The office within the Morgain mansion was spacious without being ostentatious, built from dark stone polished smooth by time rather than ornament. Tall windows lined one side of the room, letting in the pale winter light of Euclid, muted and cold, as if even the sun understood this was not a place for warmth. Shelves of old tomes and ledgers occupied the walls, their presence quiet but heavy, like witnesses that had seen too many similar meetings unfold behind closed doors.

At the center of the room, two sofas faced one another across a low table, arranged with almost judicial precision. A deliberate symmetry meant to place equals opposite equals.

Lord Thaleon au Rosenthal took his seat first.

He did so with unhurried confidence, settling into the sofa as a man accustomed to rooms where words carried consequences. His noble attire was immaculate—dark fabric cut cleanly, accented with restrained detailing that spoke of wealth without flaunting it. Brown hair, streaked faintly with age, was combed back neatly, framing a face marked by experience rather than softness. His red eyes were sharp, attentive, yet not cruel. There was warmth there, restrained and measured, like embers banked beneath ash.

Beside him, Aubrelle sat down without hesitation.

Her presence changed the room immediately.

She wore a dress of deep red, vivid and intense, like molten stone held just before it hardened. The color clung to her frame without overwhelming it, flowing naturally as she settled into place. There was no bandage. No veil. No attempt to soften what she carried. Her red eyes were fully visible—unfocused, luminous, matching the shade of her dress as if the choice had been intentional. Not defiance. Acceptance. A quiet statement that she would not hide herself here.

Pipin perched lightly on her shoulder, feathers still, his small body alert. Through him, her awareness stretched outward, taking in the room, the opposing sofa, the posture of the men across from her.

Valttair du Morgain sat opposite them.

He occupied the space like it had been built for him alone. Long platinum-blond hair fell neatly down his back, untouched by age or compromise, framing a face carved sharp enough to seem almost sculpted. His grey eyes were cold, cutting, fixed forward with the calm certainty of someone who expected the world to bend eventually, if pressed long enough. The silver-and-white suit he wore mirrored his appearance perfectly—pristine, severe, reflective, as if even light hesitated before settling on him.

At his side sat Trafalgar.

Where Valttair was polished steel, Trafalgar was shadowed obsidian. His black suit was understated, trimmed with dark navy accents that drew the eye only if one looked closely, echoing the deep blue of his eyes. His black hair was tied back in a low ponytail, neat, practical, habitual. He sat straight, composed, neither shrinking beneath his father's presence nor attempting to rival it.

The contrast was impossible to miss.

Father and son shared blood, but little else.

For a long moment, no one spoke.

The silence settled thickly between the two sofas, heavy with expectation, pressing against the stone walls as if the room itself were holding its breath. This was not the quiet of family. It was the stillness that came before decisions were weighed, alliances measured, futures rearranged.

Aubrelle felt it clearly through Pipin—the tension coiled beneath the surface, restrained but sharp. This was more than a conversation about affection or intention. This was a convergence of houses, of legacies that had shaped the world long before any of them had been born.

Two fathers. Two heirs. And a single path that could no longer be ignored.

The silence did not break on its own.

Lord Thaleon was the one who finally moved, shifting slightly on the sofa before letting out a slow, measured breath. His gaze remained forward, level with Valttair's, neither challenging nor yielding.

"Well," he said at last, his voice calm, steady. "I don't believe either of us expected to be sitting like this today, Valttair."

There was no accusation in the words. Just acknowledgment.

Valttair's lips curved faintly—not quite a smile, but something close enough to suggest mild amusement. He leaned back a fraction, one arm resting along the sofa as if the tension in the room did not concern him.

"That much is true," he replied. "It was… a surprise. A pleasant one, I'll admit." His eyes flicked briefly toward Trafalgar before returning to Thaleon. "I never imagined my son would find common ground with one of your daughters. Of all possibilities, this wasn't among the ones I considered likely."

Thaleon inclined his head slightly, accepting the sentiment. His gaze shifted then, briefly, toward Aubrelle, before returning to Trafalgar.

"Aubrelle spoke to me about Trafalgar," he said. "He called her Aubrelle. Not 'Lady Rosenthal.' Not formally. Just her name." A pause. "That alone told me something."

His eyes narrowed just a little.

