The first sliver of dawn, a pale intruder, knifed through the narrow slit of Luke's window, dragging him from the clutches of sleep. His eyelids, heavy with a rest that offered little solace, peeled apart reluctantly. The room that greeted him was as stark and unforgiving as the walls that contained it. Four bare walls, a rough-hewn wooden cot, and a simple stool comprised his world within these confines.
Across the small space, mounted on the wall, his well-worn leather sheath held the silent promise of the twin daggers within. They were an extension of himself, tools honed for a purpose he both embraced and resented.
His left hand, resting on the coarse blanket, caught the meager light. A silver band circled his middle finger, a cold, unwelcome weight. A muscle in his jaw clenched. He hated it. The metal felt like a shackle, a constant, glittering reminder of obligations he longed to shed. With a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the room, Luke pushed himself up, the rough fabric of his tunic scratching against his skin. Another day had begun.
He swung his legs over the side of the cot, the worn wood groaning in protest. The cold stone floor bit at his bare feet as he stood. A shiver traced its way up his spine, a familiar sensation in this unyielding space. With a final, lingering glance at the daggers, a silent acknowledgment of their ever-present role, he turned and stepped out of his room.
The contrast hit him immediately, a tangible shift in atmosphere. The hallway beyond was bathed in the soft glow of strategically placed lamps, illuminating rich tapestries that adorned the walls. Polished dark wood gleamed underfoot, reflecting the intricate carvings of the banister that spiraled upwards. The air hummed with a quiet elegance, a stark departure from the austerity of his chamber. It was a beauty he had grown up with, yet one that always felt foreign, a world he observed rather than inhabited.
As he walked towards the bathroom, his gaze snagged on a framed photograph hanging on the wall. It was his father. A younger version, a smile playing on his lips, his eyes full of a warmth Luke rarely directed his way in his memories. A pang, sharp and fleeting, pierced through the familiar numbness. He was gone now, a void that echoed in the grand halls of this house. Luke tore his gaze away, the silver band on his finger suddenly feeling heavier.
The bathroom was a sanctuary of polished marble and gleaming fixtures. The scent of expensive soaps hung in the air. He reached for his toothbrush, the simple act of a small anchor in the day that stretched before him. As he brushed his teeth, his reflection stared back, a young man with eyes that held a weariness beyond his years. The elegant surroundings felt like a gilded cage, a beautiful prison holding secrets and expectations he was struggling to bear.
The minty foam did little to wash away the lingering taste of a restless night. He rinsed his mouth, the water swirling down the pristine drain. His gaze drifted back to his reflection, lingering on the silver band.
"Damn you," he muttered under his breath, the words barely audible above the gentle hum of the house. He turned away from the mirror, the sight of the unwanted jewelry a persistent irritation. "Damn all of it." The elegance of the bathroom, the memory of his father's smile, the weight of the silver – it all coalesced into a knot of resentment in his chest. He splashed cold water on his face, the shock a momentary distraction. "Just get through today, Luke," he whispered to his damp reflection, a silent plea in the opulent space. "Just get through it."
The sound of two sharp knocks echoed through the marble stillness of the bathroom. Luke’s head snapped up, his eyes narrowing instantly. He held the gaze of his reflection for another beat, a flicker of annoyance crossing his features, before turning slowly towards the door.
Before he could utter a word, the door eased open, revealing Hazel. Her presence filled the doorway, a stark contrast to the room's cool austerity. Her brown hair, usually impeccably styled, cascaded over one shoulder, and the silk dressing gown she wore hinted at the luxurious comfort of her own quarters. Her eyes, however, held a softness that often belied her sharp intellect.
"Good morning, sleepyhead," she said, her voice a low, melodic murmur that somehow managed to cut through the quiet elegance of the house. She leaned against the doorframe, a knowing look in her eyes. "I figured you'd still be barricaded in your… sanctuary."
