Lord Rodel, clad in gleaming silver plate armor etched with the intricate emblems of his house, cut an imposing figure as he stood by the ornate mahogany table in his private chamber. The deep creases around his eyes spoke of countless battles fought and the weight of leadership that had been his burden for decades. His calloused fingers tapped rhythmically against the hilt of his ceremonial sword as he surveyed the two visitors who had arrived unannounced at his fortress.
The chamber, illuminated by golden light streaming through stained glass windows, fell silent as servants scurried to prepare the room for what promised to be a momentous meeting. Tapestries depicting ancient victories adorned the walls, silent witnesses to history unfolding once more within these stone walls.
"Take a seat, Reiran," Lord Rodel instructed, his deep voice carrying the unmistakable tone of a commander accustomed to immediate obedience. His eyes, sharp as a falcon's, studied the man before him—a face he had not seen in years, yet one that haunted the memories of all who had survived the great war.
Reiran—or rather Rioran Dayan in disguise—bowed his head slightly, careful not to reveal too much familiarity. How many years has it been? he thought to himself. This chamber looks the same, though the man commanding it carries more silver in his beard now.
"Alright, thank you. Aelar, please have a seat as well," Rioran responded, placing a protective hand on his son's shoulder. He could feel the boy's nervous tension beneath his fingers and gave a reassuring squeeze.
Aelar swallowed hard, acutely aware of the significance of this meeting, though not fully understanding why. His father had been cryptic about their journey to this fortress, simply stating it was time to meet "old friends." The young man's eyes darted around the room, taking in every detail, every potential exit—a habit his father had instilled in him from their years living in constant vigilance. He obediently took his seat, back straight, hands folded in his lap in the manner his father had taught him was proper when in the presence of nobility.
Lord Rodel raised his hand, and as if connected by invisible strings, the chamber doors swung open. "Waiters!! Prepare some coffee," he commanded, his voice echoing against the stone walls.
A servant, dressed in crisp livery bearing the Rodel family crest, bowed deeply. "Thank you, Lord. It's here in just a few seconds," he replied, backing away with practiced deference before turning to fulfill his master's wishes.
Lord Rodel settled into his high-backed chair, the wood creaking slightly under his armored frame. His eyes never left Rioran's face as he leaned forward, elbows on the table. So, the legendary hero returns from the shadows, he thought, but why now, after all this time?
"Excellent. Now, Reiran, why have you shown up only now?" Lord Rodel inquired, cutting through pleasantries with the directness of a blade. The chamber fell into such profound silence that the distant clinking of cups being prepared seemed thunderous in comparison.
Rioran's mind raced, calculating how much to reveal and what to hold back. I've spent years protecting my son, keeping him hidden from those who would use him—or worse, harm him for what I've done. But we can't run forever. He opened his mouth to respond but was saved by the timely arrival of the refreshments.
"Lord Rodel, your coffee is here," announced the waiter, carefully placing an ornate silver tray bearing steaming cups of the rich, dark brew on the table. The delicate aroma of freshly ground beans filled the air, momentarily masking the tension.
"Thank you." Lord Rodel nodded dismissively to the servant before fixing his gaze back on Rioran. "Now, Reiran, do I need to ask again?" he pressed, fingers interlacing before him as he studied his visitor with the intensity of a predator.
Rioran deliberately reached for his cup, buying precious seconds to organize his thoughts. The warm ceramic felt reassuring against his battle-worn fingers. He took a slow, measured sip, savoring not just the flavor but the moment of reprieve it granted him. How much does Rodel know? How much has he suspected all these years?
"Your coffee is quite delicious," Rioran remarked casually, setting the cup down with deliberate care. His outward calm belied the storm of calculations happening behind his eyes.
Aelar glanced nervously at his father, sensing the underlying currents of the conversation but unable to decipher them. Father never evades questions unless there's danger, he thought, his hand instinctively moving closer to the concealed dagger in his boot—another lesson from years of life on the edge of society.
"Don't ignore my question!" Lord Rodel retorted, a flash of the legendary temper that had sent lesser men fleeing from his presence. His fist came down on the table hard enough to make the coffee cups jump, yet controlled enough not to spill a drop. Years of command had taught him precisely how to intimidate without creating an unnecessary mess.
Rioran met Rodel's gaze unflinchingly, a silent acknowledgment passing between two warriors who had once stood shoulder to shoulder against unimaginable horrors. He deserves some truth, at least.
"Is it really that important? All that matters is that you've seen me alive," Rioran replied with a straight face, though his eyes softened almost imperceptibly. In that moment, he wasn't just answering Rodel—he was asking his old comrade to understand the weight of secrets better left undisturbed.
Lord Rodel leaned back in his chair, his armor creaking as he studied Rioran's face. Decades of leadership had taught him to read men like open scrolls, and what he saw in his old friend's expression caused him to temper his approach. He's afraid, Rodel realized with a start. Not for himself—Rioran Dayan never feared for himself—but for something... or someone.
"But, Reiran, many were worried about you. It's been years since you last appeared, and some thought you were dead," Lord Rodel pointed out, his tone softening as he glanced briefly at Aelar. The resemblance between father and son was unmistakable to those who had known Rioran in his prime—the same determined set of the jaw, the same watchful eyes that missed nothing.
Rioran followed Rodel's gaze to his son and felt a familiar pang of guilt. I've kept him from the world too long, from his birthright, from the chance at a normal life. But what choice did I have after what happened?
"Is that so? It's information, but it wasn't the right time for me to show myself to them," Rioran explained, each word carefully chosen. His fingers traced the rim of his coffee cup as memories flooded his mind—the screams of the dying, the sulfurous reek of demon blood, the weight of responsibility as he made the decision that would shape the future of humanity but condemn him to a life in the shadows.
Lord Rodel scrutinized Rioran's face, reading between the carefully crafted words. There's more to this story—there always is with Rioran. He decided not to press further, at least not with the boy present. "If that's your decision, then there's nothing I can do about it," he conceded with a slow nod.
Aelar, who had been silent throughout this cryptic exchange, could contain his curiosity no longer. His eyes darted between his father and this imposing lord who seemed to know far more about his father than anyone they had encountered in all their years of wandering.
"Father, what are you talking about?" Aelar asked, his voice steady despite the nervous flutter in his chest. He directed his question to Rioran but couldn't help glancing at Lord Rodel, searching for clues in the older man's weathered face.
Lord Rodel's expression softened as he regarded the boy. So much like his mother in the eyes, he thought, a flash of sadness crossing his features as he remembered another casualty of the Great War. "You'll find out in the future, but not now," he replied with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.