"My lady, the car is ready," said Anna as she made her way outside, coat drawn tight against the morning breeze.
"Thank you, Anna," replied Leonora, her tone calm yet distant. "I'll go with Youri this time. Feel free to take the day off — I don't think we'll be back any time soon."
Roland stood by the doorway, eyes flicking between them, unease etched into his young face. "Sister, I know I'm not allowed to visit Father's estate…" he began softly, "…but I'd like to come with you."
His voice trembled faintly. The absence of a father in his life had carved a deep void in his heart — a yearning for belonging, for approval he had never known.
Leonora looked at him, pity and guilt mingling in her gray eyes. She knew what she was about to say would only complicate things, but she couldn't bring herself to deny him."Alright then," she said quietly. "You can come too."
Roland's eyes lit up, the shadows in them lifting for a brief, childlike moment. "Really?" he breathed, barely containing his joy as he rushed toward the car.
The road to the Kaelthorn estate stretched long and winding, slicing through fields veiled in morning mist. The hum of the engine filled the silence between them. Leonora's fingers remained tightly interlaced with Youri's the entire drive — a fragile anchor against the storm of thoughts brewing inside her.
She was ready — ready to face anything her father would throw her way. For once, she would not bow, nor retreat. If it meant being with the man she loved, she would endure it all.
After what felt like hours, the iron gates of the Kaelthorn estate loomed ahead. The mansion rose in the distance — vast, regal, almost oppressive in its grandeur, its marble walls gleaming beneath the pale daylight.
"So… we're here," Leonora said softly, turning to look at Youri and Roland.
Youri reached over, his hand firm on hers. "Don't worry," he murmured, his voice calm but sincere. "He's your father, at the end of the day. If I were in his shoes, I'd want nothing more than happiness for my child."
Leonora gave him a faint smile, her gaze warm and tender. "Thank you, dear," she whispered. "Let's go inside."
At the front doors stood Simon, the Kaelthorn family butler, a man of stoic composure and impeccable posture. "Welcome, Lady Leonora. Young Master Roland," he said, bowing slightly — then, turning his sharp eyes toward Youri, added, "And you, sir."
"Thank you, Simon," Leonora replied curtly as they entered the vast hall.
Their footsteps echoed faintly against the marble floor until the soft rhythm of another set of steps emerged — deliberate, steady, descending from the grand staircase.
There he was.
Aurelion Kaelthorn.
Even in his late fifties, the man carried himself with the weight and poise of a sovereign. His tailored black coat swept behind him as he walked, every motion deliberate, dignified. His hair — once jet black — was now streaked with gray, slicked neatly back, a mark of discipline that even time had failed to undo.
Beneath the furrow of heavy brows, his eyes — black as midnight ink — fixed upon them. His gaze was sharp, measuring, the kind that seemed to judge one's soul before a word was spoken.
When his eyes fell upon Roland, however, the cold veneer cracked. For a moment, Aurelion froze — his breath caught in his throat as if he were staring into a mirror of his younger self. His composure wavered; a single tear traced down his cheek, catching the golden light of the chandelier.
Leonora's heart tightened. The last time she had seen him, he could barely stand for ten minutes, his body frail and his spirit colder than stone. But now… now there was something different — something almost human in his expression.
He took a deep breath, steadying himself, and when he spoke, his voice was low yet proud, resonant with emotion he had long buried.
"It's… nice to see you, my dear children."
The words struck like thunder in the silence of the hall. Leonora's lips parted slightly; Roland blinked, stunned. Their father — who once could barely bear to look at them — was now greeting them with warmth.
They followed him to the grand living room, where towering windows poured sunlight over ornate furniture and velvet curtains. Youri trailed quietly behind, taking in the majesty of the place.
The Kaelthorn estate was less a home and more a testament to legacy. Perched on a secluded ridge overlooking the glittering veins of the city below, Aurelion's mansion stood like a monument from another age—solemn, vast, and unyielding. Its towering spires reached toward the heavens, their marble surfaces veined with obsidian streaks that caught the light like frozen lightning.
Inside, the air was cool and faintly perfumed with aged wood and incense. The grand entrance hall opened into a cathedral-like space, its ceilings soaring higher than most city towers. Massive chandeliers of crystal and gold hung from above, casting fractured light across black-and-white marble floors polished to a mirror sheen. The sound of footsteps echoed endlessly here, each step a reminder of how small one was in the presence of such grandeur.
The walls were lined with portraits—stern men and elegant women, ancestors of the Kaelthorn line, their painted eyes watching all who passed. Between them stood tall columns of ivory stone, carved with intricate sigils of the old Empire—symbols of loyalty, conquest, and divine right.
Aurelion's private study was the heart of this vast labyrinth. It was a sanctuary of silence and authority, lit only by the muted glow of a stained-glass window depicting the Kaelthorn crest—a black phoenix rising from silver flames. Rows upon rows of ancient books filled the towering shelves, their leather spines marked with the dust of forgotten knowledge. A massive mahogany desk dominated the room, its surface spotless except for neatly stacked documents and a single glass of dark wine.
Beyond the study, long corridors stretched endlessly, leading to rooms few had ever entered. The servants' footsteps were whispers, their presence careful and unseen. Every door, every piece of furniture, every flicker of candlelight seemed arranged with intention, reflecting the man who ruled within—precise, controlled, and unbending.
And yet, for all its beauty, the mansion felt cold. The warmth of life had long been replaced by the chill of discipline and memory. It was a palace of ghosts, echoing with unspoken words, where time moved slower—as though even the air itself was bound by Aurelion's will.