The woman stood up.
Her movement was immediate and predatory, like a blade being unsheathed in a quiet room.
"Sienna, don't—" the man cautioned, his voice a calm anchor but edged with a sharp, warning grit.
She didn't spare him a glance. "Shut it, Yami." Her tone was clipped and freezing, carrying the absolute authority of a woman who had never been successfully challenged. "I haven't seen my son since he was eighteen. Don't presume to stop me now."
She stepped forward, her boots clicking against the polished black floor. Each step echoed through the mana-lit hall, a rhythmic strike that bounced off the portraits of silent ancestors.
Eiden stood like a statue. He didn't bow, he didn't flinch, and he offered no greeting. He simply watched her close the distance.
Sienna stopped directly in front of him, close enough for him to feel the biting cold of the aura radiating from her skin. She looked him up and down, crossing her arms as she scrutinized him—not with the warmth of a mother, but with the clinical disgust of a master warrior assessing a failed recruit.
Her grey eyes narrowed into silver slits. "You're still weak."
The words struck the air like a physical blow long before her hand ever moved.
"Five hundred years," she said, her voice rising in a crescendo of revulsion. "You've been gone for five centuries, and you're still this? What happened to that pathetic dream of yours? The one where you become a god?"
She circled him once, her presence brushing against his like a winter gale. "Five hundred years, and your aura, your mana field—it's all the same. You've changed nothing about yourself, other than running with those criminals."
Eiden's jaw tightened, a small fracture in his mask, but he remained silent.
Sienna stopped before him again. Then, she slapped him.
The sound was a whip-crack of lightning echoing through the hall. Eiden's head snapped to the side, his white hair shifting with the violence of the impact.
"You run with common criminals, Eiden?" she spat, her voice sharp as jagged glass. "I hear it from every traveler, from town to town. They call you 'The Black Wraith.' They say you are destroying kingdoms. That you butchered ten members of the Council of Gods—the very guardians sent to protect these lands."
She leaned in, her voice dropping to a venomous, low-octane whisper. "And here you are… killing gods while claiming you want to become one? That is no path to power. That is a tantrum."
She straightened, her aura flaring until white light crackled around her shoulders like static. "Do you ever intend to be a source of pride? You could have secured our bloodline, found a wife from a powerful clan or a high kingdom. Instead, you do this."
She turned away, the light around her fading into a simmer of contempt. "Eugh. I can't look at you anymore."
She walked past him, her boots echoing a funeral march down the hall. "Weak little shit," she muttered, the words fading as she vanished around a corner.
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Yami closed his book with a soft, final thud and set it on the table. He stood slowly, his movements a deliberate, calm contrast to Sienna's jagged edges. He approached Eiden.
"Son," he began softly, "as you likely expected… your mother and I are deeply disappointed."
His tone lacked anger. It lacked ice. It was simply exhausted.
"I don't care about your strength," Yami continued, his eyes searching Eiden's face. "I believe that will come in time. But I am disappointed in these… atrocities." He exhaled, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Other clan leaders have come to us in a fury. Your friends from the other two clans have been here, asking if you've been cursed or possessed."
He placed a hand on Eiden's shoulder—firm, steady, and warm. "Eiden. You are my son. But I don't think I can see you as such if you continue this. Please… find a different path."
His voice cracked, a microscopic tremor that Eiden didn't miss. "I just… don't want you to die. Neither does she."
Eiden finally turned, his hand moving to the reddening cheek where his mother had struck him. "It doesn't seem like she cares whether I live or die," he said quietly.
Yami shook his head and sighed. "Is that what you think? No. She just wants you to be strong. Every member of the Whitecrest Clan—and every great elven house—has enemies. Ancient, powerful enemies. The kind of foes that leave you drained of every drop of magic by the end of the night."
His eyes softened, reflecting the pale mana of the room. "She knows your enemies are coming. She knows their numbers are rising. She wants you to be strong enough so that you don't die a pathetic death—stale and forgotten, with a knife in your back."
He squeezed Eiden's shoulder one last time. "She doesn't show it. But it's true."
Yami stepped away, moving toward the door. "Stay here for a while if you must. Just… rethink your direction."
His footsteps faded into the depths of the castle, leaving Eiden alone in the humming silence.
Eiden approached the couch and sat where his father had been. The cushion still held a ghost of warmth. He picked up the book Yami had left behind, stared at the ink for a moment, and then closed it.
"She doesn't want me to die, hm?" he murmured to the empty room.
He looked down at his lap, his eyes half-lidded and distant. Then, he closed them entirely. The room hummed with the pulse of white mana, the portraits watched from the shadows, and the air grew heavy with the unspoken weight of a five-hundred-year-old homecoming.