A few days later...
The Kane family carriage rolled steadily through a winter landscape, the sound of its wheels crunching over frost-laden ground echoing softly in the crisp air.
The faint scent of pine mingled with the sharp, clean aroma of snow, and the distant call of a crow punctuated the otherwise serene atmosphere.
As the carriage rolled onward, the rhythmic jingling of harness bells added a gentle melody to the tranquil scene.
The crest on its side—a roaring lion framed by a withered oak—gleamed faintly under the pale winter sun. The horses, their breath misting in the cold, pulled with rhythmic precision, their coats damp from the effort.
Snow blanketed the fields and trees, a pristine white broken only by the occasional bird flitting through the branches or the distant outline of a farmhouse.
As the carriage approached the Kane manor, the driver gently pulled the reins, bringing the horses to a halt. The animals neighed softly, their hooves stamping impatiently.
The door of the carriage creaked open, and Arthas stepped out, his boots crunching into the snow. He paused, taking a deep breath of the cold, bracing air and smiled at the sight of his home.
"Finally back," he murmured to himself, a wave of relief washing over him.
The familiar stone path leading to the manor seemed to welcome him as much as the sight of its grand silhouette against the snowy backdrop.
As he made his way toward the entrance, the sound of snapping twigs and the muffled thud of snow caught his attention.
Glancing toward the backyard, he saw a boy—no older than seven—repeatedly hurling snowballs at a series of sticks planted in the snow.
Each throw was precise, the snowballs hitting the sticks with surprising force.
Arthas did not recognize the boy immediately and chuckled. It had to be one of the caretaker's sons. Shaking his head, he dismissed the thought for now and continued toward the front door.
The battlefield lingered in his memory as he rubbed his chest absently. The injuries he carried were a stark reminder of his oath to return once he ascended to Tier 4 and was fully healed.
For now, however, his heart longed for the warmth of his family.
When Arthas knocked on the heavy wooden door, it opened promptly to reveal Bea, the ever-diligent maid.
Her expression shifted to one of astonishment and joy. "Milord! You're back! Oh, what a joyful day! Let me grab your suitcases," she exclaimed, bowing deeply before hurrying to fetch his luggage.
Arthas's laughter rang out warmly, though a trace of tension flickered in his chest.
"It is indeed a happy day. Where are the children? My wife?" The words carried the weight of his longing, a mixture of anticipation and relief at finally being home after the long, grueling months away.
He could feel his pulse quicken slightly, the joy of reunion tempered by the subtle unease of what might have changed in his absence.
He stepped inside, removing his boots and slipping into the indoor sandals waiting by the door.
"The madam and your children are in the dining room," Bea replied as she struggled slightly with the heavy suitcases. "As for young Master Aldrich, he's in the backyard, throwing snowballs."
Arthas paused, surprised. "The seven-year-old I saw outside… was that Aldrich?"
Bea nodded knowingly. "Young Master Aldrich has been growing rapidly these past few months, Milord. Even the madam is unsure of the cause. Perhaps you should discuss it with her." She bowed again, gesturing for him to follow her to the dining area.
Arthas's heart quickened as he opened the door to the dining room. Inside, Eleanor and the three older children sat around the table.
Magnus and William stiffened visibly at their father's arrival. Rising hastily, they saluted him with rigid formality. "Welcome back, Father," they said in unison, their voices carefully controlled.
Marion, however, reacted with unrestrained enthusiasm. She squealed with delight, leaping up from her chair to embrace him.
"Welcome back, Father! We missed you so much!" Her exuberance caught Arthas off guard, and he groaned softly as the impact of her hug jarred his still-healing chest.
Eleanor's sharp eyes caught the flicker of pain that crossed his face. Rising gracefully, she kissed his cheek and asked in a low voice, "How are your injuries?"
"I'm healing," Arthas assured her, offering a reassuring grin. Then, glancing around, he asked, "Where is Aldrich?"
The question landed like a stone in the room. Magnus and William exchanged stiff glances, their postures rigid as if bracing for an argument.
