Of Lost Legacy

A fresh breeze drifted past the neatly kept gardens of the Halden Estate, brushing over the stone paths and vibrant blooms. The grandeur of the mansion loomed in the distance, whispering of a glory that could rival any king’s palace.

In the yard, a woman moved with measured grace, hanging laundry on a wire. In her thirties, her beauty was quiet yet arresting—pale skin that caught the morning light, a slender figure that spoke of both strength and restraint. Eyes shut as if blind, hair tucked neatly beneath a veil—no stray strand escaped her careful arrangement. Each movement carried a quiet elegance, the rhythm of domestic life steady and serene.

“Good morning, Lady Martha,” said an old man stepping lightly from the shadows. His thick spectacles perched on a withered face, silver beard framing deep wrinkles. Yet his eyes burned with undimmed scholarly fire, and his worn robe hinted at a life steeped in solemn tradition.

“Good morning, Master Gilbert,” Martha replied with a graceful smile.

“Am I intruding?” he asked, his voice carrying a trace of hesitation. He adjusted his spectacles, glancing at the distant mansion.

“Not at all,” she said, straightening a cloth on the line. Her fingers lingered briefly on the fabric, smoothing it out. “I was just about to put on some tea. Please, join me.”

Gilbert’s face softened into a small smile. “How could I possibly refuse such generosity?”

She finished hanging the last piece of laundry and led him toward the annex—a modest wooden house tucked beside the main estate. Compared to the vast stone grandeur of the mansion, it seemed almost quaint. Yet inside, the space radiated warmth: a table for six, an open kitchen, and stairs leading to three bedrooms on the first floor. The corridor extended back toward the stable, where the faint clatter of hooves could be heard.

A single portrait hung on the wall—a man in his forties, silver-haired, with kind eyes and a calm presence that seemed to radiate from the painted canvas. Gilbert’s gaze lingered on it for a moment, softening—then saddening—his expression.

“Lucan’s passing must have made you leave the mansion,” Gilbert said, grief threading through his voice.

“All the servants left after Lucan. The place was too big for just me and Ayan. Please, have a seat,” Martha replied with a gentle gesture. Even with her eyes closed, she moved with the precision of someone who knew every inch of the house.

She walked to the stove and lifted the whistling teapot. The soft hiss of steam filled the room.

“Though small, the place is remarkably warm,” Gilbert said, glancing around as he took his seat at the table.

“Kind visitors like you always keep it warm for us,” Martha said quietly, her voice carrying both gratitude and gentle pride as she set the tea and cookies before him.

“Ah, no one comes close to your tea when it comes to mastery,” he said, admiration softening his voice.

“Your words honor me beyond measure; it is only tea,” Martha replied, elegantly folding her hands neatly in her lap.

Gilbert’s eyes drifted briefly to the portrait again, then returned to her. “Martha, I have come to speak about something important.”

Martha stiffened, the warmth in her expression shifting to a controlled, stern edge. “If this is about that matter, Master Gilbert, there is nothing to discuss.” Her voice grew cold, each word precise, as though a guardian had risen within her gentle frame.

“Please, reconsider,” he pleaded. “Are you truly prepared to let Lucan’s legacy die?”

“Lucan’s legacy died with him,” she said sharply. “There is no legacy left to save.”

“And what of Ayan?” Gilbert pressed, his voice softening but resolute.

“Ayan is Lucan’s adopted son,” she said, eyes narrowing slightly. “He carries no Halden blood.”

Gilbert exhaled slowly, weighing his words. But before he could continue, hurried footsteps echoed down the stairs. A young man appeared—brown hair tousled, brown eyes bright with warmth, a careless smile lighting his face. There was an easy kindness about him, a resemblance to the man in the portrait that seemed to soften the room.

“Master Gilbert! Good morning. It’s wonderful to see you,” Ayan greeted, bowing slightly.

“Ah, Martha’s tea—nothing compares to it,” he added, settling beside her with easy familiarity.

