The study was cold, the kind of cold that seeped into the bones. The fire in the hearth flickered low, casting long shadows across the heavy oak furniture. The room, usually a sanctuary of knowledge and calm, now felt like a prison—a place where words could never be fully contained, and emotions spilled over like an unholy tide.
Lord Roderic Virell stood at the far side of the room, his hands gripping the back of his chair as if it were the only thing keeping him upright. His posture was rigid, his jaw clenched so tightly that his teeth ground together in barely controlled fury. The storm inside him had yet to subside, and he was waiting—waiting for the one person who could make it worse.
Teodore entered the room quietly, stepping into the dim light with his shoulders hunched, his eyes cast downward. He had expected this confrontation, but even so, the weight of his father's gaze hit him like a physical blow.
Roderic didn't speak at first. The silence between them felt heavy, suffocating. It was as if the words had already been said a thousand times in the space of a single moment, and there was nothing more to be added, only the slow burn of shame in Teodore's chest.
Teodore cleared his throat softly, almost uncertain. "Father..." The word caught in his throat for a moment, as if it had weight far beyond its simple sound.
Roderic's voice came low, like a rumble of thunder. "Do you understand what you've done?"
Teodore stood still, his gaze fixed on the floor. His heart raced, the shame growing with every second that ticked by. "Yes, I do," he whispered, his voice quiet but clear. He swallowed hard, trying to steady himself, but it was no use. His father's fury was palpable, filling the room like a storm. "I was wrong, Father. I know that now."
Roderic's sharp eyes remained locked on him, his expression unreadable for a moment. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, as though the older man was searching for something in his son—a glimpse of the strength that had been lost.
"I acted out of... selfishness," Teodore continued, his voice faltering slightly. "I thought that... that my pain would end if I ended it all. But I see now how reckless that was. How foolish." He looked up briefly, meeting his father's gaze, though his eyes were filled with regret. "I've hurt you, haven't I?"
Roderic's gaze softened, just a fraction. But it was enough to make Teodore's heart twist in his chest. His father was not the kind of man to show weakness, but there was something unspoken in the air—something that felt like an opening, a crack in the fortress of his father's wrath.
"You've shattered my trust, Teodore," Roderic's voice was quieter now, but there was a sharp edge to it, as if the anger had yet to fully dissipate. "I cannot pretend that what you've done does not hurt me—deeply. You are my son. My heir. You are the future of this house. But you acted as if none of that mattered. As if I didn't matter. Your mother. Do you know where she is? Passed out on her bed thinking her son is dead…."
Teodore's throat tightened at the words, the weight of them pressing down on him. He could feel his father's disappointment like a physical thing, and it stung more than any reprimand or threat. He stepped forward, his voice steady now, but full of contrition.
"I'm sorry, Father," he said, his voice low but sincere. "I was wrong to think that my pain would make everything else go away."
Roderic's eyes remained cold, but there was a shift in his stance. The rigid tension in his shoulders had lessened slightly, though he did not relent completely. "You think saying sorry will make it better?" he snapped, though his voice had lost some of its edge. "You think it's that simple?"
Teodore's head dropped slightly, his shoulders slumping in an unspoken surrender. "No, Father," he said quietly. "I know it's not that simple. I can't undo what I've done. But I promise you... I will do better."
His father was silent for a long moment, as though weighing his words against the weight of his own anger. The fire crackled softly, its embers glowing faintly in the dim room. Teodore could hear the sound of his own heartbeat, a steady rhythm that felt too loud in the quiet space.
It was the longest silence he had ever endured. His father's eyes, sharp as ever, never left him. The tension in the air seemed to thicken with every passing second, making Teodore feel like he might suffocate from the sheer weight of the moment.
"I've spent my entire life building something for you, for our family" Roderic said finally, his voice quieter now, less harsh. "A legacy. A name. A future. You were supposed to carry it, Teodore, to stand tall and make your own mark. Instead, you... you nearly threw it all away. Do you understand what that means?"
Teodore swallowed hard, his throat dry. He nodded, his gaze dropping again to the floor, where his boots seemed to absorb the weight of his father's words. He could feel the sting of disappointment like a sharp edge against his skin.
"I'm so sorry, Father," Teodore said, his voice breaking now, the rawness of his own emotions creeping through. "I never meant to disappoint you. I never meant to hurt you."
For the briefest moment, there was nothing but silence. Then, Roderic stepped forward, closing the distance between them. His face was taut with restraint, but his eyes—those eyes that had always been so strong, so unyielding—began to glisten with something that Teodore had never seen in them before.
Roderic raised a trembling hand, and Teodore flinched, unsure of what was happening, unsure of what to expect. But his father didn't strike him, didn't berate him further. Instead, Roderic placed a hand on his son's shoulder, the touch heavy with years of unspoken words.
