Let’s Explore!: Wait Magic Exists

Months passed by and I, Oliver, had been slowly unfurling, like a cautiously optimistic fern reaching for a suspiciously bright sun. My infant vocabulary, at this stage, resembled a particularly abstract art piece, a cacophony of “mama” and “dada” punctuated by the occasional surprisingly articulate belch. My days were spent nestled in a room that could only be described as “toy-explosion chic,” a riot of plush creatures and colorful blocks strewn across cozy blankets. And yet, amidst this chaos, I felt a profound sense of contentment, a bizarrely soothing symphony of baby-world tranquility.

Then, she appeared. Standing before me, a vision that could only be described as “scales and sass,” was the attendant. A maid, yes, but a maid with a twist: a sinuous tail adorned with iridescent scales, majestic horns that could give a ram a run for its money, and delicate wings that shimmered like captured rainbows. She was, apparently, a “lizard-man.” At least, that’s what they called her kind. “Lizard-man?” I pondered, my inner feminist already bristling. “Surely ‘lizard-woman’ is more linguistically accurate?” But apparently, tradition trumped logic in this household.

“Hello there, little one,” she greeted me in a voice as soft and smooth as velvet, her words caressing my ears like a gentle breeze carrying the scent of exotic flowers. “I am Lila, and I’ll be here to care for you.”

Huh, I mused to myself, conducting a rapid mental inventory. So, her name is Lila. And she’s on maid duty today. Last time, it was a panther-lady who looked like she could wrestle a bear. What exotic creature will grace me with their presence tomorrow? A dragon-dude who offers piggyback rides? A sphinx who gives riddles with my milk? My infant brain, apparently prone to flights of fancy, buzzed with curiosity as I tried to decipher Lila’s species. What kind of lizard-person was she? I yearned to articulate my burning questions, to engage in a witty debate about the etymology of “lizard-man,” but alas, I was still a baby, trapped in the tyranny of gurgles and drool.

Lila’s words, while melodious, remained frustratingly abstract, like trying to understand quantum physics while wearing noise-canceling headphones. But her touch, gentle against my flushed cheeks, was a soothing balm, a welcome respite from the existential angst of being a sentient infant. I giggled in delight, reaching out to touch her wings, marveling at the delicate texture of her scales. Ooh, shiny! And surprisingly not slimy! This tactile exploration elicited a joyous peal of laughter from Lila, her laughter echoing through the room like a particularly cheerful wind chime.

“Ha-ha-ha! What are you trying to grasp, little one? My wings, perhaps?” she playfully questioned, her head tilting in amusement.

Oh, come on, let me feel them for a bit! I mentally exclaimed, channeling my inner toddler. They look like they’d be perfect for a quick getaway if I ever decided to stage a diaper-escape. Lila, however, remained blissfully unaware of my sophisticated desires, perceiving my enthusiastic gestures as mere baby babble. Frustration, hot and prickly, washed over me, the crushing realization that my attempts at communication were about as effective as trying to explain the complexities of string theory to a goldfish. Devastation clouded my expression, my tiny brow furrowing in a dramatic display of existential despair.

Then, the growl. A low, guttural rumble that could rival a disgruntled bear, emanating from the depths of my tiny being. My stomach, apparently having had enough of this philosophical nonsense, decided to stage a hunger strike, its demands echoing through the room like a particularly loud foghorn. Unable to contain my pangs of hunger any longer, I succumbed to the inevitable, letting out a wail that shattered the tranquility of my toy-filled paradise. The craving for nourishment consumed me, a primal urge that eclipsed all other thoughts. I longed for substance, even if it was just a spoonful of the bland, vaguely vegetable-flavored goo that passed for “infant cuisine” in this bizarre world.

Lila’s gaze met mine, and with a playful smirk, she inquired, “Did little Master soil himself?”

