They reached the manor sooner than expected.
The great bird slowed down, talons scraping lightly against packed snow as Umma stoped near the outer yard. This time, the courtyard felt… quieter. Not empty—just paused, like a breath held a little too long.
The triplets were nowhere to be seen.
Instead, snowmen stood proudly across the open space, arranged by height with childish precision. Tall ones, small ones, crooked ones with pebble eyes and stick arms. Scarves had been draped around some of their necks. One wore a tiny wooden sword. Another had a badly shaped crown pressed into its head.
Each one represented a member of the household.
A silent, frozen testament to happiness made real by small hands.
Toki felt something tighten in his chest.
So this is what remains when joy doesn't know it's temporary.
Only one figure moved in the yard.
Kandaki.
The boy stood near the training stones, breath rising in sharp puffs as he practiced slow, deliberate swings with Toki's sword. The blade was far too heavy for a child his age—yet Kandaki held it with both hands, stance grounded, feet planted firmly in the snow.
His form wasn't perfect.
But it was improving.
Ozvold slid down from Umma's back first.
"I'll take her to the paddock," he said quietly, already sensing that this moment didn't belong to him.
Toki nodded. "Thank you."
As Ozvold led Umma away, Toki approached Kandaki, boots crunching softly over snow.
"Well, I'll be damned," Toki said, voice light but sincere. "This is exactly what I wanted to see."
Kandaki flinched in surprise, nearly losing his grip before steadying the sword again.
"M–Maester Toki!" he said, straightening quickly.
Toki stopped a few steps away, eyes assessing—not critically, but with genuine interest.
"It seems you've finally adjusted to the sword's weight," Toki continued. "At this rate, you'll do wonderfully at your qualification exam tomorrow. A wooden blade will feel like a feather."
Kandaki wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his sleeve, face flushed but glowing with pride.
"Thank you," he said earnestly. "I couldn't have done it without your sword. It's an honor to wield such a masterpiece."
Toki's gaze softened.
Masterpiece.
He remembered the day that sword had first tasted blood. How heavy it had felt then—not in his hands, but in his conscience.
He cleared his throat.
"Tell me," Toki asked casually, "are you afraid of tomorrow?"
Kandaki didn't hesitate.
He stepped forward and carefully returned the sword, hilt first, to his master.
"As long as you're by my side," Kandaki said firmly, "there's nothing for me to be afraid of."
The words landed harder than any blow.
"I can't wait to pass the exam and enter the Order," the boy continued, eyes shining. "Maybe they'll even place me in your division, Maester. Wouldn't that be wonderful?"
Toki smiled.
But this time, the smile wavered—just slightly.
So slightly that Kandaki didn't notice.
No, Toki thought.
That would be anything but wonderful.
Before he could answer, hurried footsteps echoed from the forest's edge.
A moment later, Tora burst through the trees, skidding to a sudden stop before them and sending snow flying in all directions.
"Toki!" she exclaimed, hands on her knees as she caught her breath. "I didn't expect you back so early again!"
Toki laughed softly, brushing snow from his sleeve.
"Well, well," he said. "Looks like someone's finally conquered her fear of running."
His eyes flicked to the paper bag tucked under his arm.
"But be careful. I'd rather not have these loaves soaked."
"How do you feel?" he asked.
Tora straightened, placing her hands proudly on her hips.
"The swelling in my ankles is gone," she said. "And I can barely feel the metal braces anymore. I feel like I'm ready to fly!"
Toki studied her posture, her breathing, the way she shifted her weight.
She's healed faster than she should have, he noted.
"Your race is in two days," he said gently. "Aren't you afraid?"
Tora placed a hand over her heart.
"As long as I can run, I will," she declared. "Even without the certainty of victory. I run because I love it."
Toki's smile shrank further.
He opened his mouth to speak—
"Don't forget," he began.
"Yeah, yeah," Tora cut in with a grin. "Run on my toes, not my whole foot."
