The corridors of Elric’s manor were quiet, save for the soft echo of footsteps against polished stone. The butler led the way with practiced precision, his back straight, his expression unreadable. Behind him walked Lord Tharald, his gait slower but firm, Serelith beside him with her head held high, and Shyamu trailing just a step behind, eyes darting nervously between the tapestries and the flickering sconces.

Tharald glanced at his granddaughter. Her face was composed, but he could see the tension in her jaw, the way her fingers curled slightly at her sides. She was bracing herself.

The butler stopped before the study doors and turned. “Your Grace is inside,” he said, then hesitated. “He was not expecting Lord Tharald or the stable boy.”

Tharald raised an eyebrow. “And yet here we are.”

The butler bowed and opened the doors.

Inside, Count Elric stood by the fireplace, his back to them, hands clasped behind him. The flames cast long shadows across the room, dancing over the shelves lined with ancient tomes and relics of battles long past.

“Your Grace,” the butler announced, “Lady Serelith has arrived. Lord Tharald is with her. And… a stable boy.”

Elric turned slowly. His eyes flicked to Tharald, then to Shyamu, and finally settled on Serelith. His expression was cold, unreadable.

“Father came?” he said, voice clipped. “And brought a stable boy? Let them come in.”

They stepped inside. Serelith and Shyamu bowed respectfully.

Elric’s gaze sharpened as he looked at Serelith. “I assume you know why you’re here.”

Serelith met his eyes without flinching. “It’s about Celene, isn’t it?”

Elric nodded. “She said you insulted her. And the Countess.”

Tharald turned to Serelith. “Is that true?”

Serelith shook her head. “No, Grandpa. She approached us and mocked us. I said my friend isn’t like her or the Countess. She misunderstood and thought I insulted them.”

Shyamu stepped forward. “It’s true, my lord. Lady Celene was the one who mocked us first.”

Elric’s face darkened. “Are you saying my daughter is lying?”

Tharald’s voice cut through the tension. “Elric, lower your voice.”

“But Father—”

“She is your daughter too,” Tharald said, stepping closer. “You accuse her without hearing her side. Is that justice?”

Elric’s jaw tightened. “Celene came crying. I thought Serelith had done something.”

Tharald’s eyes narrowed. “And you believed her without question.”

Silence settled over the room like dust.

Tharald turned to Serelith. “Apologize to him.”

Shyamu’s eyes widened. “But my lady didn’t do anything wrong!”

Serelith hesitated, then stepped forward. Her voice was soft, but steady. “I’m sorry, Father. If my words hurt you, I apologize. Please… pass my apology to her as well.”

Elric’s expression remained stiff. He looked at her for a moment, then turned toward the door.

“Very well,” he said curtly. “Apology accepted. You may go.”

No warmth. No forgiveness. Just dismissal.

Serelith bowed her head slightly, masking the sting in her chest. Shyamu clenched his jaw, but said nothing. Tharald stared hard at his son.

“You’ve accepted the words,” he said quietly. “But not the truth.”

Elric said nothing.

Tharald placed a hand on Serelith’s back and led her toward the door. Shyamu followed, casting one last glance at Elric, who had already turned away.

As the doors shut behind them, Serelith whispered, just loud enough for Tharald to hear, “He didn’t even look at me.”

Tharald answered, “One day, he will. And when he does, he’ll see what he threw away.”

They walked in silence through the corridor, the weight of the encounter pressing down on them.

Shyamu finally spoke. “But my lord, why did you ask my lady to apologize? She didn’t do anything wrong.”

Tharald paused, then looked at him with calm eyes. “Because sometimes, Shyamu, an apology isn’t an admission of guilt. It’s a gift of grace—to show strength, not weakness.”

He continued, voice sharpening, “And more importantly, it disarms those who expect defiance. Elric wanted a fight. We gave him dignity instead. That unsettles men like him.”

Shyamu blinked, then slowly nodded. “So… she won by bowing?”

Tharald gave a faint smile. “Exactly. The proud often mistake humility for surrender. That is their greatest mistake.”

Serelith’s steps slowed. A tightness gripped her chest.

“Grandpa,” she said softly, “why doesn’t Father love me? Have I done anything wrong?”

Her voice trembled. She was about to cry, but wiped away the tears before they could fall.

Tharald stopped and turned to her. He placed a hand on her shoulder, his voice low and steady.

“You’ve done nothing wrong, child. Your father… he’s a man bound by pride and shadows. Sometimes, people like him love in ways they don’t understand—and hurt the ones they care about without meaning to.”

He leaned closer. “But whether or not he sees it, I see you. And I’m proud of you—not for bowing your head, but for standing tall when it mattered.”

Serelith looked up at him, her eyes shining—not with tears, but with the flicker of strength being reborn.

They continued down the corridor, the firelight behind them fading, but something brighter beginning to glow within.