A surge of righteous indignation and desperate hunger coursed through me. NO! I wanted to shout, my inner voice dripping with dramatic flair. I am not some diaper-filling machine! I am a being of intellect, a connoisseur of fine…well, I’d like to be a connoisseur of fine cuisine, but for now, I just want food! In that moment, I truly understood the plight of infants, their cries the only weapon in their arsenal, their wails a desperate symphony of unmet needs. Helplessness, cold and clammy, gripped me, the soul-crushing realization of the difficulty of conveying complex desires when confined to a vocabulary that consisted primarily of “goo” and “gah.” Determination, fierce and unwavering, ignited within me as I made a solemn vow. That’s it, I resolved, my tiny fist clenching dramatically. When I grow up, I will dedicate myself to the study of language, to the art of eloquent expression, to the mastery of witty repartee. I will never again be silenced by the limitations of baby talk!

Suddenly, I felt the warmth of Lila’s arms encircling my tiny waist, lifting me gently and carrying me towards a nearby table. Confusion, as disorienting as a sudden shift in gravity, clouded my mind. Wait, what is she doing? Is she…is she about to subject me to the dreaded diaper check? My realization hit me like a rogue wave, a tidal wave of mortification as I noticed my pants were down, and Lila was assessing the absence of any…evidence. Fortunately, there was no “mess” to speak of, but the overwhelming emotion that engulfed me at that moment was one of profound embarrassment, my face flushing as red as a particularly ripe tomato.

I can’t even protest properly! I lamented internally. What are you doing? I’m hungry, you scaly minx! But my voice remained silent, a mere whisper in the wind, drowned out by the rustling of Lila’s tail. I was just a small child, utterly reliant on the whims of others for even the most basic of needs. The indignity!

After what felt like an eternity of awkward scrutiny, I was presented with a small plate containing a substance that could charitably be described as “mashed…something.” It resembled a particularly unappetizing shade of green, and its texture suggested it had been previously chewed by a particularly enthusiastic slug. I eyed it with suspicion, unsure what to make of this culinary abomination. Tentatively, I poked it with a finger, the squishy resistance sending a shiver of disgust down my tiny spine.

“Master, please, stop playing with your food. Allow me to feed you,” Lila said, her voice laced with gentle reprimand.

I looked up at Lila, who held a small spoon in her hand, poised to launch a culinary assault on my taste-buds. I hesitated for a moment, torn between my inherent distrust of green goo and the rumbling protests of my rebellious stomach. But hunger, that relentless tyrant, ultimately prevailed, and I opened my mouth, bracing myself for the inevitable. The taste was, as expected, bland, a flavorless void punctuated by the occasional gritty particle. But the sensation of being fed, of being cared for, was oddly comforting, a primal reassurance that transcended the culinary horrors.

As I ate, Lila hummed a soft, lilting tune, her wings fluttering gently in the air, creating a miniature breeze that ruffled my hair. I couldn’t help but giggle at the sight, the absurdity of the situation momentarily eclipsing my culinary misery. A wave of unexpected joy washed over me, a fragile bubble of contentment in the sea of my infant existence. Once I had consumed the requisite amount of green sludge, Lila wiped my face clean with a soft cloth, her touch surprisingly gentle and caring.

Suddenly, a sharp crackling sound emanated from the door of my room, the sound of something magical opening. Someone was approaching. It was a woman with hair like spun gold and eyes like the summer sky, the very embodiment of radiant beauty.

She looked at me with a warm, radiant smile, her eyes sparkling with an affection that could melt glaciers. “Oliver, my dear, how are you feeling today?” she asked, her voice as soft and soothing as a warm bath on a cold night.

I gurgled in response, a symphony of happy baby noises, feeling an inexplicable sense of comfort and security in her presence. Ah, yes, the source of the good milk. My mother. Excellent!

“Ma’am,” Lila said, dipping into a respectful bow at the arrival of this celestial being. “Has my child eaten yet?” my mother inquired, her tone laced with a hint of (totally unnecessary) concern. Lila, bless her heart, answered, “Yes, but only a few bites.”