He chuckled.
"Good," he said. "You were listening."
He gestured toward the manor.
"Come on. Let's go inside."
The door had barely closed behind them when the triplets launched themselves forward, nearly knocking Toki off his feet.
"Toki!"
"You're back early again!"
"Did you bring something sweet?"
"What's in the bag?!"
Toki laughed, steadying himself as he held the paper bag up high.
"I brought some sweet bread," he said. "Today, we're going to have fun."
Their cheers were immediate.
And short-lived.
Yuki appeared like a vengeful spirit, snatching the bag from his hand in one swift motion.
"Dessert after lunch, you spoiled little monsters," she snapped.
Then her sharp gaze turned to Toki.
"And you," she added. "What are you doing back so early two days in a row? Don't tell me you've made a habit of skipping work."
"I need to return to the palace by sunset," Toki replied easily. "There's a conference. That gives me some free time until then."
He hesitated.
"How is Utsuki?" he asked.
"Perfectly healthy," Yuki said. "She's studying in the library."
Toki nodded.
"And Lilith?"
Yuki scowled.
"Writing reports. In the library."
"…Together?" Toki asked.
Yuki raised an eyebrow.
"Do I look like a messenger? If you're so curious, go fetch them for lunch. They haven't left that room since morning."
She turned sharply to the triplets.
"And you three—move! Set the table!"
Groans followed, but they obeyed.
Toki watched them scatter, then turned toward the library.
He stopped before the door.
His hand hovered inches from the handle.
He exhaled—and entered.
The library was quiet.
Not empty—concentrated.
Sunlight filtered through tall windows, dust motes drifting lazily in the air. Books lay open across the table in careful disarray. Papers covered in precise handwriting were stacked neatly to one side.
Lilith stood by the shelves, quill in hand, expression sharp with focus.
Utsuki sat at the table, chin resting on her palm, eyes narrowed at a text far older than the manor itself.
Neither noticed him at first.
Toki watched them for a moment longer than necessary.
He cleared his throat.
Both looked up at once.
"Toki?" Utsuki said, surprise flickering across her face.
"You're back early," Lilith added, already assessing him with that ever-present analytical gaze.
"Lunch is ready soon," Toki said lightly. "Yuki sent me to retrieve you."
Utsuki smiled.
"Then we shouldn't keep her waiting."
Lilith capped her ink and gathered the papers.
As they moved past him, Utsuki reached out and took his hand.
He almost pulled away.
Almost.
"You're cold," she said softly.
Toki smiled.
"It's winter."
But her grip tightened slightly.
They gathered at the table soon after.
Laughter returned. Plates clinked. The smell of warm food filled the room.
Toki watched everyone eat.
Kandaki's excitement.
Tora's restless energy.
The triplets' endless chatter.
Utsuki's quiet warmth.
Remember this, he told himself.
Every detail.
Toki's eyes drifted, almost unconsciously, toward Lilith.
She sat with one leg crossed over the other, back straight, shoulders squared in a way that suggested discipline rather than comfort. Ink stained the side of her fingers. She hadn't bothered wiping it away.
"Lilith," Toki said after a moment, voice casual, as if he hadn't been thinking about it since morning. "I'm surprised you didn't come looking for me today."
She glanced up slowly, unimpressed.
"I considered it," she replied. "Then I decided you needed some time alone."
"Besides, I have a massive report to write. "
Her lips curved—not quite a smile.
"I'm thinking of calling it The Epic of a Knight with a Sword and No Head."
For just a second, the tension in the room loosened.
Utsuki let out a small, amused sound before she could stop herself, quickly covering her mouth with her hand. Her eyes softened as she looked at Lilith, then at Toki.
Toki chuckled, shaking his head.
"I'm glad you two are getting along," he said lightly. "Even if it means putting what little dignity I have left on the chopping block."
From the kitchen doorway, Yuki scoffed.
"It's not like you ever had much to begin with."
