The heavy oak doors creaked open under Ghislain's hand. The captain stepped inside first, armor silent despite its weight. He moved to the side and stood at quiet attention beside the threshold.
Aden followed, Sylvia close behind him with Eris in her arms. The room was vast but dim, thick curtains drawn against the winter light, a low fire crackling in an enormous hearth. The air carried the scent of medicinal herbs and old parchment.
At the far end, beneath a canopy of dark velvet, lay the great four-poster bed that had once seemed invincible to Aden as a child. Now it dwarfed the man within.
Zwalter Vasco struggled to rise.
Slowly, painfully, the old Archduke pushed himself up. One massive arm braced against the carved headboard, the other against the mattress. His silver hair hung thin and wild, his once-broad frame wasted by illness and the forbidden technique that had eaten him from the inside.
Yet even diminished, the presence remained, the same mountain of a man who had conquered half the continent.
His cloudy eyes lifted.
They fixed on the hooded figure in the doorway.
For a long moment the room held its breath.
Then recognition struck like lightning.
Zwalter's lips parted. No sound came at first. His hand tightened on the headboard until the wood groaned. Shock, disbelief, and something rawer flooded his weathered face.
Aden reached up and pulled the hood back.
The scarf fell away. His face older, harder, lined by exile and quiet years, was fully revealed.
"Grandfather," he said, voice low and steady.
Zwalter's breath hitched. One trembling hand rose, as if to reach across the impossible distance.
"Aden…" The name came out cracked, half whisper, half sob. "My grandson…"
Aden crossed the room in measured steps. He dropped to one knee beside the bed, the way he had as a child after every training session, every battle report.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly. The words he had carried for eight years finally spilled out. "For running. For letting you believe I was dead. For leaving you to grieve. I thought it was the only way. I was wrong."
Zwalter's eyes glistened. He reached out with a shaking hand and gripped Aden's shoulder, weak, but fierce.
"You're here," the old man rasped. "That's all that matters now. You came back."
Aden swallowed hard. "There's someone I want you to meet."
He turned and beckoned. Sylvia stepped forward, lowering her own hood. Silver hair spilled free, pointed ears clear in the firelight. She shifted the bundle in her arms so the child's face was visible.
"This is Sylvia," Aden said. "My wife."
Zwalter's gaze moved to her, taking in the elven grace, the quiet strength in her eyes. Surprise flickered across his face, but no rejection, only wonder.
"And this…" Aden's voice softened. "This is Eris. Our daughter. Your great-granddaughter."
Sylvia gently passed the child forward.
Eris, five years old and wide-eyed at the unfamiliar room, blinked up at the old man in the bed. She had been told stories on the journey, gentle ones, of a grandfather who was very sick but very strong.
Zwalter's arms trembled as he took her. Carefully, as though she were made of glass, he settled the little girl against his chest. Tears cut clean tracks down his weathered cheeks.
Eris studied him for a moment, silver-dark hair falling across her violet eyes, then reached up and touched his beard with curious fingers.
"Grandpa?" she asked, small voice testing the word.
Zwalter's breath caught again. He closed his eyes for a long second, holding her close.
"Yes, little one," he whispered, voice breaking. "I'm your grandpa."
He looked over her head at Aden and Sylvia, eyes shining with something brighter than pain.
"You gave me a family again," he said. "Before the end. That's more than this old man ever deserved."
Aden rose and rested a hand on the old man's shoulder. Sylvia stood beside them, her own eyes wet but calm.
For the first time in eight years, the room felt whole.