The heavy wooden doors groaned open, their weighty presence commanding attention as a figure stepped into the dimly lit hall. The sharp click of boots against marble cut through the tense silence, steady and deliberate, each step measured with precision. The firelight flickered across his face—sharp, defined features sculpted into an expression of quiet control. His steel-gray eyes, colder and more calculating than their father's, swept across the room, assessing the atmosphere with a single glance.
"Alistair," their father acknowledged, his voice neutral but firm.
"Father," Alistair responded with a slight bow of his head, his tone carrying the respect expected of him, though without warmth.
Then, his gaze shifted.
"Sister," he said smoothly, turning toward her. "You have returned."
His voice carried none of the disappointment their father had made no effort to hide. No sharp words, no clipped commands—only a simple statement of fact, one devoid of surprise or sentiment.