Leonard, seated at the far end of the table, paused mid-bite.
"How are the investigations going?" he asked, tone neutral but attentive.
Toki didn't answer immediately.
The faintest crease appeared between his brows.
"I'll have to restart them tomorrow," he said, irritation slipping through despite his effort to keep it buried.
Leonard blinked.
"Oh. Right. Tomorrow around noon, there's going to be a lunar eclipse."
The room exploded.
"A real eclipse?!"
"The moon going dark?!"
"Can we see it from here?!"
Haru was already half out of her chair. Natsu and Aki nearly knocked over their cups in excitement.
Utsuki looked up, genuine interest lighting her expression.
"That's rare," she said softly. "It would be a shame to miss it."
Haru leaned forward eagerly, elbows on the table.
"Toki, you promised we'd do something fun today!"
Toki opened his mouth—
—and hesitated.
The word tomorrow echoed in his mind again, heavier now.
Then he stood.
"Alright," he said. "Before I leave… let's do something together."
The children froze, then leaned in.
"Let's draw," Toki continued. "Anything you want. We'll hang the drawings on the entrance wall. Whoever wins gets to open their Snow Festival gift first."
The reaction was instant chaos.
Yuki looked unimpressed.
Toki noticed.
"…At least for the kids," he added gently.
Yuki sighed dramatically.
"Fine. But if someone spills ink on my floor, I'm throwing them outside."
The library descended into glorious disorder.
Paper spread everywhere—tables, floors, chair arms. Pencils rolled under furniture. Ink bottles migrated dangerously close to sleeves.
Hana sat between Suzume and the edge of the table, tongue poking out in intense concentration. Suzume guided her hand lightly, never correcting, only encouraging.
Toki stood for a moment, watching.
After nearly an hour, Suzume clapped her hands.
"Time's up."
They gathered.
Yuki's drawing came first.
Her kitchen—every detail perfect. Knives aligned. Shelves labeled. Order imposed lovingly, fiercely.
Lilith's followed.
A night landscape. Stars scattered like secrets. Shadows long and patient.
Suzume and Hana stepped forward together.
Their drawing showed everyone holding hands.
The lines were uneven. Faces crooked. But no one corrected a thing.
Utsuki's drawing froze the battle at Archibald's Inn—fear and resolve locked in motion.
The triplets proudly revealed theirs next.
Every drawing featured Yuki yelling at Toki.
Yuki pinched the bridge of her nose.
Ozvold's drawing showed a circus—faded colors, smiling masks that didn't quite reach the eyes.
Kandaki's depicted Toki riding Umma, blade raised.
Tora's showed the night Toki read Alice in Wonderland, everyone listening in quiet wonder.
Then Toki's turn.
He hesitated.
A black palace.
A blood-red moon.
Silence.
Leonard's drawing came last.
A lake of white lilies.
One red lotus.
Toki stared.
They all drew what they love, he realized.
I drew what's waiting.
They hung the drawings in the entrance hall.
Snow fell outside.
Time slipped.
Eventually, the sun dipped low.
"I'll read you a story when I get back," Toki promised.
He went to Umma.
Everyone followed.
Ozvold hesitated. "Are you sure you should go alone?"
Toki nodded.
Lilith smirked. "Try not to add new chapters."
Utsuki adjusted his collar.
"Be careful."
Umma ran.
And Toki did not look back.
The manor was already far behind them, its lights thinning into weak, trembling points before the distance swallowed them whole. Snowfields stretched beneath Umma's wings—endless, quiet, almost unreal—until the land fractured into forests and the pale line of the road leading back toward the capital.
The cold followed him there.
Not the kind that stung the skin and demanded attention. This one was patient. It slipped through layers, through warmth and muscle, and settled somewhere deeper, behind the ribs, where no amount of movement seemed to reach.
Toki leaned forward, resting his arms loosely around Umma's neck. For a brief moment, he pressed his forehead against the warmth of her feathers and closed his eyes.