Luke offered a curt nod, his expression remaining unyielding. "Hazel," he acknowledged, the single word carrying a distinct lack of enthusiasm.
A soft laugh escaped Hazel's lips, a sound that danced in the air. "Oh, don't sound so thrilled to see me, little brother. One might think I'd interrupted some vital morning ritual. Perhaps communing with the spirits of… bare stone walls?"
She pushed herself off the doorframe, stepping further into the bathroom, her gaze sweeping over the pristine surfaces. "Honestly, Luke, you'd think with the rest of this house at your disposal, you'd choose a room with at least one painting. Or perhaps a rug that isn't actively trying to give you frostbite." She leaned against the counter, a playful smirk gracing her lips. "But no, you prefer the aesthetic of a particularly austere prison cell."
Luke’s gaze flickered around the opulent bathroom, taking in the polished marble, the gleaming fixtures, the delicate bottles of expensive lotions. His eyes then settled on the silver band on his middle finger, his thumb unconsciously rubbing against its smooth surface.
"And what exactly is so great about all of this?" he asked, his voice laced with a dismissive edge. He gestured vaguely around the bathroom, the movement starting wide but quickly narrowing, his focus tightening on the hated ring. "This… excess. This… prettiness. Does it somehow make the air cleaner? Does it silence the whispers in the dark? Does it," his voice dropped, his eyes fixed on the silver, "make this feel any less like a brand?"
Hazel’s playful demeanor softened, a hint of weariness entering her eyes. She sighed, the sound barely audible. "Alright, alright," she conceded, pushing off the counter. "No need to descend into existential dread before breakfast. Speaking of which," she clapped her hands together lightly, the sound echoing in the spacious room, "breakfast awaits. And," her gaze sharpened slightly, "Mother specifically requested your presence downstairs. Said something about… 'important matters'."
Luke’s jaw tightened. "Important matters," he repeated, the words dripping with sarcasm. "Meaning another lecture on my… responsibilities? Or perhaps a detailed itinerary of my upcoming engagements, meticulously planned to ensure maximum discomfort?" He ran a hand through his already disheveled hair. "Can't a man even brush his teeth in peace without a summons from the matriarch?"
A small smile touched Hazel's lips, a familiar blend of affection and exasperation. She stepped closer, reaching out to ruffle his already messy hair. "Oh, you dramatic thing," she said, her tone softening. "Just come downstairs, Luke. It's probably nothing earth-shattering. And even if it is," she paused, her eyes meeting his briefly, a hint of something unreadable flickering within them, "we'll face it together, won't we?"
Without waiting for a response, she turned and gracefully glided out of the bathroom, the soft rustle of her silk dressing gown fading as she disappeared down the hallway. The scent of expensive soap and the lingering echo of her laughter were the only traces she left behind.
Luke stared at the empty doorway, his hand instinctively going to the spot where she had tousled his hair.
He finished brushing his teeth, the minty taste doing little to dispel the lingering unease. After rinsing his mouth, he gave his reflection one last, critical look before turning and walking back into his stark room.
He moved to the small chest of drawers and pulled out a pair of well-worn black jeans and a simple red t-shirt.
As he dressed, his gaze fell upon the nightstand beside his cot. Resting there was a silver pendant, its surface dulled with age. It was his father's.
He reached for it, his fingers hovering just above its cool surface. A wave of conflicting emotions washed over him – a pang of loss, a flicker of resentment, a whisper of something akin to affection.
His hand paused, suspended in the air. The pendant represented a connection to the man who was gone, a man whose expectations still weighed heavily upon him. He hesitated, the weight of memory a tangible thing.
With a sigh that held a touch of resignation, Luke finally closed his fingers around the cool metal of the pendant. He held it in his palm for a moment, the worn edges familiar beneath his fingertips. "Maybe," he murmured to the silent room, his voice low, "maybe today I won't completely disappoint everyone."
He then slipped the chain over his head, the pendant settling against his chest beneath the red fabric of his shirt.
