Knock, knock.
"May I come in?"
"Enter."
At the calm response, the young man outside the door stepped into the room.
"It's been a while, Father."
"Yes… it truly has been a long time."
"Have you been well?"
The older man smiled faintly. "You're as consistent as ever, Julian."
Inside the vast library, filled from floor to ceiling with old tomes and the faint scent of parchment, Count Bermoore sat in an armchair, his snow-white hair glinting in the soft light.
Across from him stood his son, Julian, a young man who shared the same white hair, though his carried a livelier sheen. He greeted his father with a light, almost theatrical bow that drew a small chuckle from the Count.
The two soon settled onto a nearby sofa, exchanging words they hadn't had the chance to share for quite some time.
They talked about the estate, about the changing seasons, about trivial things that filled the gaps of their separation. But eventually, their conversation drifted to the youngest member of their family.
To Louis.
"By the way," Julian began, setting his teacup down, "where has Louis gone? I haven't seen him since I returned."
"He's of age to attend the Academy this year," Count Bermoore replied. "He's probably already begun his classes."
Julian's expression softened, though his tone carried a hint of mischief. "Ah, what a shame. I was hoping to see my little brother's face again after so long. But it seems fate isn't on my side."
The Count chuckled quietly. "You'll have your chance soon enough."
Still, Julian leaned back in his seat, eyes glimmering with mild curiosity. "I do wonder, though… will he be able to adapt well to the Academy?"
"Don't concern yourself too much," his father said reassuringly. "The boy has matured a great deal. In fact, he's even taken up the sword again."
Julian froze for a moment, his teacup halfway to his lips. "…Louis did?"
The disbelief in his voice was unmistakable.
The image of his younger brother—the Louis who had once abandoned the sword entirely—flashed through his mind. He remembered the quiet, withdrawn boy who never spoke about why he'd stopped training.
Could that same boy really have changed so much?
Julian's brows furrowed slightly as he took a slow sip of tea, lost in thought.
Perhaps his father was right. Perhaps Louis really had grown.
A faint smile tugged at Julian's lips as he lowered the cup.
"I should make some time to meet him," he murmured softly.
Count Bermoore set his cup down with a soft clink, his eyes never leaving his eldest son. "You should," he said, voice calm yet faintly wistful. "He may not show it, but I'm sure Louis would be glad to see you."
Julian chuckled under his breath. "Glad? I doubt that. You know how he is, Father—quiet, distant. Even when we were younger, he preferred being alone rather than spending time with me."
Count Bermoore's lips curved faintly. "He's changed more than you think. Solitude no longer suits him the way it once did. He's… learning to step forward."
Julian tilted his head, studying his father's expression. "You say that as if you've been watching him closely."
"I have," the Count replied, leaning back in his chair. "Before he left for the Academy, I spoke with him several times. The boy carries something in his eyes now—resolve. It's faint, but unmistakable."
Julian raised a brow, setting his cup aside. "Resolve, you say? That's an unusual word for you to use about him. You always said Louis was too soft-hearted for his own good."
The Count's gaze drifted toward the tall window, where sunlight filtered through the drapes and scattered across the carpet. "People grow, Julian. Especially when they've known failure. Sometimes pain leaves the deepest lessons."
Julian's expression grew more serious. "Failure…?"
Count Bermoore nodded faintly. "He doesn't speak of it, but you know as well as I do what happened three years ago."
Julian's jaw tightened slightly, the faint smile on his face fading. "Yes. The duel."
The Count sighed quietly. "He lost more than just a match that day. Confidence, pride, perhaps even trust in himself. That's why I was surprised when he picked up the sword again. It's as if he's decided to face something he once ran from."
Julian leaned back in his seat, crossing one leg over the other. "So he's finally confronting his weakness…" His voice carried a mix of admiration and amusement. "I didn't think he had it in him."
"He's your brother," the Count said softly. "Don't underestimate him."
Julian laughed lightly. "I'm not underestimating him, Still, That doesn't sound like the Louis I remember," Julian murmured, crossing his arms.
"Perhaps that's precisely why it's worth noting," the Count said. "People don't remain the same forever, Julian. Some change when they're pushed to the edge. Others… when they finally find something they want to protect."
Julian chuckled lightly, though his eyes showed curiosity more than amusement. "You make it sound as though he's grown into quite the young man."
"He still has a long way to go," the Count admitted. "But there's a quiet determination in him now. I can't quite describe it, but… it reminds me of you when you were his age."
"Me?" Julian laughed softly. "That's a compliment I'll gladly take, Father. Though I doubt Louis would want to be compared to me."
"True," the Count said with a hint of humor. "He's more stubborn than you ever were."
Julian grinned. "Now that's saying something."
The two shared a quiet laugh before the air settled once more into gentle calm.
Then Julian's expression shifted—curiosity giving way to thoughtfulness. "You mentioned he's taken up the sword again. Who's teaching him?"
The Count's eyes momentarily darkened. "No one from our household. The Academy provides instructors, and he seems content learning under them. I thought it best to let him grow on his own terms this time."
"…You're letting him find his own path."
"Yes," his father said softly. "A path free from our expectations."
Julian leaned back, eyes glinting faintly beneath the golden lamplight. "He's lucky. I didn't get that freedom when I was his age."
"Nor did I," the Count said, his voice carrying a rare trace of melancholy. "But that's exactly why I want him to have it."
A quiet understanding passed between father and son.
Finally, Julian rose from his seat, brushing invisible dust from his coat. "Then I suppose I'll head to the capital soon. I want to see for myself just how much my little brother has changed."
The Count nodded approvingly. "Do so. But don't judge him too quickly, Julian. Growth takes time—and courage."
Julian's lips curved into a knowing smile. "I'll remember that, Father."
As he turned toward the door, the Count called out quietly, "Julian."
He stopped and glanced back.
"Don't push him too hard," the Count said, his voice gentle yet firm. "He's not the same boy you once knew—but he's not yet the man he's trying to become."
Julian's expression softened, and he gave a small nod. "Understood."
Then he left, the sound of the door closing behind him fading into the silence of the library—leaving Count Bermoore alone among the books, lost in thought.
He looked toward the window, where the faint glow of afternoon light filtered through the glass.
"…Louis," he murmured quietly to himself. "What kind of man will you become, I wonder?"