Step - mother
Once the final brazier had been stoked, spilling greasy plumes of smoke to mingle with the predawn mists, Lord Aldren gave the order to break camp.
The battered caravan made its slow, lurching way back onto the decrepit trail, with the first hints of daybreak filtering through the skeletal trees.
Jagnar walked slightly apart from the others, crimson eyes downcast as he absorbed the enormity of this collision between his new reality and the life he had forsaken a decade prior.
Elysia rode alongside in the swaying cabin, her soft voice a gentle murmur of constant reassurances and queries through the carriage window.
For the most part, the erstwhile Jagnar remained aloof, offering only terse nods or vague murmurs of acknowledgment. Yet he could not tear his gaze from his sister's animated countenance, bemusement warring with guarded fascination.
This radiant young woman, so enthralled with his very existence, seemed a world apart from the cherished but fading memories he'd clutched during his long sojourn into the outer realms. In another life, another iteration of incarnate existence perhaps, he might have basked in the tenderness of her doe-eyed affection.
But that familiarity felt like an ill-fitting raiment with each measured step he took towards the Sirius clan's ancestral seat. A vague sense of dysphoria simmered in his chest, fanned by the constant boyhood endearments that rolled so easily from Elysia's lips.
Aldren, too, seemed perplexed by his wife's uncharacteristic warmth, casting sceptical sidelong glances whenever her demeanour shifted to something approximating the unrestrained joy he had clearly not witnessed during their union. For his part, the dour nobleman kept his interactions with Jagnar to a bare minimum of gruff courtesies and the issuance of terse marching orders.
As the day broke fully over the towering pines and the convoy tramped along the wide regal road, heraldic banners of House Sirius adorning the flanks of a distant construct finally emerged into view.
Jagnar's full lips set into a grim line as he regarded the imposing edifice - an entire mountain of finely dressed granite and fortified masonry dominating the horizon like the petrified husk of some great beast.
Swordhaven Manor - administrative and judicial heart of the Sirius clan. A multigenerational legacy of power, wealth, and aristocratic influence unparalleled across the breadth of the Nine Kingdoms.
Seeing those squat, sable-turreted walls loom from the forest glades, Jagnar felt an unexpected lurch somewhere in his preternatural core.
Yet here he stood, glamoured in the trappings of that discarded origin story while marching inexorably towards a reckoning he hardly possessed the rudiments of comprehension to navigate.
The journey's final leagues drained away with each earth-shaking clop of the destriers' iron-clad hooves. Then, without warning, arching iron palisades materialized ahead like jaws opening to swallow their hapless quarry. Twin monoliths of stonework flanked the main ingress; the grooved facades were scored with relief carvings of bestial iconography and scrolling screeds from a bygone age.
Beneath those grim, impassive visages stood the guards of Swordhaven—a full dozen armoured wardens clad in the deep scarlet regalia of the noble house's personal enforcers. Their halberds crossed in a bristling cordon as the convoy drew up before them, each throat-slit helm turning to scrutinize the gaggle of road-beaten travellers.
After the guards checked the carriage, they asked who Jagnar was.
The name Jagnar Sirius had been long since forgotten, and not many of the men knew about him.
Elysia's gentle insistence and her husband's begrudging confirmation were enough to satisfy the guards' duties. With exaggerated deference, the senior warden bowed and signalled for the gates to yawn open just far enough to admit the caravan.
Ponderously, the convoy began its final approach along the mile-long processional leading to Swordhaven's central keep.
Jagnar felt his entire being recoil at the sight of those brooding battlements looming ever larger. To stride within those hallowed chambers now, as a being so irrevocably unmade and remoulded by beyond truth, felt like more than mere homecoming.
No...this was to be his ultimate crucible, he realized with mounting clarity.
After then, Elysia excused herself to Aldren, her husband, and she held Jagnar's hand and took him inside the manor.
***
She moved with purpose through the grand halls, her heart pounding as she tried to avoid any encounters with family members, especially her mother. The familiar corridors brought back memories she had long tried to suppress, each step echoing with the weight of the past.
As they approached the ornate chambers of their grandmother, a woman's voice, sharp and unmistakable, pierced the air.
"Elysia."
The sound halted her in her tracks, panic flaring in her chest. She knew exactly who the voice belonged to, and so did Jagnar.
Jagnar, silent, was acutely aware of the delicate nature of his return. He had been absent for many years, and uncertainty gnawed at him regarding how the family would receive him. He had no idea if they would welcome him back or if he would be met with cold indifference or outright hostility.
Turning slowly to face the voice, they saw a woman approaching. She was dressed in an elegant, beautifully crafted gown that accentuated her mature charm and beauty. Her presence was commanding, and her poise flawless.
This was Serafina, Elysia's mother and Jagnar's stepmother. Jagnar's mother, his father's third wife, had tragically died during childbirth, leaving him alone.
Serafina's eyes locked onto Jagnar, and her gaze was intense, scrutinizing. She noticed Elysia holding Jagnar's hand, a gesture that seemed to irk her. Her frown deepened as she stopped before them.
Elysia, attempting to mask her unease, spoke first. "Mother, how have you been?"
Serafina's face remained cold, her expression unmoved. "Fine," she replied curtly, her tone devoid of warmth.
The air between them was thick with unspoken tension. Elysia's mind raced, trying to navigate the precarious situation. She knew that Serafina had always been a complicated figure in their lives. Her beauty and grace were matched only by her strict and often harsh demeanour. The years had done little to soften her, and her relationship with Elysia had always been strained.