The weight of the obsidian spear in my hands seemed to multiply under my mother's scrutinizing gaze. Isabella's smile was a masterpiece of maternal diplomacy—warm enough to avoid offense, yet cold enough to convey her disapproval.
"I see that you have been very busy, Mister Henrik," she said.
Henrik shifted uncomfortably under her stare.
"Your son is heading to the capital to study at the Royal Academy, Isabella," he said, trying to recover some strong tone but he looked even more pitiful. "Those noble brats up there... they don't play fair. Harold will need every advantage he can get. This isn't just about books and theories—it's survival."
I could see Isabella's internal struggle playing out across her delicate features. Her fingers worried at the hem of her apron.
"Still..."