Turning away from the stark simplicity of his room, he walked out into the hallway, the polished wood gleaming under the soft morning light. His footsteps echoed softly as he approached the grand, dual staircase that swept upwards, its intricate carvings a testament to the family's wealth and status.37Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡK1hKLZGY44
As Luke descended the sweeping staircase, the sounds of the household grew more distinct – the gentle clinking of silverware, the soft murmur of voices, the rustle of turning pages. Reaching the bottom, he walked through a wide archway that opened into the spacious and brightly lit kitchen.
The scene within was a familiar one. Hazel, ever the efficient one, was assisting their mother, Josephine, in setting the large, polished wooden table. Josephine moved with an air of quiet authority, her movements precise as she arranged cutlery and placed serving dishes. At a smaller table near the window, bathed in the morning sun, sat Beatrix. Lost in the pages of a thick book, her brow furrowed in concentration, she seemed oblivious to the activity around her.
Josephine, without so much as a pause in her task of arranging a delicate porcelain teacup, her back still facing the archway where Luke stood, offered a crisp, "Good morning, Lucian." Her voice, though calm and even, held an undeniable undercurrent of expectation.
Luke froze for a moment, caught off guard by the direct address without any visual confirmation of his arrival. He blinked, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. He glanced around the sun-drenched kitchen, his gaze sweeping from Hazel's focused movements at the table to Beatrix's engrossed figure by the window. Had they somehow signaled his approach? He hadn't made a sound.
Then his eyes landed on the window sill beside Beatrix. Perched there, a large, black crow sat utterly still, its obsidian eyes fixed directly on him. There was an unnerving intelligence in its gaze, an almost accusatory stare that sent a shiver down his spine despite the warm air of the kitchen. He felt a prickle of unease, a sense of being watched, scrutinized.
A low groan escaped his lips, a sound that was part annoyance, part resignation. He dragged his gaze away from the unsettling avian observer and finally addressed his mother. "Morning, Mother," he replied, his voice flat, devoid of any genuine warmth. The unexpected greeting and the crow's unsettling scrutiny had already set his teeth on edge. He had a feeling this "important matter" she wanted to discuss wasn't going to be pleasant at all.
The crow, as if responding to an unspoken command, launched itself from the window sill with a powerful beat of its black wings. It flew directly towards Josephine, a silent, swift shadow against the bright morning light. Luke watched, a knot of bewilderment tightening in his stomach.
Josephine, still not turning to acknowledge her son visually, extended a perfectly manicured hand. With uncanny precision, the crow landed gracefully on her outstretched fingers, its sharp talons finding purchase without causing the slightest tremor.
For a fleeting moment, it remained there, its intelligent eyes flicking towards Luke before turning back to Josephine. Then, in a movement so fluid it was almost unsettling, the crow hopped from her hand to her shoulder, then closer to her head, its black feathers seeming to meld and darken against the rich midnight of her hair. It was as if the bird was dissolving, its form subtly shifting until it was no longer a separate entity but an intricate, living part of her coiffure.
Josephine finally turned, her gaze, now holding a strange depth, locking onto Luke's. A small, almost imperceptible smile played on her lips.
She gestured towards the large dining table with a regal wave of her hand, the movement drawing attention to the ornate rings adorning her fingers. "Lucian," she said, her voice smooth as polished stone, yet with an undeniable undercurrent of authority. "Please, sit. We have much to discuss." The lingering presence of the crow, or whatever it had become, nestled within her hair, added an unspoken weight to her invitation.
Luke felt a prickle of apprehension crawl up his spine. Whatever "important matters" his mother had in mind, he had a sinking feeling it was far more unusual than he had anticipated.
Reluctantly, Luke moved towards the imposing dining table and pulled out a heavy wooden chair, the legs scraping slightly against the polished floor. He sat, his gaze still flicking towards his mother, trying to decipher the subtle shift in her demeanor.
