As Raayani was flying back with her injured daughter, she found herself contemplating the strange young man who had sparked such a change in Belan. For years, she had tried to teach her daughter the true meaning of strength, of dedication, of earning one's power rather than simply wielding it.
And now this young swordsman, in a single battle, had accomplished what years of maternal guidance could not. She glanced at Belan, who was staring at the distant horizon with, lost in thought.
"You're growing soft, brother," Ivyona remarked beside him, her peacock-feathered gown shimmering in the eternal light of Illumarhen. "I never thought I'd see the day when the mighty sealord would stand idle while mortals challenged his offspring."
Akurnni's laugh rumbled like distant thunder. "The ancient laws bind us all. Even I must watch from afar as she forges her own path." His eyes never left the scene below, where his daughter was.
"Besides, her determination... it reminds me of someone I once knew."
"Of yourself, perhaps?" Ivyona's knowing smile carried centuries of shared history. "Before the weight of godhood settled on your shoulders?"
Their quiet moment was interrupted by the arrival of other gods.
Inadrys entered the balcony, and behind him were others, grouped in small numbers, talking, as if it were a feast. Tʜe source of this ᴄontent ɪs novel·fıre·net
He walked out with a gold porcelain glass of his own.
Meeraia sauntered in soon after, her perfect features arranged in an expression of careful boredom—though her eyes sparkled with interest at the mortal combat below.
"Mortals and their petty squabbles," Edor spat. He followed her behind. His armour was permanently stained with the wars of centuries. "They're hardly worth watching."
They both were the children of Inadrys, but Edor was born to Ivyona, while Meeraia was mothered by a deity named Ilena, a serpend deity.
"Oh, I disagree," Meeraia purred, her attention fixed on Jolthar. "Some of them can be quite... entertaining."
Atannu arrived last, his wings folded tight against his back. His eyes darted repeatedly to Ivyona, lingering on the curve of her neck, the way her dark hair caught the light.
But Inadrys's presence was an insurmountable barrier, his lightning-filled gaze a constant reminder of the consequences should his arrows ever point in her direction.
Still, the love deity couldn't help but dream of the day when opportunity might present itself.
"The girl fights well," Inadrys observed, his voice carrying the weight of judgement. "She does credit to your bloodline, brother."
The ancient laws prevented interference, but they said nothing about a father's worry.
The Midlands stretched before them like a tapestry of autumn colours, rolling hills dressed in amber and russet beneath a pearl-grey sky.
Lady Maena's unit moved with practiced efficiency along the old trade road, their horses' hooves raising small clouds of dust with each step.
At the centre of their formation rode Roblan. His shoulders hunched beneath his travel cloak, eyes fixed on his horse's mane as if it held the answers to how his life had unravelled so spectacularly.
"You know," Jolthar's voice cut through the heavy silence, his mount falling into step beside Roblan's, "if you furrow your brow any harder, it might stick that way permanently. Though I suppose that would give you a distinguished look—very dramatic, very 'tortured nobleman.'" His eyes sparkled with mischief despite the gravity of their mission.
When Roblan didn't respond, Jolthar continued, undeterred. "Come now; surely you can appreciate the irony? The same family that you left is the only one you have now. The gods do love their little jokes." He paused,stroking his chin.
"Though I must admit, their timing could use some work."
"Jolthar." Lady Maena's voice carried a warning note, though there was a hint of amusement in her steel-grey eyes. She guided her stallion closer to them, her armour catching the afternoon light. "Your wit might be better appreciated once we've reached Barony."
"My lady!" Jolthar pressed a hand to his chest in mock offence. "Are you suggesting my attempts to lift our young friend's spirits are ill-timed? I'm wounded. Truly wounded."
"I've seen you wounded, Jolthar," Maena replied dryly. "It involves far more cursing and considerably less theatrical hand-gesturing." She turned her attention to Roblan, her expression softening slightly. "We're about two hours from Barony's gates. Your mother awaits."
At the mention of his mother, Roblan seemed to sink even further into himself. The mention of home—a place he'd fled from in his infatuation with Belan's heir—now felt like a sword thrust between his ribs.
"I must admit," Jolthar said, his tone becoming more genuine, "you really hid well even though you were in their territory and shamelessly asking for help from your mother."
As they crested the final hill, Barony spread before them, its stone walls warm and golden in the late afternoon sun. The sight of home, once so comforting, now made Roblan's stomach clench.
The guards at the gate recognised him immediately, their eyes widening before they snapped to attention, sending runners ahead to announce their arrival.
The courtyard was already filled when they rode in. Servants, guards, and members of the household gathered in a loose semicircle, and at their centre stood Baroness Cleora, Roblan's mother. She wore the deep blues of their house, her silver-streaked hair arranged in the intricate style of the Midland nobility. Her face was a careful mask, revealing nothing of her thoughts as she watched her son's return.
Beside her stood Roblan's sister, Nora, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. Where their mother's expression was controlled, Nora's face showed everything – anger, hurt, disappointment, and beneath it all, a fierce love that made Roblan's shame burn even hotter.
As he dismounted, Roblan couldn't bring himself to meet their eyes. He stared at the cobblestones instead, counting the spaces between them as footsteps approached. He expected his mother's measured stride, but instead, it was Nora who reached him first.
The slap echoed across the courtyard.
"You fool," Nora whispered, her voice thick with emotion. Then she grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him into a fierce embrace. "You absolute fool." She released him just as quickly, taking his arm in a grip that brooked no argument. "Come. You need to clean up before Mother sees you properly."
As Nora led him away, Roblan caught a glimpse of Jolthar trying – and failing – to suppress a grin. "Family reunions," the warrior murmured to no one in particular. "Always so entertaining."
The Baroness waited until her children had disappeared inside before approaching Lady Maena and Jolthar. "Lady Maena," she said, her voice carrying the weight of her position, "Barony is in your debt. Please allow us to offer you proper hospitality. I've had the kitchens prepare a banquet in your honour."