Eleanor von Silvaria watched her daughter with a fondness that softened the sharpness of her noble bearing. Celia's laughter filled the room, bright and unrestrained, a sound as rare and precious as sunlight breaking through storm clouds. In a world defined by duty and power, Celia stood apart—an anomaly, but a cherished one, like a blue rose amidst a sea of crimson blooms.
Celia's differences set her apart from the rest of their lineage, but Eleanor saw it as a blessing rather than a flaw. The future of their house did not rest on Celia's shoulders, and so her vibrant spirit could shine without the weight of ambition or expectation. Lancelot, with his sharp mind and resolute nature, would be the heir—the anchor of the Grand Duchy. Celia's freedom from that burden was a comfort Eleanor held close.
The door creaked as it opened, and in walked Lancelot. Eleanor felt the whisper of his mana brush against her skin, a subtle current that spoke of newfound strength. Her eyes widened, a smile unfurling across her lips as she took him in.
"Welcome, Lance," she greeted, her voice warm with pride.
She had last seen him when he was on the cusp of reaching the Blue Stage, teetering at the edge of that formidable threshold. Yet here he stood now, radiating the subtle but undeniable power of one who had crossed it. The speed of his growth was enough to make even Eleanor pause, her heart swelling with awe and a touch of unease. Lancelot's talent was prodigious, a flame that burned so fiercely it bordered on the fearsome.
But as she glanced at Celia, still caught up in her unburdened joy, Eleanor's tension eased. She was grateful that Celia was as she was—a light that danced, untethered by the shadows of ambition. For if she had been any different, any hungrier for power, Eleanor knew well the echoes of history that might have stirred to life again.
'They balance each other perfectly,' she thought, her gaze shifting between them—a brother who carried the weight of expectation and a sister who brought laughter and warmth to the cold halls of their lineage. And in that balance, Eleanor saw hope—a future where strength and light could walk hand in hand.
"You've reached yet another level," Eleanor said, her smile deep and warm as she regarded Lancelot.
"Thank you, Mother," he replied with a nod, his voice steady and respectful.
Before the moment could settle, Celia's eyes lit up, and she clapped her hands together in delight. "Brother, you've gotten even stronger! Congratulations!" she beamed, the joy in her voice as bright as a sunbeam breaking through clouds.
"Thank you, sister," Lancelot said, reaching out to ruffle her hair. She scrunched her nose and turned her head away, a pout forming on her lips.
"Big sister," she corrected, her crimson eyes narrowing playfully as they met his. The look was fierce in its way, though softened by the youthful gleam that never left her expression.
Lancelot stifled a chuckle, and soon their talk filled the room with an energy that chased away the day's formalities. Their banter was as lively as ever, a dance of words that only siblings could share.
Eleanor watched them, the corners of her mouth lifting as she let their laughter wash over her. Yet the moment carried more than simple joy; there was purpose behind her next words.
"As you both know," she began, her voice carrying the weight of anticipation and subtle warning, "for your tenth birthday, the twin princesses will be visiting."
Lancelot met her gaze, the easy confidence of youth mingling with the maturity of one who had seen beyond his years. "Yes, Mother," he said, a spark of determination in his eyes that matched the set of his jaw.
Eleanor's smile held, but the faintest crease of worry touched her brow. The air seemed to still, as though even the walls listened in on this quiet exchange. "You'll both need to be on your best behavior," she said, the lightness in her voice not quite hiding the seriousness that lay beneath.
Celia, who had been playfully poking at Lancelot's arm, sobered at her mother's words, her wide eyes attentive. "We will, Mother," she promised, her voice sweet and earnest, a vow as sincere as the small hand she placed over her heart.
After dinner, Eleanor retreated to her office, the familiar walls lit with the soft glow of oil lamps. The air was thick with the subtle scent of old parchment and ink, and before her stood the butler and the head maid, their postures straight and attentive.
She let out a sigh, her gaze drifting to the moonlight filtering in through the arched window. "Honestly, I cannot fathom how far he will go," she murmured, almost to herself, the words barely escaping her lips.
At first, she had hoped it would be enough if neither of her children bore the weight of her own talent. A quieter life, unburdened by the relentless expectations that came with greatness, had been her wish for them. But Lancelot—her son—had shattered that hope with a brilliance that bordered on the extraordinary.
Having reached formidable heights herself, Eleanor was not easily impressed. Yet, even she could not deny what she sensed in him. The sheer power he wielded was astonishing, a force so raw and refined it was unsettling. And all of this before he had even seen his tenth winter.
Had someone, even one of her trusted knights, claimed that a boy of ten could hold his own against a White Wolf knight, she would have laughed, a deep, incredulous sound. But here she stood, contemplating the truth of it. Even she, once lauded as a prodigy, had been but a shadow of this at Lancelot's age, barely matching the strength of a Silver Wolf knight.
"The Grand Duchy of Silvaria will bask in glory, Your Grace," the butler said, his voice low and reverent, breaking the silence that had stretched between them.
"I know," she replied, her lips pressed into a thin line. The pride was there, but so was the concern, etched like lines on a map that detailed the paths of her worries. She recalled the incident that had marked the first clear sign of his potential—the moment Lancelot, not yet seven, had dispatched Celia's old swordsmanship tutor as if he were a novice. And now, four years later, he could face a White Wolf knight without yielding. The rapidity of his ascent was daunting.
The room grew still, the weight of her thoughts pressing down as she considered what that kind of power would mean for him, and for their family. Her maternal instincts, protective and fierce, had cocooned him within the estate, safe but contained. She wondered now if that cocoon had become a cage.
A small, rueful smile curved her lips. "Perhaps it is time to let him venture beyond these walls," she said, her voice barely more than a whisper, laden with both reluctance and resolve.
The butler and head maid exchanged glances, understanding the gravity of what she was implying. The world beyond the Grand Duchy was vast and unforgiving, but it was only in that crucible that Lancelot's potential could be tempered, his path truly forged.
Eleanor looked out into the night, the stars scattered across the velvet sky like shards of ice. "Yes," she said, more to herself than to the others, her fingers brushing the smooth wood of her desk as if drawing strength from its solidity. "The time may be nearing for him to step into the world and find his own way."
And so, beneath the watchful stars and the ever-turning wheel of fate, Eleanor von Silvaria began to shape a new resolve, one that would set her son on a path none could predict but all would one day remember.