A few bites? I mentally scoffed, my inner drama queen taking center stage. I braved the green goo! I conquered my culinary fears! And this is the thanks I get? But I wasn’t sick; I was merely momentarily stunned by the sudden appearance of my mother, and the sheer audacity of the green mush. I decided to demonstrate my robust appetite by grabbing a fistful of the remaining goo and shoving it into my mouth with gusto.

“Oliver, dear, you mustn’t play with your food like that,” my mother gently scolded, a playful smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “Let Lila feed you properly, okay?”

I nodded, understanding her words even though my attempts at verbal communication still resembled a dying walrus. Lila resumed her spoon-feeding duties, and

I, ever the obedient infant (when sufficiently motivated by maternal attention), opened my mouth to accept the next spoonful of green…stuff. As I ate, I couldn’t help but notice the amused glint in my mother’s eyes. She was enjoying watching me struggle with the unfamiliar taste and texture. The horror! The treachery! I thought, my inner monologue reaching operatic levels of melodrama. In the corner of my eye, I saw my mother fidgeting, her fingers tapping nervously on her gown. Huh? Is she worried that I won’t be able to keep the green goo down? Does she think all maids are incompetent infant-feeding machines?

The maternal mind, it seemed, was a complex and fascinating enigma. Apparently, my mother wanted a turn at feeding me. Well, if you want to feed me, nobody’s stopping you, lady! Just say the word!

After I had successfully navigated the green goo gauntlet, my mother scooped me into her arms, cradling me close to her chest. I felt her warmth enveloping me, a comforting embrace that chased away the lingering shadows of infant-related indignities. The scent of her, a delicate blend of sunshine and happiness, filled my senses, a soothing balm that calmed the tempest within. I snuggled closer, reveling in the pure, unadulterated love that radiated from her being.

“You’re growing up so fast, my little Oliver,” she murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to my forehead. “Soon, you’ll be running around and causing mischief like your brother Leo.”

“That’s not true, Mom!” a child’s voice grumbled from the doorway.

“Good morning, Master, how’s your—” Lila’s cheerful greeting was abruptly interrupted by Leo’s indignant outburst. Apparently, he was deeply offended by the suggestion that he was a purveyor of “mischief.” It was a rather amusing spectacle, I must admit. And seeing Leo puff out his cheeks like a disgruntled chipmunk preparing for a particularly harsh winter was enough to send me into a fit of coos, ahhhh’s, and oooooh’s. This, in my limited infant lexicon, constituted hearty laughter.

The playful banter between my mother, Leo, and Lila continued, filling the room with the warm glow of familial affection. I watched with wide, captivated eyes, absorbing the nuances of their interactions, the subtle undercurrents of love and humor that flowed between them. Then, my mother’s voice shifted, taking on a melodic quality, her words weaving a delicate tapestry of sound. It was like a poem, yet imbued with a power that resonated deep within my soul; it was more like an incantation.

“The ancients, heed this plea, bind the kin with threads. By the light of day, by the dark of night, in this circle, cover with light. ‘Aurora’s Grace!’”

Aurora’s Grace? Sounds fancy. Like a spa treatment for ghosts. Or maybe a really good brand of sparkly baby lotion. I’m intrigued.

As the incantation reached its crescendo, a gentle breeze, carrying the scent of stardust and ancient magic, swept through the room, instilling a profound sense of peace and tranquility. I was utterly astonished, witnessing this breathtaking display of power unfold before my very eyes.

Okay, this is way cooler than I expected. It’s like someone turned on a celestial disco ball, but, you know, in a good way. Not tacky at all. And what’s with the stardust smell? Is that like, a magic air freshener? Because I kind of want one for my crib.