Josephine, before launching into whatever pronouncements she had planned, gestured towards the laden table. "But first," she announced, her voice regaining a more familiar, though still authoritative, tone, "let us eat."
She turned her attention to Beatrix, who was still deeply engrossed in her book. "Beatrix, dear, the wisdom contained within those pages will still be there after breakfast. Please put it away while we eat. It's impolite to the chef, and frankly, it's dreadful table manners."
Hazel, ever the dutiful daughter, had already moved to Josephine's chair and was pulling it out with a graceful movement. "Here you are, Mother," she said, her tone warm and respectful.
"Thank you, Hazel," Josephine replied, offering a small, appreciative smile before settling into her seat. She then glanced around the table, her eyes briefly meeting each of theirs. A slight frown creased her brow. "Now, where is your brother? Hugo should be joining us for breakfast."
Before Josephine's question about Hugo had even fully hung in the air, Luke was already pushing his chair back from the table, the scraping sound echoing slightly in the sudden lull in conversation. "I'll go get him," he offered quickly, perhaps a little too eagerly, his tone suggesting a willingness that didn't quite reach his eyes. It was a transparent attempt to escape the impending "important matters."
However, Josephine's voice, smooth yet firm, cut him off. "No need, Lucian. Beatrix, dear, since you're not currently occupied with ancient texts, would you mind fetching your brother?"
Beatrix, startled from her literary world, blinked and looked up, her gaze finally registering the presence of her older brother. A soft smile touched her lips. "Oh, good morning, Luke," she said, her voice gentle. Only then did she seem to fully process her mother's request. "Of course, Mother. I'll go get Hugo." She marked her page with a delicate finger and closed the book with a soft thud before she got up, her movements unhurried as she headed towards the door.
A low groan rumbled in Luke’s chest as he sank back into his chair, the brief hope of escape extinguished. He slumped slightly, his gaze fixed on the intricate patterns of the tablecloth, anything to avoid his mother’s knowing eyes.
Hazel, caught his dejected posture. A soft chuckle escaped her lips, and she leaned slightly towards him, whispering with a playful glint in her eyes, "Someone's eager for Mother's morning sermon, aren't they?"
Luke’s head snapped up, his eyes narrowing dangerously at his sister. "One more word, Hazel," he hissed, his voice low and menacing, "and I swear I will rip those ridiculous earrings right off your ears."
Hazel merely scoffed, a delicate sound of amusement. She reached up and touched one of her elaborate, dangling earrings, a smirk playing on her lips. "Oh, I highly doubt that, little brother. You wouldn't dare disrupt the delicate peace of our breakfast ritual. Besides," her eyes sparkled with challenge, "you know Mother would have your hide."
Josephine, seemingly unfazed by the simmering sibling rivalry, simply clapped her hands together, a sharp, decisive sound that cut through the lingering tension. "Alright, children," she announced, her voice regaining its crisp authority, addressing the room as a whole. She then turned her gaze directly to Luke, her expression suddenly softening slightly.
Her eyes, sharp and perceptive, seemed to notice the subtle outline beneath his red t-shirt. A faint trace of silver chain was visible at the base of his neck. A knowing look flickered across her face. "That belonged to your father, didn't it, Lucian?" she asked, her tone surprisingly gentle.
Luke’s hand instinctively went to his chest, his fingers closing protectively around the cool metal of the pendant beneath his shirt. He hesitated for a long moment, his jaw tight, his gaze fixed on the intricate carvings of the tabletop. The weight of the silver felt heavier now, under his mother’s knowing scrutiny. Finally, with a reluctant sigh, he offered a curt nod. "Yes," he confirmed, his voice low, almost a whisper. "It was his."
Josephine’s gaze lingered on the spot where the pendant rested against his chest. A flicker of something unreadable – perhaps sadness, perhaps anger – crossed her features. She seemed to hesitate, her usual composed demeanor momentarily faltering.