"What I did not expect," Thaleon continued, "was to learn that he is your ninth son." He hesitated, then added evenly, "I mean no offense, Valttair. But there are… rumors. Especially older ones. And they are not flattering."

The words settled into the room like dust.

Beside him, Aubrelle shifted.

"Father—" she began, instinctively, the word leaving her lips before she could stop it.

Valttair's hand lifted slightly.

"That won't be necessary," he said, eyes still on Thaleon. "Let me answer that."

His voice did not change when he continued.

"The rumors are true," Valttair said flatly. "At least, they were." He glanced at Trafalgar coldly. "Until about a year ago, Trafalgar was exactly as people described him. Useless. A burden. The shit stain on our family name."

The words were blunt, unpolished, offered without any attempt at mitigation.

Aubrelle's fingers tightened slightly in her lap.

Valttair did not stop.

"He had no talent worth mentioning. No ambition. No value," he went on. "If someone had told me then that he would be sitting here today, I would have laughed."

He paused, just long enough for the weight of that to sink in.

"But that was then," Valttair continued. "And this is now." His gaze sharpened. "We are not here to discuss what is already dead."

Thaleon remained silent, listening.

"What matters," Valttair said, leaning forward slightly now, "is the present. And the present version of Trafalgar is not the boy your rumors remember."

His eyes flicked briefly toward Thaleon, then to Aubrelle, then back again.

"I suggest," he finished, "that we speak of who he is now. Not what he used to be."

Thaleon remained still, back straight against the sofa, hands resting calmly atop his knees as his gaze settled on Trafalgar. Not appraising in the way a merchant measured goods, nor dismissive like a man indulging a rumor. He simply observed. The silence stretched again, but this time it was deliberate in purpose—an assessment rather than hesitation.

Through Pipin's eyes, Aubrelle saw the shift in her father clearly.

He was colder than usual.

Not unkind. Not distant. But guarded in the way he only ever became when standing before someone whose name carried real danger. A Morgain. Especially one like Valttair. This wasn't the man who read to her as a child or worried silently when she left for the front. This was Lord Thaleon au Rosenthal, patriarch of his house, weighing consequences before sentiment.

At last, he spoke.

"I would be lying," Thaleon said evenly, "if I claimed ignorance." His red eyes remained on Trafalgar. "I have heard the more recent rumors. And I have seen some of them with my own eyes."

A pause.

"At the Council," he continued, "you defeated Alfons au Vaelion." His gaze sharpened slightly. "You were in your first core at the time. But he was forced to adapt to you."

The memory was clearly not distant for him.

"That is not something one forgets," Thaleon added. "Nor something easily dismissed."

Valttair did not interrupt. Instead, he turned his head slightly and addressed Trafalgar directly.

"In which core are you now?" he asked.

The question was simple. Direct. Stripped of ceremony.

Trafalgar answered just as simply.

"Flow."

The word landed cleanly in the room.

Thaleon's composure cracked, if only for a fraction of a second. His eyes widened, surprise breaking through the controlled calm he had worn since entering the office.

"Flow?" he repeated. "In a year?"

Valttair nodded once, unapologetic.

"Believe it or not," he said. "We have no reason to lie." His tone sharpened. "And I see no benefit in exaggeration."

He leaned back slightly, one arm resting against the sofa, his voice carrying the quiet certainty of someone stating facts rather than boasting.

"He stood beside me when I killed the Gluttony Dragon," Valttair went on. "He didn't slow me down. He didn't become a liability." His eyes flicked briefly toward Thaleon. "He understands territory. He understands responsibility."

Valttair's gaze shifted then, not to Aubrelle, but to the space beyond the office walls.

"Euclid belongs to him," he said. "I entrusted him with a city. With a Gate." A pause, measured. "None of my other children have been given that."

The implication was unmistakable.

Thaleon leaned back slightly, absorbing the weight of that statement. A city. A Gate. Not symbolic authority, but real power—granted, not promised.

"…You seem to place a great deal of faith in your son," Thaleon said at last.

Valttair did not hesitate.

"A great deal," he replied. There was no warmth in his voice, no affection that might soften the words—but there was absolute certainty. "More than you realize."

Thaleon's gaze returned to Trafalgar, lingering there a moment longer this time.

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