Lord Damien Waydell POV:
Lord Damien's eyes drifted to the door, his gaze softening for a fleeting moment. He saw a sliver of candlelight flickering beneath it, casting a warm glow onto the dark wood. The sound of pages turning, a soft rustle, reached his ears. His jaw clenched, and he looked away, the weight of guilt settling heavier on his chest.
Lord Damien's hand tightened around the cup, his face a mask of stone, but his eyes... his eyes betrayed the turmoil within. The words stung, a bitter reminder of his failures as a father. He had missed his son's tournament, and the weight of that regret crushed him.
He saw Fletcher's young face, proud and eager, and felt a pang of sorrow. What kind of father misses their child's moment? The silence was oppressive, punctuated only by the crackling fire.
He raised the cup to his lips, the blood a temporary escape from the guilt that threatened to consume him. His gaze drifted to the door, his heart heavy with unspoken apologies.
He stands before the shelves, eyes scanning the neatly arranged awards and trophies. His gaze lingers on a small wooden sword with a "Best Young Swordsman" plaque, then moves to a framed certificate for "Outstanding Bravery in Training."
A mix of pride and guilt swirls in his expression as he thinks about how little time he's spent with his seven-year-old son. The boy's potential is clear, the shelves are a testament to his hard work and talent.
Damien's jaw clicks shut, a quiet resolve forming. He'd been ignoring his son's growth, focused on his own duties. The thought of missing out on this young life's milestones hits him like a gut punch.
His eyes linger on a simple drawing pinned to the shelf, a crude but spirited sketch of a knight. Damien's face softens.
Damien's hand reaches out, almost touching the drawing. He remembers the day his son brought it home, proudly declaring, "Papa, I drew you!" A small, genuine smile creeps onto his face.
He turns away from the shelves, a decision forming. It's time to make amends, to be more present. To see his son grow.
Damien strides towards the adjoining door, a newfound sense of purpose in his step. He pushes it open, revealing a dimly lit room , books stacked neatly on shelves, a faint scent of parchment lingering. A small wooden practice sword leans against the wall, a testament to fledgling ambitions. Fletcher's eyes, a mix of curiosity and wariness, meet Damien's.
Fletcher stands stiffly, book still held, "Dad...?" The single word hangs, laced with uncertainty.
Damien's stare lingers, a silent struggle playing out on his face. Guilt creeps in, when was the last time he really looked at his son?
Damien's expression shifts, a quiet apology forming. He takes a slow step forward.
Damien walks up to Fletcher's desk, the quiet scraping of chair legs against wood the only sound. He riffs through the neatly arranged papers, finds a blank parchment and a quill. Dipping it in ink, he writes a few shaky words.
Fletcher watches warily, unsure what his father wants.
Damien's gaze falls on the book Fletcher was reading, and he points to it, his expression questioning. "What are you reading?" he writes on the parchment, handing it to Fletcher with a curious look.
Fletcher's eyes widen in shock as Damien writes on the parchment. He's taken aback that his father is actually communicating with him, it's been so long. The surprise is palpable.
Fletcher's expression shifts from surprise to a mix of embarrassment as he mutters
"Deadly ways to kill humans" and quickly puts it aside, looking away.
Damien's expression shifts to concern, maybe even a hint of unease. He looks at Fletcher, then back at the book, checking the context.
Tipping the parchment towards Fletcher, he adds, "Find something else to read."
Damien's expression softens as he writes on the parchment: "Why this book?"
Fletcher looks down, shuffling his feet. He writes back, voice barely above a whisper, "Want to protect them. Like you protect us."
Damien's gaze lingers on his son, a mix of surprise and warmth in his eyes. He hadn't realized Fletcher looked up to him that way.
He writes: "You don't need this to protect."
Fletcher looks up, curious. Damien's expression says it'll be a longer conversation.
Damien sits down on the bed, gesturing for Fletcher to join him. He writes on the parchment: "Protecting means being strong, yes. But also being kind. And smart."
Fletcher scoots closer, intrigued. Damien continues writing, his hand moving slower, more deliberate. "A true protector knows when to fight... and when to show mercy."
Their eyes meet, and for a moment, it's just the two of them, connected.
Damien smiles faintly, writing one last line: "You have time to learn both."
Fletcher smiles slightly, looking up at Damien with a mix of admiration and curiosity. He leans in a bit closer, and Damien wraps an arm around him, pulling him into a gentle hug.
In this quiet moment, the shadows of the past seem to fade a bit. Damien writes on the parchment, voice in his head: "I'll teach you. Everything I know."
Fletcher nods against his chest, feeling a sense of belonging he hadn't realized he'd missed.
***
Albert Espusio POV:
Baron Albert's face darkens with anger as he mutters to himself, "Foolish Hivites, thinking they can dismiss me." He slams the carriage door shut, the sound echoing through the courtyard.
As the carriage rolls away, he seethes, "I'll be back Sapphire."
His eyes gleaming with malice as he leans back into the shadows of the carriage. The flickering light of the passing streets dances across his face, highlighting his sharp features.
The carriage speeds up, carrying him away from Hivites, his carriage slows to a stop as it enters the forest, the trees looming like skeletal sentinels in the fading light. He looks out the window, a mix of curiosity and anticipation on his face. He had promised to spy for the mages!
As the door creaks open, he steps out onto the damp earth. The air is thick with the scent of decay and something else... a familiar, unsettling presence.
He looks around, taking in the twisted maze of thorns and shadows. Figures in black hoods step out of the darkness, their eyes glowing like lanterns in the night.
One steps forward, voice low and raspy.
"You are late."
He snorts, "I clearly overstayed my welcome."
"Our Queen awaits"
One stretches out his hand, opening a portal as another shoves him in.
He stumbles into a dark, twisted throne room. A figure rises from the shadows, a woman with skin like moonlight and eyes that burn like stars.
"Your ladyship," he says, bowing low.
She tilts her head, her voice like silk and shadows.
"I have been expecting you, Baron. I believe you have news for me."
Albert's expression turns calculating, a greedy glimmer in his eye. "Ah, it depends on what's in it for me, My Queen."
Her smile doesn't waver.
"I'll give you golds. Lots of golds."
The Albert's eyes glint in the dark. "With the risk I'm taking it's not enough. How about you give me your bond."
She laughs, a cold, creepy way that made him shiver. He was playing with fire.
"I like this one," she says to no one in particular. "He knows how to play... we're going to be close. I hope so."
She sizes him up and down, then says, "I give u my word, Baron."
Albert's eyes light up. "Hivites is crumbling. They plan to siege Shem... but it'll be their downfall."
Queen Dalia leans forward, her voice dripping with confidence. "Shem is under my protection. Hivites is not in a position to be going to war."
Albert's eyes flicker with interest, a hungry glint in them. "Anything you're planning... carry me along. I want retribution."
Dalia's smile is a slow burn. "Retribution, Baron... is a dish best served with patience."
Alberts grin says he's willing to play along.