placed a hand on his chest, faking a pompous tone.
Mickael snorted. "Yeah, keep dreaming. I'm not kissing your boots, count boy."
"Ha! You wouldn't dare," Ivaar shot back, chuckling. "Besides, I'd make you pay rent for the privilege."
They both laughed, the tension from earlier slowly fading as the carriage rolled down the road.
Outside, the night stretched wide and quiet. The moonlight danced across fields and rivers, painting the landscape in shades of silver and blue. As they moved farther north, the air grew cooler, carrying the faint scent of pine and earth. In the distance, the outline of mountains hinted at the domain waiting beyond the horizon the land of the Sébastien family.
Mickael leaned his head against the window, watching the scenery pass. "You know," he said, his voice softer now, "you could've told me earlier. Would've saved me a few arguments about who's paying dinner."
Ivaar grinned. "And ruin the surprise? Never."
With the first light of dawn, the carriage rolled through the northern hills and reached the ancestral seat of the Sebastien family. The cold morning air carried the scent of pine and smoke, and the stone towers gleamed faintly under the rising sun.
At the massive gate, three guards stood waiting, their armor catching the light in flashes of silver. As the carriage came to a halt, the highest-ranking officer stepped forward, his voice firm and disciplined.
"Knight, you may return to your respective squad," he ordered, nodding toward Ivaar's escort.
"Roger, sir," the knight replied with a crisp salute before stepping back from the carriage.
The officer then turned toward Ivaar, his expression softening slightly. "Lord Ivaar, please follow me. I'll guide you to your father."
His gaze then shifted to Mickael, assessing him with a touch of curiosity. "And you, young man — who might you be?"
"I'm Ivaar's friend," Mickael said politely. "I came to accompany him."
"I see," the officer replied, his tone courteous but firm. "We're honored to welcome you here, but I trust you understand that you won't be allowed to accompany Lord Ivaar in every situation."
"No problem," Ivaar said, stepping out of the carriage. "Let's move."
The officer nodded once. "Very well. This is only the outer section of the castle — the fortified town. We'll cross it and head toward the inner keep, where your family resides."
As they began walking through the stone archway, the sounds of life within the walls surrounded them, merchants setting up stalls, soldiers patrolling the streets, and servants carrying baskets of bread and cloth. The town inside the castle bustled with quiet discipline, protected by high walls and watchtowers that overlooked the valley below.
At the far end, beyond the winding streets and the inner moat, the main castle rose, a grand fortress of white stone and black slate, its banners bearing the golden crest of the Sébastien family fluttering in the early morning breeze.
After a brief verification at the inner gate, we finally entered the inner castle. The atmosphere there was quieter, heavier the kind of silence that carries the weight of grief and waiting.
Not long after we arrived, a young woman in her twenties appeared at the end of the corridor. Her eyes widened, and without hesitation, she ran forward and threw herself into Ivaar's arms.
"Ivaar!" she cried.
"Sister…" Ivaar whispered. His voice was calm, but his eyes glistened. He had already cried too much to break again.
"Mother… and now Father," she murmured, holding back tears of her own. "He said himself that he doesn't have much time left."
Ivaar exhaled slowly, his jaw tightening. "Then I should go see him."
"Don't be too surprised, Ivaar," his sister warned softly, her tone fragile.
Ivaar nodded and made his way through the long stone corridor toward his father's chambers. Each step echoed like a drumbeat in the empty hall.
He stopped at the door and knocked gently."Father… it's Ivaar."
"Come in, my son," came a voice weak, but still carrying the dignity of command.
When Ivaar entered, his heart clenched. His father, once tall and proud, now lay pale and frail against his pillows. He couldn't have been more than forty-five, yet the illness had aged him decades.
Ivaar drew a deep breath, steadying himself to speak but his father raised a trembling hand and began first.
"Ivaar… I don't think I can endure this condition for more than a month," he said, his voice faint but unwavering. "I'm sorry to leave the estate in such a state — to your brother, your sister, and to you."
"Father…" Ivaar's voice cracked, a tear slipping silently down his cheek. He forced himself to stand tall, to remain composed.
"Your mother left us too soon…" his father said, his gaze drifting toward the window for a moment. "Our neighbor, Count Després, has coveted our industries for decades. He will not miss this chance to strike while we're weakened. And Aragon… they'll be watching as well. But one thing gives me peace, my son knowing that you, and your brother, will protect our lands."
"I will, Father," Ivaar said firmly. "You can rest easy."
His father smiled weakly, his eyes softening. "You've changed these past months, Ivaar… I can see it. Your mother would have been proud too proud beyond words."
His voice broke at the last words, and tears welled in his eyes not of pain, but of pride, and of the memory of the woman who would have been smiling beside him.
Downstairs, in the main hall:
Mickael stood alone near one of the tall windows, his hands clasped behind his back. The murmur of servants and the quiet steps of guards drifted through the air, but he hardly heard them.
He had chosen not to follow Ivaar upstairs. This was a moment between family — a space no friend, no matter how close, could step into. Still, he couldn't help feeling a heavy ache in his chest.
He thought of the countless hours they had trained together, the jokes, the fights, the stubborn determination that burned in Ivaar's eyes. And now, seeing where his friend truly came from — a world of nobility, duty, and expectations — Mickael understood something.
Ivaar wasn't just strong because of training. He was strong because he had to be.
When footsteps echoed on the stairs behind him, Mickael turned slightly, expecting his friend's return but for now, he simply waited, silent and respectful, as the weight of the castle settled around him.