Aurora’s Grace: This name evokes a sense of wonder and power, suggesting a magical spell that creates ethereal light reminiscent of the aurora, while also infusing a sense of grace and beauty into the atmosphere. It wasn’t just light; it was a living, breathing radiance. The light itself seemed to dance and weave, like ribbons of pure magic, casting intricate patterns on the walls and floor. The air felt lighter, charged with a gentle energy that soothed my infant anxieties. It was as if the room had been bathed in a celestial embrace, a protective aura that whispered promises of safety and serenity.

Whoa. This is like, a next-level nightlight. I could get used to this. Does it come with a lullaby setting? And maybe some snacks? I’m just asking for a friend.

The spell wasn’t merely a display of light; it was a tangible force, a protective shield against unseen darkness. Wait, does this mean there’s scary stuff out there?

Like, monster-in-the-closet level scary? Now I’m a little worried. Maybe I should ask for a magical teddy bear too.

The light itself seemed to hum with ancient power, a silent promise of protection and tranquility. Okay, I’m officially impressed. This is way better than my mobile. Can we get this installed in my room permanently? I think it would really tie the place together.

It was a moment that felt significant, a subtle shift in the air, as if to mark the beginning of my formal introduction to this world, a world where the mundane and the magical danced together in a captivating symphony. I’m starting to think this world is going to be way more interesting than baby books led me to believe. I’m in! As long as there’s snacks.

The lingering shimmer of “Aurora’s Grace” painted the room in hues of twilight, a soft, protective embrace against unseen shadows. Whoa, sparkly! Is this like, a permanent nightlight? Because that’s actually pretty cool. My infant eyes, wide with wonder, struggled to process the sheer majesty of what I had just witnessed. Magic? Like, actual, real magic? Does this mean I can finally get someone to conjure up some decent baby food? This green goo is seriously cramping my style.

The scent of stardust and ancient power still hung in the air, a whisper of the extraordinary that had just unfolded. Stardust? Smells kind of like…powdered milk. Weird. My mother, her golden hair catching the fading light, smiled down at me, her eyes filled with a warmth that transcended mere affection. Alright, Mom, spill the beans. What other cool tricks can you do? Can you make my diapers change themselves? Because that would be a game-changer.

Leo, usually a whirlwind of childish energy, stood transfixed, his gaze fixed on the lingering afterglow of the spell. Look at Leo, all slack-jawed. Classic. He’s probably thinking, “Ooh, shiny!” Like a magpie. Even Lila, the stoic lizard-woman, seemed momentarily lost in the wonder of it all, her iridescent scales catching the ethereal light. Huh, even scaly lady is impressed. Maybe she’s finally realizing I’m not just some drooling potato.

The silence that followed was not one of awkwardness, but of shared awe, a collective breath held in the presence of something truly extraordinary. Okay, this is getting a little too dramatic for my taste. Can we get on with the show? I’m missing my nap, and frankly, I’m starting to get hangry.

“Well,” my mother said, her voice soft but firm, “it seems our little Oliver is quite the witness to magic today.”

Witness? I’m practically a consultant! I’ve seen more magic in the past five minutes than most people see in a lifetime. And, frankly, I’m unimpressed with the light show. Where are the dragons? The unicorns? I was promised fantastical creatures!

Leo, finally finding his voice, piped up, “That was amazing, Mom! Can you teach me that spell?”

Please, Leo, you can’t even tie your own shoes. You’d probably set the curtains on fire. Or turn yourself into a frog. Either way, it’d be hilarious.

My mother chuckled, a melodious sound that filled the room with warmth. “Perhaps when you’re a little older, Leo. Magic is a delicate thing, not to be rushed.”

Translation: “You’re too clumsy, Leo. Stick to playing with your toy soldiers.” I’m starting to think I’m the only one with any sense around here.

Lila, ever the dutiful attendant, stepped forward, her tail swaying gently. “If I may, Ma’am, I believe young Master is ready for his nap. The excitement seems to have worn him out.”

