"Father."
I said it softly, almost under my breath. The word drifted across the hall. He did not turn. He never did anymore.
I studied him. My father, the man whose presence seemed to fill the space before he even entered it. His silver armor gleamed with impossible perfection. Not a scratch. Not a blemish.
His skin appeared untouched by the world, as if carved from stone and polished by sunlight. I had seen soldiers battered and bloodied, yet he remained untouchable. Even at eleven, I could feel the weight of that distance.
He was tall, but it was more than stature. It was the authority in his stride. The control in his silence. The way the air shifted when he moved. Even the walls seemed to lean slightly toward him.
He passed by, boots clicking softly on marble, toward the study he now claimed as his own. The one he had shared with Mother. They no longer shared chambers.
I had sensed the emptiness before, in the quiet corners of the house. He had withdrawn after the skies turned red. The world had grown heavier than I was prepared to understand.
I called again, quieter this time, steadying my voice. "Father."
Nothing.
I glanced at my wooden sword. My training weapon. My hands were too small for steel. He had promised I would earn that right in time. Yet I longed for it.
I wanted to feel the weight of history in my grasp. His blade had shaped our family's story. Its name was whispered with reverence. I imagined holding it, not to rival him, but to stand close enough to sense his presence.
"My lord, you may not pass further."
A soldier stepped in front of me, arm extended. His red-and-iron armor shone, but lacked the polish of my father's. His sword hung at his side.
He spoke firmly, yet his eyes betrayed uncertainty. Hesitation. The shadow of fear that came from standing near greatness.
"Who says so?" I asked.
He did not answer.
I turned just in time to see the doors closing behind Father. Generals and vassals flanked him, their cloaks drifting like smoke.
I caught his gaze as the doors began to seal. Not warmth. Not even acknowledgment. His eyes were sharp, precise, and unyielding. A hollow twist curled in my chest.
The doors closed.
The sound struck heavier than I expected. It felt as if the world had shifted without me.
Behind me, the old butler's voice was calm, steady, a tether to reality. "Your sword mentor has arrived, my lord. There will be time to speak with your father later."
I nodded, though my throat felt tight. I turned slowly toward the hall where the soldier now lowered his arm, gaze fixed to the floor.
I walked, wooden sword tapping against my leg. It had once been a rhythm of pride, a signal that I was training to follow in his footsteps.
Now it marked distance. A reminder of how far I still had to go, not only in strength but in understanding him.
And how much farther he had already traveled.
*
*
*
The sun sank slowly, bleeding molten light across the horizon. Its glow was too bright to look at, yet powerless to warm what it touched.
The sky burned in harsh shades of red and orange. Smoke curled from distant forests and shattered villages, twisting into clouds heavy with ash. The land groaned under its wounds, and the heavens wept.
From the tall windows of his study, Aule watched the destruction below. The room, built for nobles with polished wood and carved stone, offered no comfort. Every evening it reminded him of what he could not protect. His quill lay untouched on the desk, a silent witness to his failures. His hands, scarred and calloused, remembered the weight of a sword better than the softness of paper. Words could not stop blood from spilling.
"How long will you ignore me, and your children?"
The voice cut through the quiet, sharp at first, trembling with anger and sorrow.
Trivinia stood behind him, poised yet tense. Her beauty remained, though sorrow had etched lines beneath her eyes. The jewels she wore caught the dim light faintly, hollow reminders of the lives they could have saved. Her gaze, red and swollen, carried questions she dared not voice aloud.
He did not turn. His eyes stayed on the horizon.
"You should not be here," he said, polite but stiff, his voice forming a barrier as impenetrable as the armor he always wore.
"You sleep here. You eat here. You live here more than you live with us," she said, gesturing weakly at the room. "You come home in armor, not as my husband, not as their father. You look at me as if I am another shadow in this house."
He exhaled slowly, jaw tight. "Please, Trivinia, be quiet," he said evenly, measured. "Now is not the time for this."
"Quiet?" she repeated, her voice trembling. "I hear the servants bring basins of blood at night. I hear the physicians whispering in the hallways. You think I cannot see what is happening inside these walls?"
Aule shifted slightly behind his desk, the posture of a man who carried the weight of the world but refused to let it break him. "I do not doubt your awareness," he said, calm and distant. "But speaking of it changes nothing. You must understand that."
Her lips parted, as if to argue, then closed. "Then why push us away? Why leave Andras wondering where his father is, why leave me to watch from a distance? We are your family, and yet you treat us as strangers."
He slammed a hand on the desk, the sound echoing through the room, startling her. His voice rose, sharp and strained. "Do you think I want this, Trivinia? Do you think I enjoy standing here, making impossible choices every day, deciding who lives and who dies?"
Her chest tightened, fear and sorrow warring within her.
"I am not pushing you away for lack of love!" he shouted, his voice trembling with frustration. "I am protecting you! I am protecting him! Do you think words will save anyone? Do you think my presence changes the fate of a single soul beyond this desk?"
The room fell into tense silence. Aule's chest heaved, his hands gripping the edge of the desk. His voice lowered, but the anger lingered, raw and palpable.
"You will understand in time," he said, almost regretfully, though the stiffness in his tone remained. "But now is not that time. Be patient."
Tears slid down her cheeks. He noticed, his gaze softening imperceptibly, just enough that the distance between them felt less like rejection and more like protection. She swallowed, struggling to speak.
"Please… just… let me understand."
He exhaled slowly, voice quieter now, weighed with exhaustion. "I cannot," he admitted, measured and heavy, but the sharpness of his frustration had faded.
The fires outside flickered against the windows, casting orange light across the walls. Inside, the silence stretched, heavy but shared. Aule remained behind the desk, unyielding yet quietly softened by the presence of the woman he loved. She did not reach for him, and he did not beckon her closer. Still, the emotional barrier had thinned, if only slightly, and for a moment, the soldier and the husband coexisted in the same space.