'Denmar Sarakhel.'
Zephyrion fixed his eyes on the imposing man behind the desk.
Like Calderalth, House Sarakhel was one of the four dynasties of the Ferran Empire. But while his house forged warriors, Sarakhel held the Ferran faith.
Zephyrion had always believed that, in some ways, they held more sway than any dynasty. Owning the faith was owning the people.
Still, the sight before him was far stranger than it had any right to be.
Calderalth had ruled the southern bastion for generations. Zephyrion had devoured history book after history book growing up, and not once had its command faltered.
Yet here he stood, after only seven years of absence, staring at a Sarakhel seated in the commander's chair.
'What happened while I was gone?'
What shift in the roots of House Calderalth could make this bastion fall under another banner?
'Information first.'
Everything else after.
"By the Iron Father… it really is you."
Denmar rose behind his desk, staring at him with wide eyes.
He was a broad, muscular man of imposing features. A plain tunic threaded with the Ferran faith's sigils rested over his frame, its simplicity doing nothing to diminish the quiet gravity of his presence.
'He's strong.'
Zephyrion felt it the moment their eyes met. The air around the man seemed denser, as though the world itself acknowledged his weight.
"Please. Sit. You must be exhausted."
As Denmar gestured to the seat opposite him, Zephyrion nodded and took his seat, letting his mind sift through the little he remembered of the man.
'Inconsequential.'
He had met Denmar during one of his many outings with his mother. A Sarakhel from the primary line who had broken from tradition and chosen the path of a warrior over priesthood.
Even with Zephyrion's unfailing memory, their encounters had been too brief to matter. What he recalled were only fragments and faint impressions, nothing with enough edge or weight to form a clear picture.
'Stopping here was a mistake.'
He had chosen the bastion because it was Calderalth territory. It should have been safer than marching straight for the estate.
But the situation here was nothing like he expected. He was a returning heir, but currently alone. A title meant little without leverage.
Denmar had already demonstrated this by summoning him directly. That was not how Iron Dynasty heirs were received.
"It feels surreal," Denmar said. "A boy lost for seven years, suddenly returning out of the blue… I'll admit, Zephyrion, I never expected to see this."
Denmar sounded genuinely shocked, but Zephyrion merely nodded.
"I could say the same. Seeing a Sarakhel seated as commander. I never imagined the bastion's traditions would change so much."
"Traditions shift," Denmar said with a small shrug. "Especially in troubled times. The Empire isn't what it used to be. Sometimes… certain roles change hands."
Denmar leaned back slightly, smiling.
"You've always been perceptive. Ah—your old title… what was it again? Lightning Prince of House Calderalth. Iron Father, that brings back memories."
His smile widened.
"The monster heir who awakened at five. You made the other dynasties' heirs look like fools."
Zephyrion barely reacted. Awakening for any child had always come at ten. He had shattered that rule at five, a feat even Calderalth's monsters had never achieved.
His name had spread far beyond the south, but the attention had never sat well with him. Being watched made it harder to watch others. And that ridiculous title, Lightning Prince, still grated on his nerves.
Denmar tapped the desk lightly with his finger and exhaled.
"But enough about titles and old customs. What interests me far more is you. Tell me… where have you been all these years?"
'Not the village's destruction. Me.'
"Here and there," Zephyrion said. "Enough places to blur together. Talking about them wouldn't add much."
"You survived for years in Pyrian territory. I've heard the rumors, but I didn't expect to see the modesty firsthand. That's good. It's useful."
He tapped the desk again, the smile never leaving his face.
"But seven years is a long time. You must've met plenty of people. I'll admit, I'm surprised you came back alone."
"I didn't stay anywhere long enough to keep company."
"Still… hard to believe you had no one at all."
'Again.'
He wasn't asking out of curiosity.
"I kept my circle small."
"Fair enough," Denmar said with an easy smile. "Some of us prefer it that way."
He reached for the teapot at the corner of the table and poured two cups.
"Here," he said, sliding one forward. "You look like someone who hasn't had a proper brew in a long time."
"…."
Zephyrion studied the steaming liquid for a moment, the faintest trace of scent brushing his senses.
'Chamleaf… and something else. Sweet… Marrowmint.'
It was an infusion that significantly numbed the mind.
'Trying to loosen my guard.'
"I'll pass."
Zephyrion pushed the cup back, but Denmar simply nudged it forward again.
"Oh, come now," Denmar said lightly. "What would people say if they heard I failed to show the Lightning Prince proper hospitality? They might think you refused me."
He laughed.
"It's one of our finer blends. Good for steadying the nerves."