Nap? Oh, right. Sleep. I forgot about that. Fine, but only because I need to recharge for my next big adventure. Plus, I’m starting to dream about talking dinosaurs. Priorities, people.

My eyelids, indeed, felt heavy, the lingering magic weaving a soothing lullaby in my mind. Maybe I can dream up a world where all baby food tastes like chocolate. Or at least, where it doesn’t look like it was strained through a swamp.

As Lila gently placed me into my crib, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of profound anticipation. This is just the beginning. I can feel it. I’m going to be a legend. A baby legend, but a legend, nonetheless.

Then, I drifted off to sleep, my tiny mind buzzing with fantastical possibilities. And when I wake up, I’m demanding a pony. A magical pony. With wings. And a chocolate fountain. Don’t judge me, I’m a baby. I can dream.

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The cool, polished surface of the mirror reflected not just my face, but the weight of my altered existence. Eight years had passed since that pivotal day, and I, Oliver Albrecht Wainwright, now an eight-year-old, the second son of Xanthus Kael Wainwright, stood before the mirror. (Sometimes I catch a glimpse of the child I used to be in these reflections, a ghost of carefree laughter.) Joanna, my attendant, aided my preparations. Her chestnut hair, neatly confined in a bun, framed a face with gentle green eyes. (Her eyes have seen so much, I can tell. Centuries, perhaps. What stories do they hold?) Dressed in a simple print dress beneath a practical apron, she offered a soft reminder, “Young Master Oliver, your morning preparations await.” (This simple routine with Joanna is one of the few moments of quiet in my day.)

I nodded quickly, a smile already tugging at the corners of my lips. Grateful for Joanna’s steady hand as she smoothed my tunic, I could barely stand still. Her lineage, ancient and vampiric, had served the House of Wainwright for generations within the bustling heart of Drakenheim, a place usually echoing with serious purpose, but today felt infused with a brighter energy. (Even the air in here feels lighter, as if anticipating something good.) Despite their nature, Joanna always possessed a remarkable kindness, her gentle smile a familiar comfort. (She always knows how to make even the most formal occasions feel a little less daunting.) The mantle of a Demon Lord’s son still rested on my small shoulders, but today it felt less like a weight and more like a costume for an exciting play. (I wonder if Father will tell us about any adventurous stories at breakfast, now that Leo is back to hear them too.) Within Drakenheim, our family’s castle, the usual flurry of activity seemed to hum with a more cheerful tune. Servants moved with the same practiced efficiency, but their steps seemed a little quicker, their hushed tones carrying a hint of anticipation. (Perhaps they’re happy to have Master Leo home as well; he always has a kind word for them.) Guards stood like sentinels, but even their stoic faces seemed a touch less severe this morning. (Maybe the good mood is contagious!) This castle… a fortress, a home, and today, definitely a stage for a happy reunion. (I can almost hear Leo’s booming laughter echoing through the halls again.) The weight of my father’s expectations felt momentarily lighter, overshadowed by the simple joy of having my brother home. (I know I still need to be mindful, but today, I just want to enjoy having my whole family together.) Every eye might still be on me, but today, I hoped they saw not just a future leader, but a happy little brother. (I can’t wait to show Leo the new training dummy I’ve been practicing on!)

The dining chamber, usually a place of quiet formality, felt almost vibrant.

Laughter. Sunlight streamed through the vast windows, making the polished stone and shimmering chandeliers sparkle with extra brilliance. (It feels like the castle itself is celebrating Leo’s return.) Father, Xanthus Kael Wainwright, sat at the head of the table, his presence still commanding, but his jet-black hair and warm, brown eyes held an unmistakable twinkle as he surveyed his family. (That’s his ‘happy family’ look! It always makes me feel warm inside.) Today, the subtle softness in his gaze was even more pronounced, a clear reflection of his pleasure. (He’s missed Leo terribly, I know it.) When he looked at me, I saw a father’s concern melt away into a fond amusement, a ruler’s responsibility taking a brief holiday, and something more… a quiet, enduring love that seemed to shine even brighter in Leo’s presence. “I hope there are blueberry scones this morning; they’re Leo’s favorite!” I thought excitedly.

