Menyver
The Lighthart Residence
After paying their respects at the grave, the group moved their discussion to a more private place—Kian Lighthart's home.
The house was everything you'd expect from a quiet, loving family. Clean floors, polished wood, framed memories—souvenirs of a life now ghosted in silence.
But without its heart, it all felt... hollow. As if the house itself was waiting for footsteps that would never return.
Three STF officials moved through the rooms in silence, alert and thorough. In the living room, Henrik rested into a sofa with practiced composure while Sentina stood near the window, arms folded, watching the clouds stir.
Kite stepped in from the kitchen, carefully balancing a tray. His hands trembled, just enough to make the porcelain rattle faintly against the silver. He said nothing as he set it on the table.
Henrik took a cup without hesitation. Sentina didn't look away from the sky, but her hand reached and found the right one.
"You're well-mannered," Henrik said after a sip. "Must've gotten that from your father."
Kite didn't respond. His eyes flicked up for a second, then returned to the floor. He sat quietly on the edge of a worn armchair, back rigid, like a guest in his own home.
Henrik leaned forward slightly.
"Let's not waste time. I'm the Chief Executive Director of STF, Henrik Stalin. I know what losing your parents feels like. That hole in your chest doesn't heal overnight... if ever."
Kite's fingers curled slightly in his lap.
"But I'm here to answer your questions," Henrik continued. "Let's start with the truth about your parents."
"What do you mean?" Kite asked, voice thin.
"Your parents weren't just performers. They were part of STF—our elite executive unit. Personally under my command. They were... exceptional."
The boy blinked slowly, trying to process it. He gripped the edge of his seat just a little tighter.
"Now I imagine you're wondering what STF is."
Henrik took another sip.
"Secret Teglardia Foundation. It predates our borders, our maps, even our wars. We were created to fight what most don't believe in anymore."
"Fight what?"
Henrik's eyes narrowed.
"It."
"What's... It?"
"We don't speak its name."
Henrik's voice dropped slightly. The mood thickened like the air before a storm.
"We operate from the shadows. You've never seen us, but we've been shaping this kingdom longer than any throne or crown. Your parents were part of it."
"Then why tell me all this?" Kite asked, raising his eyes for the first time, pupils clouded with both suspicion and something deeper—grief masked as resolve.
Henrik set the teacup down slowly, fingers steepling.
"Because it's happening again. It is returning."
Chu-Chu squeaked nervously and dove into Kite's pocket.
Sentina didn't flinch, just kept staring out the window.
"And so is our hope—Lord Seraphielthor Ashvale."
Kite shook his head.
"I don't understand any of this—"
"—You don't need to."
Henrik's interruption was soft, final.
"Here's what you do need to know. The Lightharts are one of the noble bloodlines of Teglardia. We can give you comfort, status, legacy. Or… you can do what your parents did. Fight. Bleed. Risk your life for people who may never know your name."
A long pause.
Henrik leaned closer.
"You're ten years old, Kite. You don't owe anyone a decision like this. You want peace? Take it. No shame in that. But…"
He glanced toward Sentina.
"You've got that look in your eye. Same one your father had when he came to me—tired of questions. Hungry for purpose."
Kite didn't blink.
"I want answers. And I want to join STF… like my father."
Henrik stared at him, eyes narrowing with calculation. And something like… respect.
"Hmph. You're full of surprises, Kian."
Sentina tilted her head, finally speaking.
"You sure about this, Stan?"
Henrik smirked faintly.
"More than I've been about most things."
He turned back to the boy.
"You've got one week. Prove yourself. We'll talk again. But whatever you choose… know this: once you start down this road, there's no turning back."