The grand entrance of the Goldheart estate shimmered beneath the soft glow of early evening.

Golden torchlight flickered against polished marble floors, throwing long shadows across the line of guards and servants assembled in perfect formation.

Every bow was crisp, every breath held in quiet reverence as the great carriage of Lord Goldheart rolled to a halt.

The door swung open with a metallic creak, and the man of the hour stepped down. His cloak caught the light, the faint embroidery of the Goldheart crest glinting with gold thread. He carried the calm weight of command — the kind that made the air itself feel steadier around him.

Before anyone could formally greet him, a blur of motion streaked across the courtyard.

"Father!"

Raiden didn't slow down. He practically launched himself into the man's chest, small arms wrapping tightly around his father's waist.

Thud!

The impact startled Lord Goldheart more than any battlefield ambush could have. The lord's eyebrows rose, his stoic face caught between surprise and disbelief.

The servants froze. A murmur rippled through the rows of onlookers.

"Is that… Raiden?"

"He actually ran toward the Lord?"

"Did we miss an announcement about his replacement?"

Lord Goldheart looked down, and for the briefest moment, the corners of his mouth twitched upward. He placed a gloved hand gently on the boy's head, ruffling his dark hair. "Still the fastest feet in the estate, I see," he murmured.

Raiden looked up with a proud grin, not even pretending to act dignified. "Had to be first," he said simply.

The sight was disarming. The notorious troublemaker of the estate — the child who'd once turned the greenhouse pink — now clinging to his father like a loyal puppy.

The contrast was so sharp that even Lady Elise, arriving a moment later, paused in amused disbelief.

Behind her, Kent stood at the steps, blinking as though the world had flipped itself upside down. 'What in the Saints' name happened while I was gone?' he thought, unable to process the scene.

His father's presence filled the courtyard — composed, grounded, utterly commanding — yet Raiden didn't seem the slightest bit intimidated.

He was simply happy, genuine in a way few had seen him. Lady Elise exchanged a quiet, knowing smile with her husband. Their child, unpredictable as ever, was full of surprises.

Inside the main hall, the atmosphere softened. The estate soon became filled with movement — servants carrying travel cases, maids setting down trays of warm bread and tea.

The faint scent of polished wood and evening spice could be noted but the most obvious one was a combination of the various delicacies being served.

Lord Goldheart stood tall as ever, but there was a gentleness in his tone as he spoke with Lady Elise.

Their voices blended into the rhythm of the home — calm, patient, familiar. He was recounting brief details of his journey, his measured precision evident even in conversation. She listened, her presence grounding him more than any throne could.

Raiden, meanwhile, lounged on the couch like he owned the place, a cup of juice in hand and a theatrical yawn escaping his lips. He glanced at his parents with feigned boredom.

"I'll leave you two to talk," he declared with a smirk. "Like all lovers do."

Elise turned slowly, her tone half warning, half motherly sigh. "Raiden…"

His father's chuckle rumbled low, deep enough to fill the hall. "Let him go," Lord Goldheart said. "He looks ready to collapse."

Raiden took that as his cue. "I'll just… continue my nap. All this excitement is exhausting," he said, waving a lazy hand as he began ascending the stairs.

The servants exchanged amused glances. None of them believed for a second that the mischievous young master would actually sleep, but no one dared stop him either. He disappeared down the hall, still humming something under his breath.

Kent lingered near the stairwell, quietly watching his younger brother's retreating figure.

He knew that tone, that fake fatigue. With Raiden, "I'm going to sleep" could mean anything: a prank, a scheme, or an impromptu experiment involving someone's boots.

"Greetings, Father. Welcome back." Kent bowed when he got close to his father and after receiving a nod of acknowledgement, he followed Raiden.

His footsteps were soft against the carpeted hall, careful enough not to alert Raiden. The door to his brother's room was slightly ajar, a faint golden glow spilling out from within.

Peeking in, Kent caught sight of Raiden yawning dramatically, muttering something about "the hard life of a hero," before crawling under the covers.

To Kent's surprise, he actually seemed… still. Within moments, the boy's breathing slowed, his chest rising and falling evenly. He really is asleep, Kent thought, almost suspiciously. Maybe the city trip had truly tired him out. For once, there were no flying objects, no muttered spells, no hidden smirks.

Kent exhaled a quiet laugh. Peace at last.

He turned to leave, intending to retreat to the library to catch up on his reading. But as he walked through the corridor, a sharp metallic rhythm caught his attention — the sound of steel clashing against steel.

Clang!

He paused, head turning toward the training grounds.

The sun was melting into the horizon when Kent stepped onto the Goldheart training yard. The air was thick with heat and the scent of sweat and iron. Rows of guards swung their blades in perfect rhythm, the gleam of polished swords catching the fading light.

The clang of metal rang in steady cadence — discipline in motion.

"Sir Leonard's still away," one of the men called out between swings. "Captain Baren's leading today!"

Kent nodded, recognizing the burly second-in-command at the yard's center, his sword flashing in precise arcs. The young heir paused at the edge of the field, quietly observing. Unlike Raiden, Kent admired this — the repetition, the focus, the structure. Where Raiden chased chaos, Kent found peace in order.

Finally, he stepped forward and bowed respectfully. "Good evening, Captain Baren. May I join your session for a while?"

The Captain turned, a broad grin spreading across his face. "Ah, Young Master Kent! An honor indeed. The Lord's sons are always welcome here." He waved a hand. "You've come at a fine time — we were just about to spar."

The nearby guards exchanged knowing smiles. Everyone in the estate knew the contrast between the brothers: one a whirlwind, the other a storm held in check. Training with Kent was almost… refreshing.

"If it's no trouble," Kent continued, "I'd like to learn from you directly."

Baren's grin widened. "Trouble? None at all. Let's see what the young master's got."

The two squared off in the center of the field. The other guards formed a loose circle, murmuring encouragements as the air thickened with anticipation.

Kent drew his practice sword and took position. His form was solid — not perfect, but disciplined. The first clash came sharp and fast. Sparks of friction. Steel sang as the two blades met again, and again, rhythm building like a heartbeat.

"Good stance!" Baren called, deflecting a strike. "Keep your guard steady, young master!"

Kent adjusted, responding with a clean counter. Sweat beaded on his forehead, but his focus never wavered. The world narrowed to motion and sound — the arc of his blade, the shift of Baren's weight, the measured steps of the dance.

By the time the bout ended, both were breathing hard but smiling. Baren clapped Kent on the shoulder, his laughter booming.

"You've got your father's precision," another guard remarked from the side.

Kent bowed, flushed but satisfied. "Thank you for the lesson."

"Anytime, young master. You're welcome on this field whenever you wish."

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