“Oliver Albrecht, my son, your presence is requested,” he said, his voice resonating through the room, but infused with a warmth that made me beam. (He sounds genuinely happy!)

My mother, Vivienne, offered a radiant smile, a true beacon of joy in the already bright setting. Her happiness is infectious; it fills the whole room. She understands, I thought. She sees the pure excitement bubbling inside me.

Vivienne possessed a delicate beauty, a counterpoint to the imposing strength of my father. Her hair, the color of spun moonlight with subtle silver threads woven through it, was styled in soft waves that framed a face of serene grace. Her eyes, a captivating shade of sapphire, held a depth of understanding that always made me feel seen, truly seen, beyond the expectations of my lineage. Fine lines around her eyes hinted at years of both joy and perhaps a quiet strength forged in navigating the complexities of our world. Her features were refined, her nose slender, and her lips often curved into a gentle, encouraging smile. Today, that smile was particularly luminous, reflecting the pleasant atmosphere of the morning. She wore a gown of soft lavender silk, the fabric flowing elegantly around her, accentuating her slender figure. A delicate silver pendant, shaped like a blooming night flower, rested at her throat, catching the light with a subtle shimmer. Her hands, resting gracefully on the table, were slender and pale, yet I knew they possessed a quiet strength of their own. There was an aura of warmth and genuine kindness that always surrounded her, a comforting presence that made even the grand dining chamber feel less intimidating.

“Good morning, Oliver,” Mother said, her voice like a melody, soft yet carrying a clear, soothing quality. “Did you sleep well, dear?”

“Indeed, Mother, I give ye humble thanks,” I replied, my own countenance reflecting her cheerful disposition. “My slumbers were most agreeable.” Which was, for the greater part, the unvarnished truth.

Father cleared his throat with a gentle sound, a glint of amusement dancing in his warm brown eyes as he observed our exchange. “Indeed? No clandestine visits to the castle library after the household retired, young Oliver?”

Oh, blast it all. He always knows. It’s like he’s got some sort of internal Oliver-activity detector. The library at night is the only place I can really lose myself in those dusty old tomes without someone hovering. Guess I wasn’t as stealthy as I thought. “Nay, Father, most assuredly not,” I declared, perhaps a little too quickly. Smooth move, Ollie, real smooth. Totally didn’t sound like you were hiding anything. Now he’s probably even more suspicious. Maybe I should have just come clean and said I was looking for that book on… on gargoyle anatomy. Yeah, that sounds believable. For an eight-year-old son of a Demon Lord. Right?

Mother, bless her perceptive soul, smoothly interjected, her sapphire eyes twinkling with amusement. “Xanthus, dear, you mustn’t discourage young Oliver’s thirst for knowledge, wherever he may find it. A curious mind is a treasure, is it not?” She offered Father a warm smile, a silent plea to drop the subject.

Next to Mother, our little sister, Maria, occupied a small, sturdy chair elevated by a thick cushion or a purpose-built wooden booster seat. It was common in the 18th century for younger children in wealthier households to use such arrangements to bring them to a comfortable height at the dining table. These seats were often simple in design, prioritizing practicality and stability overelaborate ornamentation for everyday family meals. Maria’s small hands rested on the edge of the polished wooden table, her posture likely a constant gentle correction from Mother, as proper deportment was instilled from a young age. Her feet, still too short to comfortably reach the floor, swung gently beneath the table.

“Papa,” Maria piped up, her voice a sweet, high-pitched sound, “did the stone beasts tell Oliver secrets?” Her sapphire eyes, wide and innocent, turned from her plate to me, then to Father. Oh, for crying out loud, Maria! Way to bring it right back up. Stone beasts whispering secrets? Where does she even get these ideas? Probably Joanna filling her head with fantastical nonsense.

