The tingling exhaustion of sleep still lingered in his body as he sat on the balcony, observing his grandfather's beloved garden. But Gerald passed away little over a year ago, leaving Alaric alone in the manor, accompanied only by a few loyal servants. A cup of coffee in his right hand, he looked out at the cluster of boxwoods, with lindens and peonies flanking the sides. The mere presence of the scenery granted him an eerie sense of inner calm.
Alaric gripped the balustrade, feeling its roughness beneath his palms. He understood that some losses carved hollows into the world and can never be filled, only navigated around like a river passing a fallen tree.
A gentle knock interrupted the silence, then the familiar creak of the study door. Brennt stepped into the room, his shoes clicked softly against the stone tiles.
"Master Alaric," Brennt said. His voice carried the formality of decades-old service. "Pardon the intrusion, but there was a matter that may require your attention."
The old steward reached into his pocket and withdrew a grey envelope, its surface bearing the deep crimson wax seal that belonged to Varengar Academy, the foremost aetheric education institution in all of Grimholt, and carried the name of its venerable national founder. The insignia, a torch flanked by a pair of eagle wings, seemed to glint in the morning sunlight auspiciously.
"The Academy courier arrived just after dawn, sir," Brennt said, extending the letter with measured hesitation.
Alaric accepted the letter, noting its texture. Its surface was hard and fibrous. The seal was fused with minor aetheric energy meant to prevent forgery. Even in matters of education, Grimholt displayed its technological superiority.
He opened the letter with deliberate care. The Academy's letterhead proclaimed its motto: Unity Through Strength. Below it, formal language expressed what Alaric had both dreaded and expected.
"Well?" the old steward asked, carrying a tone that suggested he already knew.
"I am to prepare for the preliminary evaluation next week. Full enrollment upon satisfactory performance." Alaric refolded the letter with the same precision his grandfather had taught him when handling important documents.
Brennt's expression remained professionally neutral. He closed his eyes and slowly opened them.
"Your grandfather must be proud, sir."
Proud? Alaric couldn't suppress a chuckle. He walked back to the balustrade, considering the gardens below.
"Would he, Brennt? Or would he question whether serving those who destroyed everything he valued was honor or resignation?"
"If I may speak honestly, sir?"
Alaric nodded. Brennt had earned that favor through decades of loyal service. More importantly, he was among the few people who still remembered what the family had been before politics reduced them to historical footnotes.
"The Duke served three masters throughout his life," Brennt said as he walked slowly to the balcony beside Alaric. "The old monarchy, the provisional revolutionary republic, then Varengar himself. Yet he never submitted his spirit. Service to any particular regime was transcended by service to the nation."
"The nation, huh?" Alaric considered the words. "I'll take that into account. Take your rest for now. I'll call if needed."
"Understood, sir. I shall take my leave," Brennt replied as he bowed. Alaric could see the steward's weathered face tighten with light concern even as he left the room in a composed and respectful manner.
Alone once again, Alaric walked to his grandfather's study and settled into the worn leather chair behind the mahogany desk. As he placed the Academy letter on the desk, Alaric noticed a wood-framed photograph—a portrait of him and Gerald, captured at the northern border three autumns past.
Picking it up, a small creak came from the easel back. He traced the polished edge of the frame with a fingertip, wondering whether the man in the picture would recognize his submission for survival or if Gerald had already capitulated his pride and honor, and in doing so, given up his spirit.
Alaric's eyes drifted to the letter's final paragraph, where formal language masked iron certainty. The Academy's courtesy ended with a single sentence that needed no interpretation—absence would be considered an act against the state itself.