"Ivar, why do you always have to have the last word?"

Sarrit looked at him from the doorway, her voice tired. She rubbed her temples.

Ivar, fixing his hair in front of the mirror, muttered:

"Because you always start with the wrong one."

Sarrit blinked, her mouth slightly open. Then she stormed into the room and shouted:

"Where did you learn that? From that poor servant who ran away crying yesterday because you told her her face looked like a half-full milk bucket?!"

Ivar replied calmly:

"I only told the truth. She said she was looking for honesty."

Sarrit: "Ivar!"

Ivar: "Well, what do you want me to do if the truth is bitter? I’m not made of sugar to sweeten it."

Sarrit, at her limit, grabbed a slipper—but Ivar quickly dodged it.

"Out! Right now! Get out of my house!"

"Oh! Now it’s your house? Then why do you always say 'this house belongs only to Ivar, I’m just a guest!'?"

"Out, Ivar! Before I send you flying out with a frying pan!"

The Carriages and the Strange Surprise

Ivar slammed the door behind him, grumbling. His boots clicked on the stone path.

"One day I’ll leave. To a place with no silverware and no one to ask why I didn’t say good morning."

Just then, he paused at the sight of several sleek black horses and a luxurious carriage parked at the gate.

Several men in formal clothing and a woman in a long blue cloak stood there. One of them whispered:

"Is that him?"

Another replied:

"Not sure… I think the mother’s name is Sarrit, and the Duke’s son is Ivar."

Ivar placed his hands on his hips and gave a crooked smile.

"Yep, that’s me. If you were looking for my dad, sorry—he’s not around. I’m the exiled one, so I’m all you’ve got."

Bearded man: "You’re Ivar?"

Ivar grinned mischievously:

"No, I’m the council chief here to serve tea! Of course I’m Ivar!"

Then he turned toward the house and shouted:

"Daaad! We have guests! But I got kicked out, so I’m not sure what to offer them... a flying slipper? Or a plate of complaints?"

The door creaked open slowly. Sarrit appeared in a plain dress, her hair tied up, and a stern expression. Her gaze turned colder when she spotted the royal cloaks and the Raven family crest.

"What are you doing here?"

The cloaked woman stepped forward, removed her hood, and said:

"We’re here to speak with you, Lord Sarrit. It’s a serious matter. Please, if we could… speak in private."

Sarrit was silent for a moment, then nodded with a frown and invited them inside. Their footsteps echoed on the old stone floors.

In the modest hall, the woman spoke directly:

"We’ve come to take you and your son, Ivar, back to the Raven estate."

Sarrit froze. Then, with a dry smile, said:

"No."

One of the men, voice firm, added:

"With respect, if you refuse, we’ll be forced to take Ivar with us."

Sarrit’s eyes narrowed:

"Is that a threat?"

Woman: "No, Lord. It’s not a threat. It’s a serious request… but it comes with a royal decree."

A heavy silence followed. Sarrit clenched her teeth and said:

"I… need time to think. Just a few minutes."

The woman and man nodded respectfully. Sarrit left without a word.

Outside, Ivar was sitting on the steps, twirling a small stick between his fingers, muttering:

"If we were having guests, you could’ve at least baked something nice, mom… Not throw me out like trash."

Sarrit’s shadow fell over him. He looked up, but before he could speak, Sarrit took a deep breath and said in a calm, serious tone:

"Get up. Pack your things. We’re going to the Raven estate."

Ivar blinked, stunned, then raised an eyebrow.

"Us?! Together?! Mom, are you dreaming they’ll welcome me with open arms?"

Sarrit rolled her eyes and didn’t respond. She just walked back toward the door.

Under his breath, Ivar mumbled:

"Why does this feel worse than getting hit with a slipper?"