Gilbert’s eyes flicked to Martha, a small smile tugging at his lips. With Ayan’s arrival, the cold tension in the room seemed to melt away.

“So, what brings you here today, Master Gilbert?” Ayan asked, unbuttoning his sleeves. A faint mark began to show on his arm.

Martha’s hand shot out, stopping him mid-motion.

“It’s a day off from the Academy, so I thought I’d pay the Haldens a visit,” Gilbert replied, his gaze fixed on the mark.

Martha buttoned the sleeve again, covering his arm.

“Ah, sorry! I forgot,” Ayan said quickly.

“I always tell you—cover your arms. You never know what insects might bite,” she said lightly, though her expression betrayed a flicker of concern.

“Alright, alright!” Ayan said, complying with a playful grin.

“See, Master Gilbert,” he said in mock complaint, “she still treats me like a child.”

“She’s been taking care of you since you were six. To her, you’ll always be a child—she can sense things, like when you fold your sleeves, without even looking,” Gilbert said, his eyes lingering on Ayan’s arm, unease flickering across his features.

Master Gilbert finished his remaining tea in one gulp.

“Well, then I suppose it’s time I take my leave,” he said, rising.

“Why not stay for lunch?” Ayan asked earnestly.

“That is very kind of you, my boy,” Master Gilbert replied, glancing at Martha, whose expression remained stern from their earlier discussion. “But I have other places to be—and other minds to disturb today.”

He smiled and turned, walking out of the house, where he was greeted by another youth.

After Master Gilbert’s departure, Ayan soon finished his morning tea.

“I have to go now. Plans to keep,” he said, standing, brushing crumbs from the table.

“Before you leave,” Martha said, combing her tousled hair, the sunlight catching golden strands like threads of fire, “you need to learn one thing: think before you speak. Not every thought in your mind should reach your lips.”

Ayan shook his head. “No matter how many times you remind me of that, you know I can’t do it. My words are my compass. If I hide them, I lose myself.”

“Honesty,” Martha said softly, “is noble… but not without reason. Sometimes the truth needs a gentle hand, not a blunt sword.” She removed her hands from his head, her gentle gaze steady on him.

“I’ll try,” Ayan shrugged, “but I can’t promise. If my mind speaks, my mouth will follow.”

With these words, Ayan left with one final wave at Martha.

Outside, the wind stirred the garden leaves, rustling through the flowers, as if echoing his defiance. Ayan took a last look around the warm, sunlit room, then stepped out, leaving the house behind.

The mansion stood proud yet restrained, its stone walls softened by ivy, its tall windows glinting in the sun. Generations had lived and died beneath its roof, but to Ayan, it felt more like a sanctuary than a home.

Passing through the gates of the estate, he met another youth his age. The morning air carried a quiet anticipation, as if even the walls waited for what was to come.

“Everything ready, Ginji?” Ayan asked, his voice low but edged with seriousness.

“Just as you said—nests are ready,” Ginji replied, his eyes sharp and alert.

They moved off together, strides measured and purposeful, their presence slicing through the stillness of the gravel grounds.

“Ayan, do you realize that because of you I missed Martha’s morning tea, and her gentle smile?” Ginji complained playfully.

Ayan paused briefly. “Gentle, You’ve clearly never seen her angry,” he replied.

“But this is serious business, Ginji. Far more pressing than anything we’ve faced before,” he added.

“Pressing?” Ginji remained silent, weighing the gravity of Ayan’s claim.

“What is it, then?” seriousness glimmered in Ginji’s eyes.

“Classified,” Ayan replied solemnly, pressing a finger to his lips. “All will be revealed at the right moment.”

Ginji followed Ayan silently afterward, and they reached the cobbled street. The day lay peaceful—until Ayan froze, eyes narrowing.

“They’re on the move again.”

“Who’s on the move?” Ginji asked, more weary than curious.

Ayan pointed with dramatic precision. Down the road, three stray dogs tore into an overturned bin.