Then, her voice, when she spoke, was softer than Luke had heard it in a long time. "He… he was a good man, Lucian." The words hung in the air, carrying a weight of unspoken history and complex emotions.
The brief moment of unexpected sentimentality passed, the air in the kitchen subtly shifting back to its usual undercurrent of formality. Josephine cleared her throat softly, her gaze becoming more direct, more businesslike. "Well," she said, her tone brisk as she folded her hands neatly on the table, "sentimental reminiscing aside, we have the present to consider. Lucian, regarding your duties for the day…"
She paused, allowing her words to hang in the air for a moment, her gaze unwavering. "As you know, being an Oathbearer is not reserved for grand occasions or times of crisis. It is a constant vigilance, a daily commitment. Today, your task is a routine patrol of the Western District. There have been… whispers. Nothing concrete, mind you, but enough unease to warrant a visible presence. Ensure the usual routes are covered, speak with the Watch Captain, and report back to me by nightfall with any… irregularities."
Luke’s head snapped up, a flicker of surprise – and something akin to rebellion – crossing his features. He met his mother’s gaze, his own eyes surprisingly steady. He took a slow, deliberate breath before speaking, his tone measured and respectful, yet undeniably firm.
"Mother," he began, his voice calm but carrying a clear undercurrent of refusal, "with all due respect, I must decline the patrol of the Western District today."
The words hung in the air, the unexpectedness of his polite defiance catching Hazel completely off guard. Her fork, halfway to her mouth with a piece of fruit, paused mid-air. Her eyes widened, and she immediately jumped in, her usual teasing demeanor replaced with a sharp note of disbelief.
"Decline?" she exclaimed, her voice rising incredulously. "Luke, what in the paths are you talking about? You can't just 'decline' your duties! You're an Oathbearer! People rely on us! What possible reason could you have for neglecting your responsibilities?" She leaned forward, her brow furrowed in concern and exasperation. "Is something wrong? Are you unwell?"
Josephine, for her part, remained silent, her gaze fixed on Luke, her expression unreadable. She watched the exchange between her children with an unnerving stillness, her hands folded neatly on the table, betraying no hint of her thoughts.
Hazel, meanwhile, pressed on, her voice laced with urgency. "Think about it, Luke! The Western District? That's a significant area. If there are whispers, as Mother said, your presence is even more crucial. You can't just sit around here moping – whatever it is that's got you in such a foul mood. This isn't some trivial request; it's your duty!" She gestured emphatically with her fork. "Honestly, sometimes I just don't understand you. This isn't some game!"
Luke’s polite facade finally cracked, replaced by a hint of exasperation. "Hazel," he retorted, his tone losing its earlier deference, "last I checked, the Oath ran in the family. You're just as capable – arguably more so, with your penchant for charming information out of anyone – of patrolling the Western District. Why can't you go?" He punctuated his question with a pointed look.
Hazel scoffed, throwing her hands up in exasperation. "Oh, here we go! Always trying to pawn off your responsibilities! It's not the same, Luke, and you know it! I have-"
But before she could launch into her reasons, Josephine finally intervened, her voice cutting through Hazel’s rising indignation with a sharp, authoritative tone. "Enough." Both Luke and Hazel fell silent, their attention immediately snapping to their mother. Her gaze, cool and unwavering, swept across the table.
Josephine’s gaze settled firmly on Luke, her expression a carefully constructed mask of disappointment. "Lucian," she began, her voice measured and carrying a weight of unspoken expectation, "do you truly fail to grasp the immense honor bestowed upon our family? To be an Oathbearer is not a mere task, a simple duty to be shirked at your convenience. It is a sacred trust, a lineage blessed by the Divine. This… contract,"
she gestured pointedly to the silver ring on his finger, "is a testament to that divine favor, a bond forged not in earthly desires but in celestial mandate. It grants you abilities, responsibilities, and a place of profound respect within our society."
