The sun rises.As always, Tharald faces it while exercising.Usually, after the exercise, he smiles.But not today.Today, there’s no smile—only a flicker of worry.He looks at the sun, not with hope, but with a quiet fear.

Yes, the sun is rising… But not in his life.Not now.Not when he stands on the edge of death.The sun is setting.Yes—The sunset in Tharald’s life.He knows.He doesn’t have much time left.

Seeing his little flame grow healthy eases his worries, but somehow, he is still afraid—still worried. Even though he sees her smile, the fear doesn’t fade.

What kind of great and reputed Lord has anything to be afraid of?

He is afraid that his only little flame—who smiles and flutters like a butterfly, moving from one flower to another—will lose her happiness, her freedom, her will, her future. And most importantly, she will lose her very self—her identity.

How surprising it is. People, when they stand at the edge of death, usually worry about themselves—their pain, their regrets, their unfinished dreams. But not him. Tharald isn’t worried about his own fate. His fear is for the future of his little flame.

Even if he carries worries deep in his chest, he refuses to show them. Not in front of anyone. And especially not in front of her.

Why?

Because of something simple—yet deeply precious. He doesn’t want the smile of his caring granddaughter to fade. Not even for a moment. That smile is light to him. A reason to hold on. A reason to breathe.

He wants to cherish every second they have together. Every shared laugh, every innocent question she asks, every time she grabs his hand without a second thought. Even if his time is running out, he wants her to remember joy—not fear.

And if his little flame were to ask for anything, he would give it. Without hesitation. Without condition.

Because that's what love looks like when it's pure. When it’s selfless.

A love that doesn’t count days but makes each moment shine.

Then one day....

The afternoon sun filtered through the tall windows of the manor’s solarium, casting golden stripes across the marble floor. Little Serelith, not yet six, stood on her tiptoes before the full-length mirror, her mother’s shawl clumsily draped over her shoulders, a wilted garden rose tucked behind one ear.

She spun on her heel dramatically. “Do I look like a proper lady now, Grandfather?”

Lord Tharald, seated in his carved oak chair, chuckled warmly. “You look like a storm pretending to be a summer breeze.”

Serelith pouted. “I want a silver fan. All noblewomen have one. Even that snobbish girl from House Caeldra.”

He leaned forward, amused. “A fan, hmm? And what would a little flame like you do with such a thing?”

She crossed her arms with exaggerated seriousness. “I’ll snap it open when people annoy me. Like Lady Marlena. And I’ll wave it slowly when I don’t want to talk. That’s what court ladies do.”

Tharald let out a soft laugh, his eyes crinkling. “Well, that’s an argument I cannot refuse.”

He reached into the chest beside him and pulled out a narrow wooden case. Inside lay a beautifully crafted silver fan—its delicate ribs engraved with ivy and falcon feathers, the silk stretched between them pale blue with silver thread. Serelith gasped.

“It was your grandmother’s,” he said gently. “But she would have liked you to have it.”

She ran her fingers over the cool metal, awestruck. “Truly?”

“Truly. But remember, Serelith…” He leaned closer, placing a hand over hers. “It’s not the fan that makes the lady. It’s how she carries herself when the world is watching—and even more so when it’s not.”

Serelith beamed, clutching the fan to her chest. “I’ll be the strongest lady, Grandfather.”

He smiled, a little sadly, and brushed a strand of hair from her face. “You already are.”

Serelith ran off, laughing, the silver fan clutched tight in her small hands as she disappeared down the sunlit hall. Her joy echoed like birdsong in the quiet manor, soft and fleeting.

But her laughter didn’t ease Tharald’s heart.

It didn’t touch the heavy thoughts growing darker by the hour.

As the day wore on, his unease deepened. He had hidden it well—he always did—but beneath his composed exterior, something pressed harder against his chest with each passing minute. A whisper of dread. A clock ticking a little too loudly.

He retreated into the old room—the one barely used now, dust clinging to its edges, the curtains drawn halfway, filtering the late afternoon sun into dusky streaks. The air smelled faintly of old books and oiled leather. A place of thoughts. Of memories. Of things long buried.

He sat in the high-backed chair by the writing desk, fingers steepled under his chin. His gaze wandered to the portrait above the fireplace, then to the carved edges of the desk. Then, nothing. Just stillness.

Until it came.

A name.

A shadow of a face.

A flicker of something that had once been pushed far into the corners of his mind.

It came suddenly, uninvited—he came suddenly.

Tharald stiffened. His fingers trembled slightly, then stilled with practiced discipline. Slowly, he opened the drawer, pulled out thick parchment, dipped his quill in ink, and began to write.

Not thoughtfully. Not carefully. But urgently. As if the words had been waiting.

He wrote to him.

There was no greeting. No title. Just a name on the first line.

The strokes of the pen were sharp, precise, almost like blade marks on a page. There was weight behind every sentence, not just of memory—but of hope… or desperation.

Was this man still alive?

Would he come?

Could he come?

Tharald’s jaw clenched as he pressed the final period. He didn’t even read the letter. He folded it, sealed it with the family crest, and held it for a long moment in both hands, as if weighing not just a letter—but a lifetime.

His thoughts turned to Serelith.

She was so full of light. Of questions. Of little dances and declarations. Of plans that involved tiaras and swords and books with talking animals. Too innocent to understand what he feared. Too young to see the shifting currents that gathered behind closed doors.

But he saw. And he remembered.

And now—he reached for a past he had buried. Not for himself.

For her.

The letter sat on the desk. No name on the outside. No instructions. Just a wax seal and a silence that seemed heavier now than before.

Who was this person?

No servant dared ask when he called one to deliver it through discreet channels. No one questioned him when he gave no explanation. The message was gone before the sun had fully set.

But the questions remained.

Who was the man Tharald had written to?

An ally from another life?

A brother in arms?

A debt yet unpaid?

A mistake returning home?

Even Tharald didn’t know what kind of answer the letter would bring—peace or storm.

But one thing he did know.

If there was anyone left in this world who might carry Serelith’s future on steadier shoulders than his, it was the one he had just written to.

And now... all he could do was wait.