Magnus tapped his fork against his plate, the faint clinking sound breaking the silence, while William avoided eye contact, his jaw tightening. Marion's cheerful demeanor faltered; she glanced at her older brothers, her lips pressing into a thin line before she drew herself up, crossing her arms defensively.
The weight of unspoken words hung heavily in the air, the tension crackling like a distant storm. Magnus and William exchanged uncomfortable glances.
Finally, Marion broke the silence. "He's in the backyard, training his aim. He's been at it for months now," she said quietly, her tone almost apologetic.
Arthas nodded thoughtfully. "I'll go see him. Carry on with your meal." As he turned to leave, Eleanor followed, leaving the three siblings alone.
Marion's gaze turned sharp as she glared at her brothers, her disapproval clear. Without a word, she resumed eating, dipping her bread into her soup with a touch more force than necessary.
Out in the backyard, Aldrich's focus was unwavering. The crisp air carried the faint scent of pine and the crunch of snow underfoot as he moved between positions.
He had set up a small range of targets: sticks planted at varying distances in the snow, their tops marked with bits of colored cloth for better visibility.
The surrounding area, dotted with barren trees and patches of frost-covered bushes, served as a quiet and secluded training ground.
Each stick bore faint impressions from previous impacts, a testament to hours of relentless practice. Nearby, a pile of snowballs sat neatly arranged, each one packed with precision.
The occasional whistle of wind and the muffled thud of snowballs striking their marks filled the otherwise tranquil space, creating an almost meditative rhythm to Aldrich's training.
With each throw, he adjusted his stance and grip, his movements deliberate and practiced. The snowballs flew true, striking the sticks with an audible thud.
His precision was remarkable for someone so young, and his strength—enough to pack and throw snowballs with such force—was even more surprising.
Arthas approached, his boots crunching softly in the snow. "Good throw," he called, his voice warm with approval.
Startled, Aldrich turned to find his father towering over him. His surprise quickly melted into joy as he ran to embrace Arthas.
Arthas knelt, returning the hug with equal warmth. "I heard you've had some quarrels with your brothers," he said gently.
"Would you like to tell me about it?"
Aldrich shook his head, his expression resolute. Instead, he asked, "Father, can you teach me the orc and elven languages? Reading and writing them would be enough for now."
Arthas blinked, caught off guard by the unusual request. "Why do you want to learn those languages?"
Aldrich hesitated, his small hands balling into fists as if trying to grasp the right words.
Finally, he replied, his voice quiet but firm, "I don't know, but I feel I must. It's like something deep inside is pulling me toward it."
His gaze was steady, almost pleading, as he searched his father's face for understanding.
"Will you help me?"
Arthas sighed, mulling over the boy's words.
As a noble and warrior, he was fluent in multiple languages, a skill essential for diplomacy and warfare.
"Very well," he said. "When would you like to start?"
Aldrich's eyes lit up with excitement. "Now! I can also show you how much I've improved with the greatsword!"
Arthas laughed heartily, ruffling his son's hair. "You're an eager cub, aren't you?" Rising to his feet, he stepped back and gestured for Aldrich to prepare.
Aldrich assumed a firm stance, recalling his father's demonstrations with perfect clarity.
Holding his training greatsword aloft, he shouted, "First stance!" The weapon, though lighter than a true blade, still demanded effort from his young arms.
The sword angled backward above his head, poised to strike.
"Strike!" With a powerful swing, he brought the sword down in a fluid, half-moon slash. The whoosh of air echoed faintly in the open yard.
Arthas sidestepped the swing with practiced ease, holding back his own strength but watching intently. "Good form. Keep your balance steady."
"Second stance!" Aldrich shifted his posture, angling the sword downward as though readying a deceptive thrust.
"Strike!" He jabbed forward, the blade's tip slicing through the air toward Arthas's midsection.
This time, Arthas deflected the strike with a casual flick of his own wooden blade, nodding in approval.
