Golden light began to sweep across the cold white marble floor. The morning was bright; wisps of cloud hung low in a pale blue sky, while a cool breeze carried the scent of dew and damp leaves. From afar, small birds chirped in cheerful harmony, welcoming the dawn with a joy far too eager for a young noble who had only just opened his eyes.
Behind the heavy curtains of his chamber, Leonhardt slowly blinked awake, his lashes fluttering as if still in doubt that morning had truly arrived.
"...Looks like it's morning," he murmured hoarsely, his voice laced with that familiar, lazy drawl.
Still half-wrapped in his blanket, he pushed himself up from the bed. His first steps toward the chamber door resembled the struggle of a weary general reluctant to return to the battlefield. Yet before his small hand touched the doorknob, he paused—frozen mid-motion. As though a premonition stirred in the back of his mind—not born of magic, but of experience far too familiar.
And as if answering his thoughts, the faint sound of footsteps approached. The door was pushed open roughly, swinging wide without so much as a knock.
"Wake up, little one," said a cold yet graceful voice.
Her.
Lara Arvandir—his older sister. Eighteen years old, and far more mature in every conceivable way. She was the jewel of House Arvandir—brilliant, captivating, and terrifying all at once. Her silver hair flowed like liquid moonlight, and her sharp blue eyes pierced through the world's hidden truths. Her slender frame did not suggest fragility, but rather the efficiency and precision of a noblewoman groomed to lead.
"I'm already up," Leonhardt replied—calm, though the sleepiness hadn't quite left his voice.
"Good," Lara responded flatly. "Breakfast. Change. Academy."
Without waiting for a reply, she turned and exited the room, her steps light yet laden with pressure—as if to remind him that her words were not mere routine, but absolute command.
Leonhardt let out a soft sigh. Of course they sent her. Who else could wake me by force without a shred of guilt? he mused, before quietly closing the door behind her.
He descended the grand spiral staircase, each step carved from hand-hewn white stone, gleaming beneath the light of suspended magical crystals. The corridor walls were lined with towering pillars and engraved murals—depictions of House Arvandir's glory dating back to its very first generation. At the center of the spiral hung a massive painting: a man in black robes standing atop the ruins of a fallen palace.
The founder of the House… what was his name again? Leonhardt glanced at it briefly. If I remember correctly, he unified the Eastern territories through a bloody campaign. A ruler who burned cities for a single battalion—yet was adored by his people. Ironic.
He arrived at the dining hall.
A vast room with high ceilings and stained glass windows that caught the morning sun like shards of diamond. A long dining table of rare wood stretched through the center, large enough to seat twenty, though that morning only five settings had been prepared. Around it, the maids stood silently, arranging utensils and serving freshly cooked meals still steaming with heat.
The scent of toasted bread, bone broth, and southern spices filled the room.
Leonhardt slowly pulled out his chair, sat down, and stared silently at the food laid before him.
At the far end of the long, opulent table sat a man whose posture was indistinguishable from that of a royal marble statue—perfectly upright, as if his spine were the very axis of the family's honor. He wore formal attire of pure black, embroidered with gold along the sleeves, and on his left shoulder rested an emblem: a lion standing atop a shield—the ancient crest passed down through generations of Arvandir patriarchs.
That man was Duke Renard Arvandir. My father.