"I'm not proud of what you did, Teodore. But I know this: you are still my son. You are still my blood. And I've never wanted anything more than to see you stand strong and succeed. You're right. You were wrong. But you've learned. And I will forgive you. I will."
Teodore's breath caught in his throat. The words he had never thought he would hear, words he had longed for but feared would never come. His father—who had always demanded perfection, who had always expected the world from him—was forgiving him. Accepting him, flaws and all.
Roderic's face contorted as a tear finally slipped down his cheek, something that made Teodore's heart ache more than any punishment ever could. His father—his father—was crying. Not from anger, but from relief, from a quiet, reluctant tenderness. The wall that had kept Roderic untouchable, distant, was crumbling, and in its place, Teodore saw a man who loved him, despite his failings.
"I will try to be worthy of you, Father," Teodore whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "I promise. I'll make it right."
Roderic pulled him into an embrace then—hesitant at first, but then stronger, more certain. Teodore stiffened at the sudden contact, but after a beat, he melted into his father's arms, his own tears finally breaking free. The two of them stood there in the center of the study, father and son, holding onto each other in a fragile, quiet moment of healing.
When they finally parted, Roderic's hand lingered on Teodore's shoulder, a silent sign of his acceptance, his forgiveness. His face was still etched with the marks of his years, but there was something else there now—something soft, something hopeful.
"Go now," Roderic said, his voice rough but gentle. "You've been through enough. We will rebuild this together, Teodore. I will help you. But you must promise me one thing—promise me that you'll never doubt yourself again. You have more strength in you than you know. Now go to your mother but be prepeared to face her."
Teodore nodded, unable to speak, too overwhelmed by the flood of emotions that threatened to drown him. But he squeezed his father's hand one last time before turning toward the door, his heart lighter, his steps more certain.
As Teodore stepped out of the study, he could hear the faintest sound of his father's sobs—soft, quiet, and full of a sorrow that Teodore could never truly understand. But in that moment, he understood something else: forgiveness wasn't a gift. It was a bond—a thread that connected them, no matter how broken they had both been.
Teodore walked down the hallway, his shoulders a little straighter, his heart a little less heavy.
Teodore stepped out of the study, the heavy oak door closing behind him with a soft, almost final thud. The quiet of the hallway enveloped him, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, he took a deep, steadying breath. His chest still ached, but there was a subtle shift within him—a loosening of the tight knot of dread that had twisted there for so long. It was strange….
His father had forgiven him. Roderic Virell, the immovable pillar of strength, had shown him mercy—not out of weakness, but out of something deeper. Something that Teodore had never expected to see in his father's eyes: love. A love that could still burn brightly even after it had been wounded.
He felt lighter as he walked down the corridor, though his heart was still heavy with the knowledge that he had caused so much pain. His thoughts, however, quickly turned to his mother. The suffocating silence of the study had been nothing compared to the storm that awaited him in his mother's rooms.
His mother—Lady Elira Virell—was a force unto herself. Her elegance, her sharp wit, her ability to command a room with just a glance. She had always been a mother to admire, but also one to fear. In many ways, Teodore had always been closer to her than to his father, and that made the thought of facing her all the more daunting. Unlike his father, who had always been more reserved in his affections, Lady Elira had always worn her emotions on her sleeve. When she was disappointed, there was no hiding it. And when she was angry... there was no escaping it.
Teodore reached the door to her rooms, his hand hovering just above the brass handle. His heart quickened as he realized that this would be a far different conversation than the one he had just had with his father. His mother's anger was not something to be easily calmed.
He knocked once, softly, the sound echoing faintly in the stillness. There was no response.
He knocked again, a little more insistently this time, and after a long moment, the door creaked open, revealing his mother standing in the doorway, her figure silhouetted against the soft light from the room behind her. Her expression was unreadable—neither fury nor relief, but something darker, more calculated.
Teodore swallowed, suddenly feeling small again, as if he were a child all over again, standing before her waiting for her to pass judgment.
"Mother..." he began, but his voice faltered as he saw her eyes—eyes that were usually sharp with intelligence and affection, now clouded with something he couldn't quite place.
"Teodore," she said, her voice cool, but with a bite to it. She stepped back, allowing him to enter, though her gaze remained fixed on him, unwavering. "Come in."
"I... I know you're angry with me," he said, his voice faltering as he searched for the right words. "And I don't blame you. I've done something unforgivable."
Lady Elira's eyes softened immediately. She stepped closer to him, her presence like a balm on his raw nerves. "Teodore," she said, her voice light, almost laughing in its warmth. "You think I am angry with you?"