"Third stance!" The hilt rested against Aldrich's hip, the sword's point jutting forward defensively.
"Strike!" He lunged, his small body fully committed to the motion.
Arthas stepped back, his movements measured and controlled, allowing his son's blade to come close without connecting.
"Sharper, faster," he advised, a hint of pride in his voice.
"Fourth stance!" Aldrich called, this time pointing the greatsword outward in an aggressive posture meant to deflect and retaliate.
"Strike!" A quick thrust punctuated his words, and Arthas parried with a deft movement, testing the boy's reflexes.
"Fifth stance!" Lowering the tip to the ground, Aldrich visualized sweeping through a horde of enemies.
"Strike!" The sword arced horizontally, creating a small gust that stirred the snow at his feet.
Arthas crouched slightly, dodging the wide sweep, and grinned.
"That's the spirit, but don't leave your side open."
Finally, Aldrich reached the last form. "Sixth stance!" Holding the weapon behind him, he imagined guarding against unseen enemies.
"Guard!" The stance seamlessly transitioned back to the first, completing the cycle.
His chest heaved with exertion, but his eyes gleamed with determination.
Arthas lowered his own weapon, stepping forward to place a hand on Aldrich's shoulder. "Well done. You've grown stronger and sharper, but remember—precision and endurance matter just as much as strength. We'll work on refining these stances together."
Arthas stepped back, giving Aldrich a moment to catch his breath before taking his stance once more. "Now, it's my turn," he announced, his voice steady yet gentle.
"You'll defend. Remember what I taught you: stay balanced and watch my movements."
Aldrich nodded, his small hands tightening around the hilt of his training greatsword. He raised it into the first defensive stance, his feet planted firmly in the snow, ready to react.
With a swift motion, Arthas swung his wooden blade in a wide arc, testing Aldrich's reflexes.
The boy responded quickly, stepping back and angling his sword to deflect the blow. The wooden blades clashed with a sharp thud, and Aldrich felt the vibration travel through his arms.
"Good," Arthas praised, circling his son slowly. He feinted a strike to the left, then swung to the right.
Aldrich shifted his weight, blocking the real attack just in time. "Keep your guard up. Don't be fooled by feints."
Aldrich adjusted his grip, focusing on his father's movements. He could see the subtle shifts in Arthas's stance, the way his shoulders moved before each swing.
Anticipating the next attack, Aldrich stepped forward, meeting the incoming strike head-on. Their swords clashed again, and this time, Aldrich held his ground.
"Excellent," Arthas said, a note of pride in his voice.
He increased the pace, launching a series of quick strikes from different angles.
Aldrich parried each one, his movements growing more fluid with every clash. His breathing quickened, but he didn't falter.
"Defense isn't just about blocking," Arthas reminded him, stepping back momentarily. "It's about creating opportunities. Look for openings. When you see one, don't hesitate."
Aldrich nodded, his eyes locked on his father.
Arthas advanced again, this time with a slower, more deliberate strike.
Aldrich parried, then pivoted, aiming a counter-thrust at his father's side. Arthas deflected it with ease but smiled.
"Good," he said. "You're learning."
They continued sparring, the rhythm of their movements blending with the gentle crunch of snow beneath their feet.
Each time Arthas struck, Aldrich countered or dodged, his confidence growing. The crisp air around them buzzed with the energy of their training, the sun dipping lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the yard.
Finally, Arthas lowered his blade and stepped back, signaling the end of their session. "That's enough for today," he said, breathing a little heavier. "You did well, Aldrich. Very well. I'm proud of you."
Aldrich beamed, lowering his greatsword. "Thank you, Father. I'll keep practicing."
Arthas placed a hand on his son's shoulder, pulling him into a brief, proud embrace. "I know you will. Now, let's head inside before your mother starts worrying."
Together, they made their way back to the manor, the warmth of the impending reunion filling the air with a sense of peace and belonging.
The sound of their footsteps gradually faded, leaving the backyard serene once more, the only remnants of their training the scattered snowballs and faint impressions in the snow.