The Memory of the Oak.
Rune stood before his mirror, carefully smoothing out his best formal tunic—a deep black fabric accented with a single, polished golden button. Satisfied that he looked the part of an Assaroth heir, he made his way to the garden pavilion near the great Oak tree.
The family was already gathered, looking like a portrait of noble perfection.
Ravina wore a winter dress of charcoal wool, her black hair braided with clinical precision. Beside her, Froyd stood tall in his Captain's uniform, his medals of honor glinting in the soft light, his red beard trimmed and neat. Between them, little Rorry fidgeted in a vibrant red dress that matched her growing mane of auburn hair, tied loosely into a playful ponytail.
They were there to capture a moment. With Rune's departure looming, Ravina had commissioned a portrait—a physical anchor for Rune to carry into the heart of the empire.
The sitting took hours, and Rorry's toddler energy tested even Ravina's legendary patience, but finally, the artist stepped back.
"It looks wonderful, Hilda,"
Ravina said, inspecting the work.
"Thank you, my Lady,"
Hilda replied with a bow.
"I want two more copies,"
Ravina commanded.
"One for the living hall, and one for our private chambers. Our son's face shall not be absent from this house."
To celebrate the completion of the portrait, the family ventured into the town plaza for a rare dinner at a local restaurant.
Rune and Rorry marveled at the bustling atmosphere, eating to their hearts' content before Rorry's drooping eyelids forced Ravina to take her home.
Froyd and Rune remained, wandering through the market stalls as father and son. They laughed over strange trinkets, and Rune picked out a butterfly hair clip for Rorry and a delicate feather pendant for his mother—small tokens of a love that would soon span hundreds of miles.
The Eighth Birthday.
A month dissolved into a blur of preparation until Rune's eighth birthday finally arrived. The manor was a festival of his favorite things; the air was thick with the scent of the dishes he had loved since he was a babe.
Rune spent the afternoon listening to the veterans who served under his father, their stories of valor and sacrifice painting a vivid picture of the world he was about to enter.
He made a point to thank every servant, from the cooks to the stable hands, recognizing the hands that had built the foundation of his life.
As the music reached its fever pitch, the tempo slowed into a graceful waltz. Froyd and Ravina took to the floor, demonstrating the effortless elegance of high nobility.
Rune watched them, engraving every turn, every smile, and every note of the music into his mind.
That night, the family chose not to retreat to their separate rooms. They camped together in the living room by the dying embers of the fireplace, clinging to the final hours of their unity. As the silence of the night took hold, a soft mumble rose from the blankets.
"Big... brother..." Rorry whispered in her sleep, reaching out a tiny hand to find Rune's golden locks.
The words hit Rune like a physical blow. For a heartbeat, the ambition of the Academy felt hollow; he wanted to stay and watch her grow. But he looked at the sword leaning against the wall and remembered his promise to Amery, Tove, and Siggy. He couldn't stay in the nest forever.
The Departure.
The morning of departure arrived with a crisp, unrelenting wind. Rune stood at the manor gates, the carriage loaded with his trunks.
Ravina and Rorry held him in a long, crushing embrace, their tears silent. Froyd, however, stood with his back turned, staring intently at the horizon.
"So,"
Rune teased, his own voice thick with emotion.
"A great warrior of the battlefield is allowed to cry after all?"
"Who's crying?"
Froyd barked, his shoulders shaking as he did his best to suppress a sob.
"I just... I got something in my eye. The wind is dusty today!"
As Rune climbed into the carriage, a familiar, phantom-like whisper drifted into his ear.
"The carriage is packed and the escort is ready, Young Master."
Rune jumped, finding Hilda sitting across from him with her signature mischievous grin.
"Hilda? You're coming with me?"
"Of course,"
she said, smoothing her skirts.
"Who else is going to keep you from tripping over your own feet in the capital? Besides, it's not that easy to get rid of me."
Rune leaned back against the leather seat as the wheels began to churn against the gravel.
He watched the manor—and his childhood—shrink into the distance. The road to the Central District was long, but as the gates of Norgke County vanished, Rune of House Assaroth turned his gaze forward.
The Academy was waiting.