Fourteen days after the goblin stampede was broken, when the Crown was still silent.
Reinhardt sat in his study in Redhaven with ledgers spread across his desk, ink drying in uneven lines where his attention had wandered.
Victory was never quiet.
Reports stacked higher than they ever had during the campaign. Requests for escort along reopened trade corridors. Petitions from guilds eager to reclaim lost contracts. Clergy asking permission to restore damaged sanctuaries along the pilgrim road.
And all of it, somehow, ended at his door.
Reinhardt rubbed his temple and exhaled slowly.
It was good work. Necessary work. The kind that reminded him why land mattered more than banners.
Still—
His eyes drifted to the margin of the latest report, where a scribe had added, almost as an afterthought:
Eastern patrols report continued stability under Lord Alaric's command.
Reinhardt allowed himself a small smile.
So young, and already carrying weight meant for men twice his age. He had been carrying a soldier's burden since he was barely thirteen.
Nineteen next winter, he thought.
The realization lingered longer than it should have.
A birthday. Another one passed closer to manhood than childhood. Another year where gifts stopped being toys and started becoming symbols.
I should think of something proper, he told himself.
A knock came at the door.
"Enter," Reinhardt said without looking up.
A guard stepped in, helm tucked beneath his arm. "My lord. A royal messenger has arrived from the capital."
Reinhardt's smile faded, just… set aside.
"Very well," he said calmly. "Inform my sons. And Marcus."
"Yes, my lord."
The guard withdrew.
Reinhardt leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking softly beneath him.
The capital always remembered Redhaven eventually.
His gaze drifted, unbidden, to another memory.
The day he had first told Alaric of the engagement.
By Elyon, that had gone poorly.
He could still see it, how Alaric standing rigid, jaw set, eyes bright with something that wasn't anger but refusal. The first time his obedient son had ever said no and meant it.
Reinhardt had been furious.
Seraphine had laughed gently, that knowing laugh she used when men mistook authority for certainty.
He looked to the wall.
Her portrait hung there still unchanged by time. Painted before the lines of worry had etched themselves into his face, before campaigns had stolen softness from his hands. Her smile was warm, patient, as if she were still humoring him.
"Our sons have grown," Reinhardt said quietly.
The portrait did not answer.
Movement outside the window caught his eye.
Reinhardt rose and stepped closer to the windows.
Below, in the training yard, Caelan and Alaric circled each other with wooden swords, boots scuffing packed earth. Their movements were familiar now—less reckless than they had once been, more measured.
Caelan moved.
He dropped his weight suddenly, stepped inside Alaric's guard, and grabbed the supporting leg. His shoulder drove forward.
A clean single-leg takedown.
The world tilted.
Alaric went with it.
He rolled through the fall instead of fighting it, twisting his hips, forcing Caelan's grip to loosen. As he turned, his hand caught Caelan's leg. He pulled, swept—
Caelan hit the ground hard.
Reinhardt's brows lifted slightly.
Before Caelan could scramble for his sword, Alaric was on him.
Alaric's arm threaded under Caelan's armpit, sliding up to the neck. His other arm locked behind it, forearm tight against his own bicep. He settled his weight, knees planted, spine straight.
He took a breath.
Then tightened.
Reinhardt blinked.
"…That's actually decent," he murmured.
Below, Caelan tapped out sharply.
Without thinking, Reinhardt stepped back from the window and attempted to mimic the motion himself.
"No—wait—like this," he muttered, awkwardly mimicking the motion, nearly losing balance. "Then here—no, that's not—"
He stopped.
Looked at himself.
Shook his head once, amused despite himself.
He glanced back at Seraphine's portrait.
Her smile seemed wider now. Warmer. As if she had watched him make a fool of himself a thousand times before.
Reinhardt straightened, smoothing his tunic, pride settling into something steadier in his chest.
Men were still men, after all.