“The invaders,” he whispered gravely. “See how they scatter the trash? It’s a strategy. One distracts, one raids, the other keeps watch. Classic formation.”

Ginji blinked, then burst out laughing. “They’re just hungry strays!”

“No!” Ayan insisted, lowering his voice as if enemy ears might hear. “Look closer. This is organized chaos. Today, garbage. Tomorrow, the entire market.”

The dogs barked playfully at a passing cart, tails wagging. To Ayan, it was cannon fire. He pressed against the wall, dodging imagined bullets.

“Stay sharp,” he muttered. “If they’ve allied with the butcher’s hound, we may be on the brink of full insurgency.”

Ginji buried his face in his hands. “Oh heavens above…”

Ayan, unbothered by his exasperation, raised his chin proudly. “Laugh now. But when dawn breaks and our bread vanishes, it will be too late.”

The biggest stray rolled lazily in the dust. Ayan gasped. “They’re signaling! They’ve advanced their timetable!”

Ginji’s voice cracked in frustration. “Ayan, I have full trust in your problem-solving abilities—you’ve proven yourself countless times. I just wish you had a bit of common sense as well.”

“Shhhh…” Ayan gestured for silence, finger pressed to his lips.

“Ayan, that’s it. I know you care about the village—you have a heart of gold—but declaring war on strays is going too far. Master Halden’s—”

Ginji stopped mid-sentence. Mentions of Lucan always cast a shadow over Ayan. Memories of the man filled his mind: the roofs he rebuilt for the poor after storms, the farmers he helped, the raiders he stood against. A savior. A protector. A legacy Ayan now carried.

“What about my father?” Ayan asked, his voice low, heavy with more weight than he intended.

Ginji met his eyes without hesitation. “I was thinking… you’re just like him.” Plain words, free of jest, spoken from the heart.

Ayan’s gaze dropped. “I’m nothing like my father,” he muttered, disappointment coloring his tone.

“You’re every bit like him,” Ginji said firmly, softening it with a smile. Glancing ahead, he added, “Anyways, I don’t have time for fighting stray dogs. I’ll take my leave.”

Ginji bid farewell with a casual wave, and the spark that had carried Ayan through his “stray invader” operation dimmed. He could offer no resistance.

With a heavy breath, Ayan wandered aimlessly until he found himself at the village gates. There, at the entrance, stood a small statue of Lucan Halden—his name carved deep, the wreaths faded but still visible—a quiet reminder of a man the villagers would never forget.

Ayan leaned against the weather-worn stone, as he always did when his thoughts grew heavy. Two years had passed since Lucan’s death, yet not a day went by without the hollow ache of absence.

Noticing Ayan, the guards at the gate engaged in quiet chatter.

“Another one of his plans failing,” one muttered, shaking his head.

“Mind your tongue,” another snapped. “He’s the son of our benefactor. Without Mater Lucan, we wouldn’t have walls to guard.”

“Son, you say? Only if he shared his blood. Lord Lucan had a mastermind, but this boy… he has none of it.”

Their words were hushed, almost guilty, yet honest. No one in Funa disliked Ayan—yet none expected the same greatness from him as Lucan. Ayan remained still, leaning against the statue, the weight of their judgment settling like a stone in his chest.

The sound of hooves shattered the quiet.

A lone rider approached, cloak drawn tight, hood shadowing their face. The horse’s hooves struck hard, sending dust into the fading light. The rider did not slow.

“Halt!” the guards shouted, stepping forward with spears lowered.

The hooded figure leaned low, spurred the horse, and barreled past. The gust toppled the guards to the dirt.

Ayan shot to his feet, fury igniting within him. His father had always taught that respect was the pillar of order—and this arrogance was unforgivable. How could the rider be so discourteous, failing even to give their name, showing no concern for the guards’ safety?

Without a second thought, he dashed after them, weaving through startled villagers as the horse thundered toward the Chief’s office.

He did not yet know that, in chasing the rider, he was truly chasing his own destiny.