Derrick stepped through the iron gates of Sir Thompson’s estate and stopped for a short mont.
The mountain air was cold and clean, and he could hear the sound of the clashing of swords on the distance.
If his mory was right, them that ant the guards were currently training.
The estate was exactly as he rembered it. Stone walls, iron railings, the wide training courtyards sitting quiet in the distance. Nothing had changed. Sohow that made him feel both better and worse at the sa ti.
Before he could take another step forward, two guards stepped out from either side of the gate.
Their spears were raised, not threatening, but not relaxed either. Their armor carried a gold and blue sigil, a phoenix rising through a ring of thorned roses.
Sir Thompson’s personal guard. Not soldiers of Dravania, but n who answered only to him.
"State your na and purpose," the first guard said.
Derrick tilted his head slightly, just enough for his voice to carry from under the hood.
"Derrick Dravania, I’m here to see Sir Thompson."
Both guards looked at each other.
Derrick stayed still. His cane rested against the stone beneath him, and he noticed the small crack forming around it a second too late.
[If you keep tapping that cane, you may just expose yourself.]
He stilled his hand and said nothing.
The first guard excused himself and disappeared into the main hall. The second one stayed behind, watching Derrick with quiet unease. Sothing about Derrick felt off to him, he could sense it, but he couldn’t put a na to it. He just stood there, watching, waiting.
The first guard returned, and his whole manner had changed. He lowered himself into a deep bow, his voice slightly unsteady.
"My apologies, sir. Please forgive my hesitation."
The second guard followed without a word.
’Good.’ A little of the tension in Derrick’s chest eased. ’He wants to see .’
He said nothing and gave a small nod. The guards gestured for him to follow and he did.
As they moved through the estate, Derrick let the mories co. He wasn’t going to fight them.
He had first co here as a boy. Too young to fully understand why his father was sending him away for training, but old enough to be scared of it. Sir Thompson had t him at these sa gates, looked him over once, said nothing, then turned and walked, expecting Derrick to follow.
He had.
That was the first lesson Sir Thompson ever taught him, and he hadn’t even said a word.
He rembered falling off a horse in these grounds during his second week. The embarrassnt of it had hurt more than the fall itself. Sir Thompson had walked over, pulled him to his feet, dusted him off, and told him to get back on. No long speech. No sympathy. Just the quiet expectation that Derrick would keep going.
He always did.
He rembered Klea and Lancel watching him during those early sessions. The envy in their eyes was easy to see even back then, though they tried to hide it. At the ti it had bothered him. Now it just felt like sothing that had happened a long ti ago, to soone he used to be.
The guards led him deeper into the manor. Derrick recognized the main hall without needing to think about it. His feet knew the way.
His eyes went straight to the painting of the great knight Javari, charging alone into battle against a kraken with nothing but a spear. The painting moved, magic breathed life into it, and even now it caught his eye the sa way it always had. It was his favorite. It had been since the first ti he saw it as a boy.
"That vase there once served Queen ridith the ninth," one of the guards said, nodding toward a piece sitting on a carved stand.
Derrick said nothing. He had been amazed by these things once. That ti had passed.
They walked past the training courtyards. Empty now, but Derrick could still feel the life in them. The sound of wooden swords cracking against each other, Sir Thompson’s voice cutting through all of it, always direct and always clear. Never cruel, but never soft either.
He had spent years in those courtyards. Years of falling down and getting back up, of failing and being told to try again, of slowly becoming sothing he hadn’t been before.
He still wasn’t sure if it was enough for what was coming.
The guards stopped in front of a set of heavy double doors. Dark wood, silver trimming, and runes cut into the fra that glowed faintly. Derrick had never been inside this room before. Sir Thompson had always kept it private.
"Sir Thompson’s study," the first guard said quietly. "He’ll see you from here."
He pushed the door open and stepped aside.
Derrick stood at the door for a mont.
The sll of candle wax and old wood drifted out toward him. He took a slow breath, steadied himself, and stepped inside.
The first thing he noticed was the white hair. Long, sitting across broad shoulders, catching the light from the candles in the room. Then the eyes. Golden, sharp, and carrying the kind of weight that only ca from a life full of hard choices made in difficult rooms.
Sir Thompson hadn’t moved from his chair. He didn’t need to. He just looked Derrick over once, slow and steady, the sa way he had looked at him all those years ago at the front gate.
Then a small smile crossed his face.
"And the golden goose returns to the nest."
Sothing in Derrick’s chest loosened. He hadn’t realized how tightly he had been holding it until that mont.
"Welco back, Derrick." Sir Thompson’s voice was warm, but the seriousness underneath it was clear. "I know there is work to be done."
Derrick nodded and closed the door behind him.
Finally, he knew what he had been missing.
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