[Rynthall Estate—Later]
The heavy weight of the throne room still clung to Silas's shoulders as his carriage rattled past the estate gates. The moment he stepped down, the crisp air of home washed over him—sweet, untouched by the stench of treachery and false smiles. He breathed out slowly, already feeling his muscles loosen.
Inside, laughter and chatter spilled down the halls. He followed the sound, only to pause at the sight before him.
There, in the sitting room, Elysia was perched on Theoran's lap—tiny hands fisting the old man's beard like it was her newest toy.
"Grandpa," she demanded seriously, tugging hard enough to make his eyes water, "why do you have hair on your face?"
Theoran puffed out his chest despite his suffering. "It's a sign of a strong man, my dear!" he declared proudly.
Elysia blinked, her nose scrunching. "But Papa doesn't have hair on his face and he's very strong."
