The hall was vast and hush like a museum after hours, marble floors holding the last of the afternoon's light. A man in a crisp white shirt and charcoal trousers stood centered beneath a chandelier, posture precise, the clean lines of his suit cutting him into the room like a signature. Opposite him, on a high-backed chair set apart from the rest—more throne than seat—an elder sat composed, presence outweighing any ornament. Beside him, a woman watched, her beauty the kind that unsettles—a cool, flawless pallor like white jade, eyes a lucid blue that caught the light and held it, as if she'd stepped out from a cinematic close-up and refused to blur.
When the elder spoke, the air seemed to gather around the words. "The time has come," he said, voice even, carrying to the furthest corners, "to place the full weight of this house in our only son's hands. But first, he must meet his grandfather's final condition—and pass the last test."
The woman's poise flickered; worry traced itself faintly between her brows. A breath, then: "Is this truly necessary?" Her voice was low, careful, but could not quite hide the edge of a mother's fear. "He has taken tests all his life and passed them, every one. But this… this sounds dangerous. Must our son face it?
The man in the high-backed chair didn't raise his voice; he didn't need to. "You know this," he said, each word measured, polished by old obedience. "It is your father's decree. If our son is to be named heir, then he—and we—must face this test. I cannot set it aside." The room received his silence like a verdict.
A hairline crack showed in the woman's composure. "Of course," she said, almost under her breath, the edge unmistakable. "Why would you worry about your own son?"