By the time Arthur hobbled into the main entrance hall, the atmosphere was thick enough to cut with a knife.

  The servants stood in two perfect rows, heads bowed. His father, Roderick, stood tall but stiff. His mother, Cecilia, looked pale, wringing her hands together.

  Arthur positioned himself beside his mother, leaning heavily on his cane to sell the “frail survivor” image.

  “Chin up, Mother,” he whispered out of the corner of his mouth. “You look like you’re facing a firing squad.”

  Cecilia let out a nervous, airy laugh, squeezing his shoulder. “You don’t understand, Oliver. Sylvia notices everything.”

  Crunch. Crunch.

  The sound of heavy wheels on gravel echoed from the open doors.

  A carriage pulled into view, and Arthur let out a low whistle in his mind. It was magnificent. Unlike the Ashborns’ modest brown coach, this one was painted deep midnight blue with silver trimmings that caught the afternoon sun. The crest of House Lunalar—a crescent moon pierced by a rapier—was emblazoned on the door in pure silver.

  It was pulled by four white stallions, their coats gleaming, a stark contrast to the workhorses of Ashborn.

  Show-offs, Arthur thought admiringly. It reminded him of celebrities arriving at red-carpet events in multimillion-dollar limousines.

  He watched the wheels navigate the uneven driveway. The road is bumpy as hell, but the cabin isn’t shaking. That suspension system looks custom-made… I’d love to take a closer look.

  The carriage stopped with military precision. A footman in blue livery jumped down and opened the door.

  A hush fell over the courtyard.

  First, a cane tapped the ground. Black ebony with a silver handle—far more expensive than Arthur’s wooden one. A customary flourish for the head of the Lunalar clan.

  Then, Viscountess Sylvia Lunalar stepped out.

  “Viscountess Sylvia Lunalar has arrived!” announced the Head of the Guards. The soldiers bowed in unison.

  The sound of heels clicked against stone—clack, clack, clack.

  She was striking, sharing Cecilia’s golden hair—the Ember Clan’s signature trait—but exuding a commanding aura that was distinctly Lunalar. Her dark silk dress was tailored to perfection, radiating wealth and authority. She didn’t just walk; she commanded the space around her.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  Her sharp amber eyes scanned the mansion, lingering on a small crack in the stone pillar near the entrance. Her lips thinned slightly.

  Definitely a woman of high standards, Arthur noted warily.

  Following her was a girl—Elara. She was Oliver’s age, thirteen, but carried herself like a miniature queen. Her matching blue travel dress and ribboned hair screamed precision. She looked bored, her gaze drifting over the Ashborn servants with mild disappointment.

  “Sylvia!” Cecilia broke protocol and rushed forward.

  The 'Ice Queen' expression melted instantly. Sylvia caught her sister’s hand, pulling her into a fierce yet dignified embrace.

  “Cecilia,” Sylvia’s voice was cool but affectionate. “You look thin. Are they not feeding you well here in the west?”

  “I’m fine, really,” Cecilia laughed. “Welcome to Ashborn.”

  Sylvia pulled back and turned to Roderick. She offered a polite, stiff nod. “Viscount Roderick. It has been a long time.”

  “Lady Sylvia.” Roderick returned the nod. “Your presence honors our home.”

  Then, those piercing amber eyes shifted down. They landed on Arthur.

  She walked toward him, heels echoing on stone.

  Arthur straightened his back. He didn’t look away. He offered a polite, practiced bow. “Welcome, Aunt Sylvia. Mother has told me much about you.”

  Roderick, watching from the side, felt a surge of relief. He gave his son a silent nod of approval. Well done.

  Sylvia stared at him for a long, silent second. It felt like being scanned by an X-ray.

  Then, unexpectedly, she knelt—ignoring the courtyard dust that threatened her silk dress. With a gloved hand, she tilted his chin up.

  “You have your father’s eyes,” she said softly, her voice losing its edge. “But you carry the Ember Clan’s stubbornness. I heard you survived a week of Nightshade.”

  She stood, folding her hands. Arthur noticed the dust slide off her dress, leaving the silk immaculate.

  Ah… magic is so convenient, Arthur thought.

  Testing the waters, Arthur offered a weak smile. “I refused to die over a bowl of salty soup.”

  Sylvia’s eyes widened slightly. Then, a rare smirk tugged at her lips. Even the guards looked shocked to see the terrifying woman smile.

  “Good. You will need that wit.” She turned to the girl behind her. “Elara, come greet your cousin.”

  Elara stepped forward, performing a perfect curtsy, precise as a clockwork doll. “Greetings, Cousin Oliver. I am Elara Lunalar. I trust you are recovering well.”

  Her polite smile didn’t reach her eyes.

  “I am, thank you, Cousin Elara. I hope your stay in our humble estate will be comfortable,” Arthur replied.

  She thinks I’m a cripple, Arthur realized, catching the faint glimmer of pity—or superiority—in her gaze. She thinks this is a charity visit.

  Nah. I’m not dealing with kids right now. I have bigger issues, Arthur thought, giving a subtle, internal shake of his head.

  “Come,” Roderick announced, clapping his hands to break the tension. “Let us get you out of the cold. Dinner is prepared.”