Just steady, he told himself.
The wind roared, constant and violent, yet inside his mind there was a strange calm. Thoughts didn't clash. They drifted.
And without asking permission, they drifted back to the drawings.
At first, it wasn't his own that returned to him.
It was Yuki's.
He remembered standing behind her, watching how precise her hand had been. No hesitation. Every line placed with intent. The kitchen she had drawn had felt lived-in but controlled—tools aligned, surfaces clean, nothing out of place. He'd noticed then how little empty space there was on the page, as if she'd been unwilling to leave any corner undefined.
At the time, he'd smiled at it. Of course she would draw that.
Now, in the quiet of the sky, it felt heavier. Not wrong. Just revealing. As if the paper had caught the way she held herself together when everything else threatened to spill.
The image shifted.
Lilith's drawing surfaced next, uninvited. A night landscape, wide and distant. The figures—if they could even be called that—had been small, almost swallowed by the dark. He remembered thinking it was beautiful. Calm. Detached.
Only now did he realize how untouched it felt. How nothing in it seemed to reach for anything else.
Observation without interference, he thought, and felt a faint, unexpected tightness in his chest.
Suzume and Hana's drawing followed, messy and uneven, lines overlapping where hands had bumped and laughed. Everyone was there, somehow—too many limbs, too many smiles—but they were close. Crowded. Indistinguishable in places.
He remembered Suzume's refusal to correct anything. How she'd smiled and said it was perfect as it was.
Looking back, it felt less like a picture and more like a declaration: this is enough.
Utsuki's scene came next, sharp and vivid. A frozen moment of violence, rendered with surprising clarity. He could still recall the way her hand had slowed when she drew herself, the lines growing thicker around the shoulders, steadier around the weapon.
Fear hadn't been erased there. It had been faced.
The triplets' drawings made his lips twitch despite himself. Exaggerated expressions. His own likeness caught mid-scolding, stretched into something almost ridiculous. At the time, he'd laughed.
Now he realized something else had been hiding there too—a certainty. A belief that even anger was safe, as long as it came from from someone you love.
Ozvold's circus lingered longer than the others. Bright colors. Forced smiles. Figures frozen mid-performance. He remembered how careful Ozvold had been not to look at anyone while drawing it.
As if meeting someone's eyes—even on paper—might crack something open.
Kandaki's drawing had been simpler. Him atop Umma, larger than life, heroic in a way Toki hadn't recognized as himself. He'd dismissed it then, telling himself it was just how children saw the world.
Only now did he feel the quiet weight of it: the way hope could be placed on someone without them ever noticing.
Tora's drawing came with a warmth that almost hurt. The library. The book open in his hands. The stillness of that moment, preserved without exaggeration.
Not a hero. Not a fighter.
Just someone who stayed.
Toki exhaled slowly, the breath stolen almost immediately by the wind.
One by one, the images layered themselves in his mind—not as symbols, not as lessons, but as fragments of people he knew. Pieces they hadn't said aloud. Things they might not even have known they were showing.
The realization crept in gently, unwelcome precisely because it wasn't cruel.
Each of them had drawn truthfully.
Not what they wanted to be seen as—but what felt closest to them when they weren't guarding themselves.
And then there was his own.
The black palace. The vastness of it. The moon hanging low and red, too close, as if watching.
He hadn't forced that image onto the page. It had come easily. Too easily.
He swallowed, fingers tightening slightly in Umma's feathers.
The palace of mirrors was already a part of him.
The thought didn't frighten him. Not exactly.
What unsettled him was how familiar it felt.
Umma shifted beneath him, letting out a soft, resonant sound as she adjusted her legs. The motion pulled him back into his body, into the present.
He reached up and brushed her neck, grounding himself in the warmth, the reality of her.
"You're a good girl," he murmured, voice nearly lost to the wind.
She always was.
Toki said, "The story of a family seen through different eyes."