Luke shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his jaw tightening. "Honor?" he repeated, the word laced with a bitter undertone. "Respect? Mother, with all due disrespect, I never asked for this 'honor.' I never sought this 'divine favor.' This ring," he lifted his left hand, the silver band glinting dully in the morning light, "feels less like a blessing and more like a gilded cage. A constant reminder of a path that was chosen for me, not by me."
Hazel snorted, rolling her eyes. "Oh, here we go again. The martyr act. Honestly, Luke, you sound like a spoiled child. Thousands would give anything for the power you possess, for the recognition our family holds, and all you do is whine about it. It's not like it's some unbearable burden. You get to fight monsters, protect people – it's rather glamorous, if you ask me."
"Glamorous?" Luke scoffed, his gaze snapping to Hazel. "Is that what you think this is? Some sort of romantic adventure? I've seen things, Hazel, things that would curdle that romantic notion right out of your head. And as for the 'honor' – it comes at a price. A price I didn't agree to pay." He looked back at his mother, his voice hardening. "This contract, as you call it, this ring… it dictates my life, my choices. It’s a constant tether, pulling me in directions I don't want to go."
Josephine’s expression remained impassive, though a flicker of something – perhaps understanding, perhaps merely acknowledgement of his persistent defiance – crossed her eyes. "The Divine does not bestow such gifts lightly, Lucian. Nor does it consult with individual whims. This is your birthright, your responsibility. It is a part of who you are."
"But is it who I want to be?" Luke countered, his voice rising slightly, the carefully constructed politeness finally beginning to fray at the edges. "Didn't anyone ever consider that? That maybe, just maybe, I have my own desires, my own path I wish to forge, one that doesn't involve monster hunting and bowing to ancient celestial mandates?" He looked from his mother to Hazel, a plea in his eyes. "Can't you both understand that?"
Josephine, with a practiced ease that spoke volumes of past disagreements, simply shifted the focus of the conversation, seemingly unfazed by Luke's outburst. "Regardless of your personal feelings on the matter, Lucian," she said, her tone firm, brooking no further argument about the divine contract, "the patrol of the Western District remains your duty for today."
Luke’s control finally snapped. "Stop!" he exclaimed, pushing back from the table with a suddenness that made the silverware rattle. "Stop calling me Lucian! It's Luke. L-U-K-E. How many times do I have to tell you?" His chest heaved with frustration, the years of being addressed by a name he disliked boiling over.
Josephine’s brow arched slightly, a hint of her usual imperiousness returning. "Lucian is your given name. Luke is merely a… familiar diminutive. While I understand your preference," her tone suggested she understood no such thing, "it does not alter the fact of your designation."
Luke scoffed, a harsh, humorless sound. He turned abruptly, intending to put an end to this frustrating conversation by simply removing himself from the room. But his haste betrayed him. He hadn't accounted for Beatrix's quiet return. He collided with her just as she stepped back into the kitchen, a surprised "oof" escaping her lips. Luke stumbled backwards, catching himself on the edge of the table, his chair scraping loudly against the floor once more.
Beatrix, ever composed, steadied herself, a slight frown creasing her brow. "Oh! Excuse me, Luke," she said softly, her gaze then drifting behind her.
"Where is Hugo, dear?" Josephine asked, her voice calm but with a hint of underlying expectation as her gaze followed Beatrix's confused expression.
Before Beatrix could even form a coherent answer, a blur of motion burst through the archway. Hugo, their youngest sibling, a whirlwind of untamed energy, skidded to a halt just inside the kitchen. His cheeks were flushed, his hair end was end, and his eyes sparkled with an almost manic excitement. "Cas! Cas! Is Cas here yet? Can I train with him now? Please, please, please tell me it's time!" He bounced on the balls of his feet, completely oblivious to the lingering tension in the room and the fact that his dramatic entrance had effectively interrupted any further discussion about Luke's duties. His focus was solely on the prospect of his training session with Cas.