Maria pointed a sticky finger towards the window, where the grey stone gargoyles perched on the castle battlements were just visible in the morning light. “Joanna says they watch over us. Maybe they whisper to Oliver when everyone else is sleeping?”

Joanna! I’m going to have a very polite but firm word with her later about the impressionable ears in this household. Though, knowing Joanna, she probably just meant it in a comforting, protective way. Still, not helping my case here.

Oh no, here it comes. He hasn’t let it go. “Oliver—” Father began, his wary smile not quite reaching his warm brown eyes. “Perhaps you could enlighten us as to which ‘big, dusty books’ have captured your attention so thoroughly of late?” Think, Oliver, think! What book sounds suitably scholarly and utterly boring to an eight-year-old? Not the one with the gruesome illustrations of battlefield injuries, definitely not the one with the diagrams of summoning rituals… Maybe something about… ancient trade routes? Yes! That sounds dull enough to be believable.

“I have been perusing a fascinating tome on the historical trade routes of the southern kingdoms, Father,” I replied, trying to sound as earnest and studious as possible. “Master Elmsworth mentioned its significance in understanding the economic landscape of the era.” I said, looking at my father’s face to see if he believed me. His brow was still slightly furrowed, his gaze unwavering. (Oliver Thought): Come on, sell it, Ollie, sell it! Mention something specific! “The chapter on the spice routes was particularly… detailed,” I added, hoping the vagueness sounded vaguely intellectual.

Father’s gaze flickered towards Joanna, who stood silently near the wall, ever watchful. “Joanna is this true?” he asked, his tone leaving no room for anything but the absolute truth.

Oh, no. Joanna! Don’t fail me now! You know I sneak around in the library. But you also know Father gets… intense about unauthorized activities. Please, oh, please! I thought with urgency.

Joanna, her gentle green eyes meeting Father’s steady gaze, inclined her head with a respectful air. “Yes, my Lord,” she confirmed, her voice calm and even. “Young Master Oliver has been observed reading several large volumes in the library of late. I believe one of them did concern the trade of the southern kingdoms.”

Yes! Joanna, you’re a lifesaver! Observed reading several large volumes. Technically true. Doesn’t specify which volumes or at what ungodly hour. Thank you, thank you, thank you! In my head givin’ her imaginary a thumb-up. You are a true and loyal servant of the House, Joanna. I owe you one. Big time. Maybe I’ll even leave that really boring book about royal decrees right where it belongs next time.

He still looked at me skeptically, his gaze lingering for a moment longer, as if trying to peer directly into my eight-year-old mind and uncover any hint of deception. (Oliver Thought): Please, oh, please! Just let it go! The trade routes! Think of the economic implications! Just move on to the scones! Everyone likes scones!

Finally, a small sigh escaped Father’s lips, and the skepticism in his eyes softened, though it didn’t entirely vanish. “Very well, Oliver,” he said, his tone still carrying a note of caution. “I commend your initiative, then. But ensure your nocturnal studies do not interfere with your regular lessons.” He finally turned his attention to the platter of blueberry scones that had just been placed on the table, a clear sign that the inquisition was, for now, over.

A collective sigh of relief seemed to ripple through the dining chamber, subtle yet palpable. Maria clapped her small hands with delight at the sight of the scones, her earlier inquisitiveness forgotten in the face of sugary goodness. Mother offered me a discreet, knowing smile, a silent acknowledgment of the near-disaster and Joanna’s timely intervention. Even the stoic guards outside the windows seemed a little less rigid, though that might have just been my overactive imagination.

Standing beside the now unlatched doors, his posture formal yet with a hint of warmth in his eyes, was Gareth, Father’s most trusted aide and the castle’s Master of Ceremonies, preceded Leo like a fanfare. Gareth, a tall, imposing figure with a voice that could carry across the castle grounds, stood just outside the arched doorway, his posture ramrod straight, his gaze fixed on some unseen point beyond. “My Lord, Lady Wainwright,” Gareth announced, his gaze sweeping respectfully over our parents before settling on the doorway behind him. “It is my distinct honor to present His Lordship, Leopold Kael Wainwright, returned to Drakenheim.”

