Lord Rodel, dressed in brilliant silver plate armor engraved with the delicate crests of his family, stood tall as he leaned against the fancy mahogany table in his personal room. The deep lines framing his eyes told a thousand battles fought and the burden of governance that had rested on his shoulders for decades. His calloused hand drummed out a rhythm against the hilt of his ceremonial sword as he eyed the two unexpected visitors who had come to his fortress uninvited.
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.
"Sit down, Reiran," Lord Rodel commanded, his deep voice possessing the unmistakable note of a commander used to instant compliance. His piercing eyes, keen as a falcon's, searched the face before him—a face not seen in years, yet one that still haunted the memories of all who had lived through the war.
Reiran—or rather Rioran Dayan incognito—bowed his head ever so slightly, not wanting to show too much familiarity. It must have been years, he thought. This room is the same, but the man leading it now sports more silver in his beard.
"Thank you, all right. Aelar, sit down, too," Rioran replied, extending a fatherly hand to his son's shoulder. He could sense the boy's tense anxiety beneath his palm and gave a gentle squeeze for reassurance.
Aelar swallowed hard, painfully conscious of this meeting's importance, though not quite comprehending why. His father had been mysterious about their trip to this fortress, merely saying it was time to visit "old friends." The young man's eyes scanned the room, taking in each detail, every possible means of escape—a habit his father had bred into him from their years of living in constant fear. He sat down obediently, back straight, hands clasped together in his lap in the way his father had instructed him was correct when in the presence of nobles.
Lord Rodel lifted his hand, and as if they were pulled open by invisible strings, the doors to the chamber burst open. "Waiters!! Make some coffee," he bellowed, his words ringing off the walls of stone.
A servant, wearing neat livery emblazoned with the Rodel family crest, bowed deeply. "Thank you, sir. It's here in just a few seconds," he said, stepping back with practiced respect before turning to carry out his master's command.
Lord Rodel sat back in his high-backed chair, the wood groaning softly beneath his armored body. His gaze never wavered from Rioran's face as he leaned forward, forearms on the table. So, the great hero re-emerges from the shadows, he mused, but why now, after so long?
"Good. Now, Reiran, why are you only here now?" Lord Rodel asked, slicing through amenities with the sharpness of a sword. The room dropped so deep into silence that the faraway rattle of cups being made seemed deafening in contrast.
Rioran's mind whirled, counting down how much to say and how much to keep secret. I've had years of keeping my son safe, concealed from those who'd use him—or worse, kill him for what I've done. But we can't hide out forever. He was about to speak back when rescued by the timely entrance of the refreshments.
"Lord Rodel, your coffee is served," said the waiter, delicately setting a beautifully crafted silver tray of steaming cups of rich, dark coffee in front of him. The sweet scent of freshly ground beans filled the air, temporarily covering up the tension.
"Thank you." Lord Rodel waved the servant away with a dismissive nod before refocusing his attention back on Rioran. "Now, Reiran, must I insist?" he asked, fingers clasped together in front of him as he looked at his guest with the foreboding interest of a predator.
Rioran made a conscious reach for his cup, gaining valuable seconds to think. The heat of the ceramic was comforting against his war-weary fingers. He sipped slowly, deliberately, tasting not only the flavor but the moment of respite it provided. How much does Rodel know? How much has he guessed all these years?
"Your coffee is very tasty," Rioran said indifferently, placing the cup on the surface with careful attention. His seeming tranquility masked the whirlwind of calculations in progress behind his eyes.
Aelar looked warily at his father, catching the undertones of the conversation but not understanding them. Father never dodges questions unless danger is involved, he thought, his hand drifting involuntarily toward the hidden dagger in his boot—another of the lessons learned from years living on the fringes of society.
"Don't disregard my question!" Lord Rodel snapped back, a flicker of the fabled temper that had driven lesser men out of his life. His fist crashed onto the table hard enough to make the coffee cups shiver, but controlled enough not to spill a single drop. Decades of command had schooled him exactly how to intimidate without making a gratuitous mess.
Rioran returned Rodel's stare unflinchingly, a wordless understanding passing between two soldiers once who had stood shoulder to shoulder against inconceivable terrors. He is owed some truth, at least.
"Is it that important?" All you need to know is that you've seen me alive," Rioran answered deadpan, though his eyes went soft almost imperceptibly. At that moment, he was not only responding to Rodel—he was requesting his former comrade to grasp the burden of better-kept secrets.
Lord Rodel settled back in his chair, the creak of his armor a reminder that even the bravest warriors of them all were human. Years of command had made him adept at reading men like an open book, and what he saw in the face of his old friend made him soften his tone. He's scared, Rodel thought with surprise. Not for himself—Rioran Dayan never feared for himself—but for something. or someone.
"But, Reiran, people were concerned about you. It's been years since you were seen, and some believed you were dead," Lord Rodel reminded him, his voice gentling as he cast a fleeting glance at Aelar. The family resemblance between father and son was clear to those who had known Rioran in his prime—the same set jaw, the same piercing eyes that saw everything.
Rioran let his eyes follow Rodel's to his son and felt that familiar stab of regret. I've held him back from the world too long, from his heritage, from the possibility of a normal life. But what else was I to do after what had occurred?
"Really? It's news, but it was not the right moment for me to reveal myself to them," Rioran said, choosing every word carefully. His fingers traced the edge of his coffee mug as memories washed over him—the dying screaming, the sulfurous reek of demon blood, the burden of responsibility as he made the choice that would decide the fate of humanity.".
Lord Rodel studied Rioran's face, picking between the well-rehearsed words. There is something here beyond this account—there always is with Rioran. He chose not to push any further, at least in front of the boy. "If that is your choice, then I am in no position to do anything about it," he acknowledged with a measured nod.
Aelar, who had remained quiet during this mysterious conversation, could no longer keep his curiosity in check. His gaze shifted between his father and this towering lord who appeared to know so much more about his father than anyone they had met during all their years of traveling.
"Father, what are you saying?" Aelar inquired, his tone calm in the face of the frantic racing of his heart. He addressed Rioran but couldn't resist a flicker of glance over at Lord Rodel, hoping to find some hint on the older man's worn countenance.
Lord Rodel's face softened as he looked at the boy. Just like his mother in the eyes, he considered, a fleeting shadow of sadness crossing his face as he recalled another victim of the Great War. "You'll discover in the future, but not now," he said with a smile that didn't quite cover his eyes.