Lexel stepped out of the estate and into the crisp morning air. The house was a textbook example of a noble line in terminal decay: overgrown ivy choking crumbling masonry, cracked statues that used to stand guard over a thriving household, and the subtle, dusty scent of mothballs and lost prestige. It wasn't the home of someone who could actually pull a string as high-level as an Imperial Summon—it was the home of someone desperate.
He ducked his head to enter the carriage, the wooden frame creaking in protest at his size. The man—the father, presumably—slumped into the opposite seat, rubbing his temples as if trying to massage away a decade of failure.
"It didn't fit," Lexel said, his voice flat, not bothering to sugarcoat the fact that he looked like a giant trying to wear a doll's clothes.
"I was hoping it would," the man replied, his gaze fixed on the passing scenery of the thinning suburbs. He knocked twice on the carriage ceiling. "Drive."
