He stepped off the path and moved closer.
The garden opened into a circular clearing at its center, marble tiles forming a wide platform surrounded by low hedges and evenly spaced lanterns. At the heart of it stood a statue carved from immaculate white stone.
It was him.
Noel stopped a few paces away.
The sculptor had captured him standing upright, shoulders squared, one hand resting over the hilt of a sword driven into the ground before him. The blade was angled slightly forward, not in aggression, but in resolve. His expression was calm, almost solemn. The cloak carved behind him seemed to ripple as if caught in wind.
At his side, carved with equal care, was Noir in her wolf pup form—ears perked, eyes forward, stance protective.
The composition was unmistakably heroic.
Noel stared at it in silence.
'They made you more handsome here, Dad.'
He blinked.
"That's not possible," he muttered. "I'm exactly this handsome already."