"Caspian will be here shortly, Hugo," Josephine replied, her tone even, though a hint of weariness flickered in her eyes at her youngest son's boundless energy. "Patience, dear boy. Breakfast first."
Luke, under his breath, mumbled just loud enough for Beatrix, who was standing nearby, to hear, "Of course. Never 'Cas.' Always 'Caspian.' It's like she has a personal vendetta against nicknames."
Beatrix, who had been observing the earlier exchange with a quiet understanding, couldn't suppress a small smile. She glanced at Luke, a hint of amusement in her eyes, acknowledging his muttered complaint with a subtle nod before turning her attention back to Hugo and their mother.
Luke, seizing the momentary distraction caused by Hugo’s arrival, attempted to make his escape once more. He turned towards the archway, hoping to slip away unnoticed amidst the breakfast preparations.
But before he could take more than a step, a flash of black shot past him, the air disturbed by the rapid beat of wings. A large crow, identical to the one he’d seen earlier, landed on the floor directly in his path, its obsidian eyes fixed on him with an unnerving intensity. It tilted its head slightly, as if in silent command.
Luke stopped dead in his tracks, a frustrated sigh escaping his lips. He turned to look at Josephine, who was now watching him with a knowing gaze, the dark feathers still subtly woven into her hair.
"Lucian," she said, her voice calm but leaving no room for argument, "sit down and eat your breakfast. We can discuss your… reluctance regarding your duties afterwards. But you will not leave this table unfed. Even Oathbearers require sustenance."
With a defeated sigh, Luke nodded stiffly and retook his seat. As he did, the crow launched itself from the floor with another powerful beat of its wings, flying directly back to Josephine. It landed gracefully on her shoulder once more, then, in that unsettlingly fluid way, seemed to melt back into the dark auburn of her hair, disappearing completely.
Hugo, oblivious to the silent exchange and Luke’s thwarted escape attempt, was already launching into an enthusiastic explanation. "Oh! Oh! You won't BELIEVE what Cas showed me yesterday!" he exclaimed, his eyes wide with excitement. "It's this new… well, it's a sort of… shimmering aura? He says it can, like, slightly inconvenience people? Like, make them trip on flat surfaces or maybe forget where they put their keys for a second? It's still in the early stages, but he thinks with more practice, it could become a truly… subtly irritating spell!" He beamed, clearly proud of his progress.
Luke, picking at a piece of fruit on his plate, couldn't help but roll his eyes inwardly. Subtly irritating? he thought. That's the height of arcane power these days? He stifled a groan, the prospect of facing real threats with such… underwhelming magic doing little to improve his mood.
Beatrix, who had been listening with a thoughtful expression, offered a gentle observation. "It sounds… intriguing, Hugo. More of a nuisance than a true offensive spell, perhaps?"
Hazel chimed in, a playful smirk on her face. "Oh, I can already see the possibilities! Imagine, Luke, trying to fight some fearsome beast, and suddenly it can't find its sword! Or maybe it keeps stepping on its own tail! Terribly inconvenient, wouldn't you say?" She winked at Luke.
Josephine listened to their exchange with a small, almost imperceptible smile playing on her lips, a hint of amusement in her eyes. Hugo, eager for validation from all corners, turned to Luke, his enthusiastic expression unwavering. "What do you think, Luke? Pretty cool, right?"
A beat of silence hung in the air. Luke, who had been silently stewing over his impending patrol and Hugo’s rather underwhelming magical pursuits, finally looked up. He met Hugo’s hopeful gaze, then glanced briefly at Hazel’s teasing smile and his mother’s watchful eyes. A slow, almost strained smile spread across his face. "Absolutely, Hugo," he said, his voice surprisingly warm. "Truly… fascinating. A testament to the… subtle arts." He even managed a small, encouraging nod.
The breakfast conversation continued, a lighthearted banter about Hugo's "subtly irritating" spell evolving into a discussion about the practical applications of such magic. Luke offered noncommittal responses, his mind still preoccupied with his unwanted patrol. He noticed, however, that Beatrix’s attention seemed to drift. Her gaze kept flicking towards the grand front doors of the house, a soft, almost dreamy expression on her face.
