Seven years had passed since Klen first entered the mansion's grand halls. Time had quietly reshaped him — not into someone grand or distant, but into a young man of balance. His once-frail frame had gained definition, his posture upright, and his movements fluid with precision. Though still quiet, there was confidence in the way he carried himself, the sort born from years of discipline rather than pride.
The mansion itself had changed too. The years had brought life into its walls — laughter echoing in hallways, warmth filling its air, and new servants joining the ranks. The golden light of morning poured through tall windows, glinting across polished floors as the household bustled with rhythm.
Klen walked through the corridor, his steps measured and soundless. He exchanged short greetings as he passed, his words simple but steady, earning nods and smiles in return.
The kitchen was always his first stop. The moment he stepped through its arched doorway, the rich scent of baked bread and herbs wrapped around him.
"Back again?" the head cook said, arching a brow while stirring a pot. "You'd think you run this kitchen."
"Just checking things," Klen replied smoothly, scanning the counters for the day's preparations.
"You mean checking me," she muttered, though the hint of fondness in her tone betrayed her.
Before Klen could respond, a cheerful voice cut through the kitchen.
"There he is!"
Marna entered with a basket of apples, her auburn hair tied loosely, her sleeves rolled up. Her grin was just as disarming as ever. "You know, Klen, I'm starting to think you don't sleep."
"Someone has to make sure things run smoothly," he said, inspecting the basket she carried.
"Oh, come on," Marna teased. "You're what — seventeen now? Shouldn't you be getting into trouble or something?"
"Not my style."
"That's exactly your problem." She smirked, leaning closer. "You're too serious. It's unhealthy."
He exhaled quietly. "And you talk too much. That's also unhealthy."
Marna gasped, feigning offense. "You've learned sarcasm! Fole's been a bad influence."
The cook slammed her spoon down with a sharp thunk. "Both of you — out before I start swinging!"
Marna snorted and ducked behind Klen as they both hurried toward the door, laughing.
Outside, the training grounds were calm and cool. The morning mist still hovered low over the dirt, disturbed only by the quiet crunch of Klen's boots.
Fole stood waiting near the center of the grounds, a wooden sword in each hand. Though streaks of gray now touched his hair, his presence remained firm — every inch the man who kept the mansion's order.
"You're late," he said.
Klen met his gaze evenly. "Barely."
Fole tossed one of the wooden blades toward him. "Then prove you haven't gotten rusty."
Klen caught it easily and dropped into stance without another word.
Their first clash rang sharp and clear. The wooden blades met with force, the impact sending a small tremor through the air. Fole's strikes were methodical — precise, clean, testing. Klen met them calmly, his footwork light, his defense tight.
The pace quickened.
Fole pressed harder, switching rhythm mid-strike. Klen adjusted instantly, deflecting a blow and countering with a swift horizontal sweep. Their movements blurred together — the difference between teacher and student almost invisible.
When Fole twisted to disarm him, Klen stepped inside the arc of his swing, driving a knee forward. Fole barely caught his balance, smirking despite the strain.
"Well done," he muttered, eyes glinting. "But—"
He spun suddenly, catching Klen across the shoulder with the flat of his blade. The hit sent a jolt through him, but Klen pivoted on instinct, parrying the follow-up strike and bringing his own weapon up to Fole's neck at the same moment.
Both froze.
For several seconds, only their steady breathing filled the air. Then, together, they lowered their weapons.
"A draw," Fole said quietly.
Klen nodded once, respectful but satisfied. "I'll take that."
Fole chuckled under his breath. "You've grown sharper. Less hesitant." He sheathed the wooden sword under his arm. "Your reflexes finally caught up to your patience."
"Your teaching, not my skill," Klen replied.
The old butler gave a faint smile. "Humble as ever. Good. That'll serve you better than pride."
They stood together for a moment longer, the silence easy and familiar — not as master and pupil, but as equals who'd long learned to read one another without words.
Later that afternoon, the mansion gleamed under soft sunlight. Klen crossed the upper hall with a stack of freshly sealed letters in hand. The familiar scent of polished oak and blooming flowers filled the air.
Lyra met him partway down the corridor. She carried herself with the grace of her lineage — confident but not cold. Her pastel-blonde hair framed her face neatly, and her blue eyes carried a calm intelligence that matched her composure.
"Klen," she greeted, smiling faintly. "I heard about the duel."
He blinked. "That was fast."
"Marna," she said simply. "Apparently she's decided you're some kind of hero now."
Klen sighed quietly. "She exaggerates."
"Does she?" Lyra asked with mild amusement. "Fole said it was a draw. That's impressive."
"He's still better," Klen admitted.
She tilted her head. "You've grown modest, too. Dangerous combination."
They walked together toward the end of the hall. Their pace was unhurried, their words calm — comfortable. Seven years had smoothed away the distance between them. What once felt like formality now felt more like conversation between equals.
"You're quieter than usual," Lyra said as they passed a window.
"Just thinking."
"About what?"
He hesitated. "How fast time passes, I suppose."
Lyra's smile softened. "It does, doesn't it? Sometimes I still remember that first day you came here."
He gave a quiet hum. "Feels like a lifetime ago."
A knock echoed behind them. A servant stood at the far end of the hall, bowing politely. "Milady, Sir Klen — the master requests your presence in his study."
Lyra turned, her expression composed but curious. "Did he say why?"
"No, my lady. Only that it's urgent."
Lyra looked at Klen, her calm gaze steady. "Well," she said softly, "we shouldn't keep him waiting."
Klen nodded. "Of course."
They walked side by side through the long, sunlit hallway. The hum of the mansion faded behind them, replaced by a quiet stillness that seemed to settle over the air. The heavy doors to the study stood at the far end, closed and silent.
Neither spoke, but something in the silence hinted at change — as though the easy days of peace they had known were slowly giving way to something greater, and far less certain.