Grey approached the heavy wooden door of his father's study and knocked twice. A cold voice, devoid of emotion, drifted from inside.
"Come in."
He stepped in silently, the thick carpet muffling his footsteps. His father, Viscount Frederick Starfall, sat behind an imposing mahogany desk, papers neatly stacked before him. The morning sun filtered through the tall windows, casting long shadows across the room. Grey bowed respectfully but said nothing, his gaze calm, his presence composed.
For several minutes, silence hung between them like a drawn blade. Frederick said nothing, simply observed his son with a calculating gaze, as if weighing his worth.
Then, finally, he spoke.
"Grey, you are now fifteen." His voice was steady, but distant. "You lack talent in the knight's path. You're not even a knight apprentice. Compared to your brother, Oliver, your ability is worlds apart."
He paused, letting the words linger.
"You understand what I'm saying, don't you?"
Grey met his father's eyes and nodded without expression.
Frederick's brow creased. He had expected protest, perhaps a spark of defiance or disappointment. But Grey's face remained unreadable, calm like the surface of a still lake. That stoic demeanor unsettled him more than any outburst might have.
After a moment, the Viscount continued.
"Our northern territory is short one baron. I've been considering naming you for the position. What is your opinion?"
Grey didn't flinch. The words mirrored his memories exactly. This conversation had occurred once before, in a life he had left behind. Back then, he'd been naïve grateful even for such a "gift." As the second son of a second wife, weak in body and without promise, the offer had seemed like mercy.
But now, he knew better.
A baron's title might be a prize for some, but not for him. What he needed wasn't status it was proximity. He had to remain in his father's territory, at least until the wizard ship arrived two years from now. That was the turning point.
"I refuse it," he said plainly.
Frederick looked up sharply, stunned. Of all the responses he'd expected, rejection wasn't one of them.
His thoughts raced. Does he still dream of competing for inheritance with his pitiful strength?
"You should think this over carefully," Frederick said, his tone cooler now. "As your father, I only want what's best for you. You know how Oliver feels about you. When I'm gone and he becomes Viscount, your life here will be difficult. I still hold him back to some degree. That won't last."
Grey offered a faint smile, though it didn't reach his eyes.
So now you speak of his attitude as if you haven't been the one quietly fueling his pride, supporting him from behind while watching me struggle in silence.
But he said none of this aloud. There was no point.
"I have thought about it, Father."
Frederick exhaled, something between disappointment and resignation in his expression. "Very well. You may go."
Without another word, Grey turned and walked away.
As he stepped into the corridor, his thoughts drifted back to his previous life. He remembered that moment how he had knelt and begged, clinging to the faint hope of approval. He had trained tirelessly, forcing his frail body through knight regimens that only left him broken and exhausted. All to earn a place he was never truly meant to have.
Now, with that past behind him, Grey could only sigh.
"This time," he thought, his eyes cold and resolute, "things will be different."
He headed toward his room, the first embers of his new path beginning to burn quietly in his heart.