A man adorned in luxurious robes stood on the balcony, his hands resting on the cool stone rail as he looked beyond the towering walls of the city.
His gaze was tranquil, steady, almost serene, yet no amount of calm could fully hide the shadow of distress beneath it.
His features showed it in subtle ways: the tightness in his jaw, the faint crease between his brows, the stillness that lingered too long.
Behind him, soft footsteps echoed across the polished floor.
"She's back, huh?" he said in a low but certain voice, without turning back.
Favre straightened a little behind him.
"Yes, Master. The Little Mistress has now retired to her quarters."
"Favre," he called softly.
"Yes, Master," the aide replied, stepping forward.
The man's voice dropped slightly, "The matters of the Inner Courts of the Ivory Covenant are getting increasingly murky as the selection of the Grand Archivist nears.
House Balsalt has always sided with House Cerceran, as my forefathers have done. But the current leader, Zaek, shows no regard for ancient ties and has now placed harsh tests before us."
He paused, eyes still scanning the horizon, though his mind clearly turned inward.
"He's a very ambitious man—one with his eyes clearly set on the Grand Archivist position. And he knows that securing the complete Armament of Jigot and returning it to the Covenant will boost his chances of reclaiming the role once held by his ancestors.
Of the three relics, he already has two. And you can easily guess which is suspected to be the last one."
Favre nodded silently in agreement with an unreadable expression.
"Of all the ties we've held in the past," the man continued, "our bond with Ironwood Village remains the strongest. Their forefathers stood with mine to plant this city and make it this stronghold we all call home."
His hands clenched slightly against the stone rail.
"Yet now, what the Cerceran Throne demands is their most sacred artifact. And I... I was ashamed of myself for even asking them to give it up."
He turned his head slightly, not quite looking at Favre, but close.
"So now, do you understand why I couldn't send them any help?"
Favre lowered his head. "Master, I would never question your actions."
A dry laugh broke the stillness.
"Oh no, Favre. You do have questions in your heart, and rightly so."
He turned fully now, meeting the younger man's eyes for the first time.
"You met your deceased fiancée in that village. We'd be fancy fools to pretend Ironwood doesn't have a special place in your heart."
"So… Favre, I lay my heart bare before you, so you may see my burdens. As a father. As a Master Mage sworn to the First Word. As a head to one of Provotos' growing cities. And as a custodian of law and promises.
It's hard to be all of those at once, trust me. Sometimes, it feels like a death sentence."
A long silence stretched between them.
"But above all," he said finally, "you know I must do what needs to be done. Right or wrong remains an old, aged echo. But one thing I swear to you:"
He stepped forward, placing a hand briefly on Favre's shoulder.
"I will never allow coercion or force to take that artifact from them."
Without waiting for a response, he walked past Favre and into his chamber, leaving behind one last message.
"Even if it meant going against the Cerceran Throne."
***
Gentle knocks landed on the concrete door, firm but polite, reverberating slightly through the walls.
"Beena, Father is here."
After a few seconds, the door creaked open, revealing the face of a beautiful girl in the prime of her teenage years.
"Father," she said softly, her expression mixed, still bearing the weight of earlier events.
"Trouble sleeping?" he asked, his voice laced with concern.
"Uhm." She nodded slightly in silent affirmation.
"Let me read you a book then," he offered, gesturing toward her room.
She rolled her eyes, but without resistance, and parted the door wide enough for him to step through.
Slowly, he entered, shutting the door behind him as she made her way to the bed.
His eyes wandered across the room, lingering on the small details, until they settled on a portrait hanging above her desk.
A wry smile curved into something warmer.
"By the gods... so many years have passed, and it's hard to remember to pause. Looking at how much you've grown, I can only be grateful for my luck," he said with wistfulness.
Beena climbed onto her bed and pulled the cover over her legs, her fingers idly fidgeting with the hem.
Her father settled into the chair beside the bed, an old, worn book already in hand. The cover was faded, its title nearly rubbed off, but she knew it well.
"The Tale of the Moonweaver?" she asked, her voice dry but not dismissive.
He gave a small smile. "The very same."
He opened the book and began to read, his voice steady and smooth, weaving the ancient words into the still air of the room.
Beena stared at the ceiling at first, unfocused, her thoughts drifting. But as the story went on, her gaze slowly shifted to him.
She watched the lines around his eyes. The way he softened when he reached her favorite part, the one she used to demand he repeat three times as a child.
"…and so the Moonweaver wove her final thread, not to catch the stars, but to hold the hearts of those she loved."
He closed the book gently, as though not to wake the story from its sleep.
Silence lingered for a beat too long.
"Father," Beena said at last, her voice barely above a whisper, "do you ever feel like you have to pretend you're okay… even when you're not?"
He looked at her, really looked, and something flickered in his eyes.
Recognition. Pain. Pride.
"All the time." He said. "It's a skill that represents growth after all."
Beena's lips parted slightly, surprised by his honesty.
"And when you do?"
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Then I remember who I'm pretending for. And sometimes… that gives me enough strength to make it real."
Beena blinked, then gave a small nod. She reached beneath her pillow and touched the chain of her missing necklace, forgetting it wasn't there anymore.
Her father didn't notice. Or if he did, he said nothing.
Instead, he stood slowly and pressed a kiss to her forehead.
"Rest now. You'll need it."
She gave a faint smile. "Goodnight, Father."
"Goodnight, Little Star."
He walked quietly to the door, pausing once before slipping out and closing it behind him.