A moment of anticipation hung in the air. Then, the familiar sound of confident footsteps echoed from the hallway, growing steadily louder. And finally, framed by the grand archway, there he was. Leopold Kael Wainwright filled the doorway, his presence immediately eclipsing the lingering tension of my near confession.

Leo’s home. Yes, I knew he was coming back today. Father mentioned it last night. So why the grand pronouncement? Why not just have him wait in the visitor’s parlor like any other guest arriving? Or have one of the servants simply announce him? This feels… excessive. Almost theatrical. For Leo? He’s my brother, not some visiting dignitary. Unless… has something happened? Something more than just his return from the academy? A flurry of imaginary question marks danced above my head, their forms sharp and insistent. This elaborate entrance felt strangely out of place for a simple homecoming.

Leo was a whirlwind of motion and sound. His dark hair, longer and more unruly than Father’s, was usually swept back from a broad forehead, though a few rebellious strands always seemed to escape. His eyes, the same warm brown as Father’s, held a perpetual spark of amusement and a hint of the adventurous spirit that had taken him away for the past eight years. He was taller than I remembered, broader in the shoulders, and his movements possessed a confident ease that spoke of travels and experiences far beyond the castle walls.

“Father! Mother! Little brother! And little sister, still tiny as a pixie, I see!” Leo’s voice was a hearty baritone, each word carrying a genuine warmth that instantly made the room feel even brighter. He strode towards the table, his arms outstretched, and enveloped Mother in a bear hug that made her chuckle.

“Leopold, my dear boy!” Mother exclaimed, her voice filled with undisguised joy as she returned his embrace. “It is so wonderful to have your home.”

Father rose from his seat at the head of the table, a rare occurrence during breakfast, and clasped Leo’s shoulder with a firm hand. A wide, genuine smile stretched across his face, erasing any lingering hint of sternness. “Welcome home, Leo,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “It has been too long. “Leo grinned, his teeth flashing white against his skin. “It’s good to be back, Father. Though the wilds have their own allure, there’s no place like Drakenheim for a proper breakfast and even better company.” He winked, his gaze sweeping over our small family gathering.

He’d grinned at Maria beforehand turning to me. “Oliver, tell me–did my little brother’s scholarly are still in the table? Or have you poring over dusty tomes far into the night?”

My heart hammered. Don’t you dare betray how often I sneak past curfew.

Leo threw back his head and roared with laughter—a deep, barrel-chested sound that rattled the antique porcelain butter dish. 'An intervention! A masterful deflection executed with the tactical precision of a seasoned diplomat. He’s essentially invoked the ancient code of sibling solidarity to preempt the impending paternal inquest into my extra-curricular 'scholarly pursuits.' I owe him, dramatically.'

He clapped a hand on my shoulder, mirroring Father's earlier gesture, but this one was rooted in genuine, shared experience. 

                                                                              ***********

The playful banter between my mother, Leo and Mari had subsisted, and I was just starting to enjoy the blue-berry scone that Leo’s homecoming had (thankfully) provided. The relief that had flooded me.

My chest, cozy blanket against the cold anxiety of father potential lecture.

I took another triumphant bite of my blueberry scone- the sweet, buttery taste was a glorious rewarded for surviving my near-inquisition.

The room was bright , filled with the comforting smell of coffee and baked goods , and I was just starting to relax, believing that the whole drama had been been neatly avoided, thanks to my brother. It was a perfect moment of family normalcy , and clung to it fiercely.

I was listenin’ Leo describe a particularly fencing lesson at the academy. The image of his flustered instructor making me giggle, when the atmosphere at the table shifted.