Rianor knocked on the door of Lucian's study. Two raps. Short and firm.
"Come in."
Rianor opened the door. Inside, Lucian was already seated behind his desk. The room—with its familiar aroma of teak wood, ink, and parchment—felt like a return to normalcy. The massive desk was cluttered with documents, the large window overlooked the city, and the mana-electric lamps cast a warm, steady glow.
"It feels like only yesterday," Rianor murmured softly.
Lucian gazed at his second son. The face—the same one he had watched as a child running through the castle gardens—was now more mature, more hardened. But the eyes remained unchanged. They were the eyes of a dreamer. The eyes of a visionary.
"Welcome home, Father." Rianor gave a brief, respectful bow. "I am glad you returned safely."
Lucian nodded. "Thank you. Sit."