A name, unbidden and unwelcome, surfaced in Luke’s thoughts: Jasper. A wave of something akin to revulsion, a cold shudder, ran through him just at the mere consideration of the individual. He couldn’t decipher the exact nature of Beatrix’s preoccupation, but the direction of her gaze, coupled with the faint, wistful smile playing on her lips, was enough to trigger an unpleasant feeling in the pit of his stomach.
He cleared his throat, his voice sharper than intended. "Bea," he said, his tone cutting through the general conversation. "Stop that."
Beatrix blinked, startled by Luke's abrupt tone. "Stop what?" she asked, her brow furrowing in confusion.
Luke’s gaze remained fixed on her, a hint of warning in his eyes. "You know perfectly well what. That… mooning over… him."
Beatrix groaned, a dramatic sound that drew the attention of the others. "Oh, for god’s sake, Luke! Can't I even glance at the door without you accusing me of… mooning? And for your information," she added with a pointed look, "Jasper isn't a snake. He's perfectly… agreeable."
The mention of Jasper’s name seemed to ripple through the breakfast table. Hugo’s head shot up, his earlier fascination with subtle magic instantly forgotten. "Jasper? Is Jasper coming here? Today? What are we going to do? Are we going to explore the hidden passages again?" His words tumbled out in a rush of excited anticipation.
Hazel, who had been studiously focused on the conversation, suddenly seemed intensely interested in a particularly stubborn piece of fruit, her movements deliberate and her gaze fixed downwards.
Josephine, however, watched the exchange with a newfound intensity. Her gaze, which had been passively observing the breakfast conversation, now sharpened, her focus shifting entirely to Beatrix and Luke, a subtle tension tightening the corners of her eyes.
Luke scoffed, rolling his eyes dismissively. "Agreeable? Right. Like a particularly charming viper." He turned his attention to his plate, suddenly ravenous, and began to eat with a speed that suggested he wanted this meal, and this conversation, to be over as quickly as possible.
Beatrix, however, wasn't about to let his disparaging remark slide. "He is not a viper, Luke! He's kind, and he's intelligent, and he actually listens when I talk about things that you just dismiss as childish nonsense."
"Oh, I'm sure he listens intently to every detail of your… butterfly collection and imaginary friends," Luke retorted sharply, not even bothering to look up from his food.
"He appreciates my interests!" Beatrix shot back, her voice rising slightly. "Unlike some people in this family who only care about brooding in dark rooms and stabbing things!"
"At least the things I stab are actual threats, not figments of overactive imaginations," Luke countered, his tone clipped and dismissive. He swallowed a mouthful of food, his movements jerky.
"He's teaching me about the constellations!" Beatrix insisted, undeterred. "Something you've never bothered to do!"
"Because staring at sparkly dots in the sky doesn't exactly prepare you for a rogue griffin, does it?" Luke snapped, finally looking up, his eyes flashing with irritation. He stabbed viciously at a piece of toast on his plate.
Hazel, sensing the escalating tension and perhaps wanting to avoid a full-blown sibling argument before breakfast was even finished, interjected smoothly. "Alright, alright, you two," she said, her tone light but firm. "Let's not turn this into a debate about the merits of imaginary friends versus griffin slaying. Both have their… unique charms." She offered a placating smile to both Luke and Beatrix.
Luke, seizing the opportunity to extract himself from the increasingly unpleasant exchange, quickly finished the last piece of fruit on his plate. He pushed back from the table. "If you'll excuse me," he said, his gaze briefly meeting Josephine's.
Josephine offered a curt nod, her expression unreadable.
Without waiting for further acknowledgment, Luke grabbed his plate and stood, the scraping of the ceramic against the wooden tabletop a final punctuation mark to his departure. He turned and strode out of the kitchen.
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