His brow furrowed in confusion, and she smiled, shaking her head softly. "You have no idea how much my heart aches for you. How much I've been worried about you." She took a step closer, reaching out to gently cup his face in her hands. The touch was light, tender, as if to comfort him, not to chastise.
He blinked, unsure what to say. "But... but I almost ruined everything. You've given me everything, and I nearly... I nearly—"
She silenced him with a soft shake of her head, her fingers smoothing over his hair. "Teodore, my son," she said, her voice low but filled with that undeniable affection, "I do not need you to be perfect. I never did. I needed you to be alive. I needed you to be here. That's all."
Teodore felt the weight in his chest ease just a little at her words. "I didn't know how to handle it all," he said quietly. "The pressure. The expectations. The fear that I would never live up to it. I thought the only way out was..." His voice trailed off.
She nodded, her eyes full of understanding, as if she had seen his pain long before he had admitted it to himself. "I know, darling. I know. The weight of your father's expectations can be heavy, but you are not him. You are you. And that is more than enough for me."
Teodore's eyes burned with tears that threatened to spill, but he swallowed them back. His mother—his strong, beautiful mother—was looking at him as if he were still the little boy she had once cradled in her arms. As if none of his mistakes could change how much she loved him.
"You are my son," she continued, her voice unwavering, yet laced with emotion. "And no matter what you do, no matter what mistakes you make, I will always love you. I will always stand by you."
Warmth. At least, that was how it felt. Jonathano foras long as he could remember, he had never known the warmth of a mother's arms, the steady hand of a father to guide him. His earliest memories were of cold nights in orphanages, of meals that came only when the bells rang for the others to gather. The faces of the women who cared for him were kind, but distant, as if they, too, were merely passing through. And the men—there were no men, not in the way a boy needed. He had never had a real father.
But now as Theodore he felt it for the first time… family. He embraced it completely. His new life.
"Thank you mother."
She leaned towards him and kissed him on his forhead.
"Go now. We will talk at dinner."
Theodore left his mother's room grateful for everything new he gained. Now it was time for him to explore this new world. And he knew where to start.
The castle was a labyrinth. Every hallway, every turn seemed to hold a new mystery, a new wonder that Teodore hadn't expected. The sheer scale of it—its towering walls and intricate carvings—was like something out of the old fairy tales the nuns had once told him, the kind he had heard but never believed could exist outside of stories.
As he wandered through the grand hallways, Teodore's footsteps echoed softly against the polished stone floors, a sound that seemed both foreign and fitting for the vastness of the place. The air smelled faintly of aged wood, dust, and something sweet—like dried flowers—and there were tapestries hanging on the walls that depicted scenes of battles long past, great hunts, and families gathered around tables, laughing together.
His fingers brushed against the cold stone as he moved down the corridor, a corridor that seemed to stretch on endlessly. He wasn't sure where he was headed, but the promise of discovering something new—the feeling of being an explorer in his own new home—pulled him forward.
Eventually, he came to a door unlike the others. It was slightly ajar, the brass handle worn with use, and a sliver of golden light escaped from the crack. Curiosity tugged at him, the same sense of wonder that had overtaken him since his arrival here. He pushed the door open gently.
Inside, the air was cool, and the faint scent of parchment and ink filled his senses. It was a room unlike any he had ever seen—vast and quiet, with towering bookshelves that stretched high into the rafters. Books upon books lined the shelves, their leather-bound spines gleaming in the dim light. The floor was covered in a rich, red rug that felt soft beneath his boots.
This was the library.
Teodore stepped inside, his heart quickening as he took in the sight. The shelves seemed endless, curving around the room in a way that made it look almost magical, like the very walls were alive, holding secrets and stories that waited patiently for someone to uncover them. A large wooden ladder, mounted on wheels, was positioned next to one of the shelves, giving him a sense of the sheer size of the collection. There were shelves filled with ancient tomes, their pages yellowed with age, while others held books with gilded titles that caught the light.
He wandered deeper into the room, the soft rustle of pages and the musty scent of old paper filling the space around him. His fingers skimmed over the spines of the books, and he felt a deep, quiet thrill run through him. He had never had the luxury of owning a book of his own, and here, in this room, he was surrounded by them—thousands of them, waiting to be explored. The idea that he could read any of them, that he could be anywhere in the world through the pages of these stories, made his chest tighten with excitement.
In the center of the room was a grand wooden desk, covered in parchment, ink wells, and quills, as though someone had just left it in a hurry. The desk was large enough to fit several people around it, and Teodore imagined a scholar, or maybe his new parents, sitting here, reading, writing, and thinking deeply about the world. He ran a hand over the edge of the desk, feeling the smoothness of the polished wood.
"So where to start….."