The heavy wooden doors groaned as Roy slowly pushed them open, his fingers tightening around the handle as if bracing himself for the inevitable. His father's office was just as he remembered—immaculate, structured, suffocatingly orderly. The dim lighting from the chandeliers cast long shadows over the rows of towering bookshelves, their spines neatly arranged like silent sentinels guarding ancient knowledge.
At the far end of the room, behind an ornate mahogany desk, sat Lucien Clifford—the Duke, the war hero, the man who commanded absolute authority in every room he entered.
But to Roy, he was just his father or so he had always hoped.
And like always, his father didn't even bother to look up.
The only sound in the room was the rhythmic scritch-scratching of a pen against paper. The atmosphere was thick with the scent of old paper and ink, blending with the faint smell of polished wood. Roy took a slow, steady breath before stepping forward.
"Uhm… Dad. Good evening," he greeted hesitantly.
No response. Not even a glance in his direction.
The pen continued its relentless movement, Lucien's focus unshaken, his posture rigid, his presence as daunting as ever. Roy wasn't surprised, nor was he particularly hurt. He had long learned not to expect warmth. But even so, a part of him—a foolish, stubborn part—still wished for it.
"You know I went to see mom today as usual and her breathing changed a bit when I was around her, even though it was soft but I still felt like she could hear me" he said stopping by a particular book. The writing stopped for a bit making Roy smile and turn around thinking he had gotten his attention but the sound and sight of paper flipping over burst his bubble as Lucien still didn't give him any attention
He took a few more steps into the room, his boots clicking softly against the marble floor. His gaze drifted upward, settling on the grand portraits lining the walls. The previous heads of the Clifford family stared down at him, their eyes cold, their expressions severe. Growing up, Roy had dreamed of one day being among them—a legacy immortalized.
That dream had long since withered.
Roy's fingers brushed against the spines of the books lined up on the lower shelves, stopping by a familiar title. He hesitated, contemplating pulling it out, when Lucien's voice cut through the silence like a blade.
"Keep your hands to yourself, boy."
Roy froze. The words weren't loud, but they carried an unmistakable weight—a quiet authority that crushed whatever fleeting hope he had harbored for this conversation.
Slowly, he turned, his lips pressing into a thin line as he met his father's gaze for the first time. The air between them was stifling, heavy with unspoken words and buried disappointments.
"Really? That's all you care about?" Roy's voice trembled slightly, but he didn't back down. "I walked in here, and you ignored me. I spoke about Mom, and you didn't even blink. But the second I touch a book—suddenly, I exist?"
He laughed, but there was no humor in it.
Lucien didn't respond. He simply watched him with an expression of quiet indifference, his eyes void of anything resembling fatherly warmth.
Roy clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palm. He had tried so many times. For years, he had sought some form of acknowledgment, some sign that his father cared—not as a duke, not as a commander, but as a parent.
"Sometimes, I wonder if you ever loved Mom," Roy said, his voice barely above a whisper.
The words were a spark in a room full of dry kindling.
Lucien's pen halted mid-stroke, a flicker of something—something unrecognizable—flashing across his otherwise impassive face. But just as quickly, it was gone, buried beneath layers of steel resolve. He slowly placed the pen down, his movements precise, controlled.
"You should be training, boy. Not wasting your time here with unimportant things and weak emotions."
Roy felt like the floor beneath him had vanished.
Weak emotions.
His mother—the woman who had loved them both unconditionally, who had given everything for their family, who had been lying in bed for over a decade without a single word—was an unimportant thing?
"But… Mom isn't a waste of time," he said, his voice cracking.
Lucien's piercing gaze locked onto him, chilling and unmoving. "She is not here. And she will not be for a very long time. Neither should you."
Roy swallowed, his throat dry.
He wanted to argue, to shout, to demand why his father was like this—why he was so damn cold. But the words lodged themselves in his throat like barbed wire.
He forced himself to take a steady breath. "Is that all you have to say, Dad?"
Lucien leaned back slightly, lowering the pressure in the room as if the conversation had already drained whatever little patience he had. "You know what you must do. Go back to your training. Do not become more of a disappointment than you already are."
That was it.
That was all Roy needed to hear to understand that nothing would change.
He turned toward the door, his fingers tightening around the handle. He hesitated, looking back one final time. "I know what I have to do," he murmured, his voice heavy with exhaustion. "I just wish, for once, I could speak to a father and not a commander."
The door clicked shut behind him.
Inside the office, Lucien remained seated, unmoving. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. He spread his senses outwards for several meters going on to cover the entire pathway and building easily monitoring Roy ensuring he way out of close proximity.
Slowly his fingers curled around the pen again, but his grip was too tight. A sudden snap echoed in the room as the pen shattered in his hand.
His jaw clenched. His shoulders stiffened.
"…Not yet," he whispered to himself, over and over, as if trying to suppress something threatening to claw its way to the surface.
Then, a chime broke through the stillness, a holographic transmission flickering to life above his desk. A familiar voice filled the room.
"Hey, bro. How you doing?"
Lucien's gaze sharpened as he immediately cut to business. "What is the update on the mission in Doitand?"
Garrick sighed dramatically from the other end of the call, running a hand through his messy blond hair. "Wow. No 'how are you, Garrick?' No 'good to see you alive?' Straight to business, huh?"
Lucien's tone remained firm. "If you have nothing of value to report, end the transmission."
Garrick rolled his eyes. "Alright, alright. Relax, you cold-hearted bastard." His expression darkened slightly. "Things here are worse than we thought. Emberfall has their claws deep in this town, and they're not done yet. We found multiple prison camps eight to be specific—children, mostly. Starved. Some barely alive."
Lucien's expression didn't change, but the fingers resting on his desk curled slightly.
Garrick continued. "The enforcement agency here is completely compromised as it is barely existent at all. Each of the encampments we raided had peak Rank 2 warriors guarding them, along with a bunch of subordinates. But that's not the worst part."
There was a pause.
"Their experiments… We don't have all the details yet, but we encountered something the warriors called Scions helping them—disasters that resemble twisted versions of children. Barely early Rank 1 in strength, but…" Garrick exhaled sharply. "Lucien, they were children."
Lucien's grip tightened.
"They're using them," he murmured.
Garrick nodded grimly. "Yeah. We have theories, but nothing concrete yet. And if that wasn't enough, we might have an Ashborne running the show here."
Lucien's eyes darkened at the mention of that name.
"Unconfirmed," Garrick quickly added. "But if it's true… then Doitand is worse off than we thought."
Lucien was silent for a long moment. Then, his voice came, low and sharp.
"Remain low-key. I'll be sending reinforcements soon."
Garrick huffed. "You don't trust me?"
"This isn't about trust. You are strong, but even an early Rank 4 could end you without effort. If this Ashborne theory proves true or worse if there is any Infernal present, I may have to come there myself."
Garrick snorted. "Aye, aye, Captain." He was about to cut the transmission when Lucien's voice stopped him.
"Be careful out there, brother."
Garrick paused, then grinned. "Heh. You do care."
The transmission ended, and Lucien leaned back in his chair.
For the first time in a long while, he looked… tired.