Fhena was clad in a simple yet elegant day dress of soft emerald green, crafted from fine satin and delicate lace. Tiny pearl accents adorned her ensemble—glimmering modestly from her hairband, her petite stud earrings, and the dainty necklace that rested above her collarbone. Her shoes, flat and crimson, were a perfect fit for her small feet—finally something her own size.
Her hair had been carefully styled: the upper half gathered into twin buns atop her head, while the remaining locks flowed freely down her back in smooth waves, reaching her waist like strands of silk.
They walked in measured steps through the echoing halls of Soleis Castle—Matron Eula at the lead, followed by Fhena and Maelith walking side by side, and three maids trailing dutifully behind. Because Fhena had grown thinner, her dresses had required quick alterations—adjusted with pins and light sewing to fit her current frame.
Their destination was the great dining hall, where her father and brother awaited her.
As they walked, Fhena found herself both uneasy and eager—her mind half-occupied by Sager's absence, and the other half grumbling in hunger. After all that had transpired over the past days—especially the night before—her thirst and appetite had returned with vengeance.
Matron Eula, observing from ahead, felt a quiet concern settle in her heart. Now that the young lady wore something properly fitted, the signs of her malnourishment were starkly visible—her figure slightly hunched, her skin far paler than it should be. The Matron Superior's jaw tensed with quiet resolve. She would see to it that Lady Fhena regained her strength, her color, and her rightful vitality. Whether through meals, rest, or unyielding care, she would nurse her back to the radiant child she was meant to be.
As Fhena stepped into the room, a soft gasp escaped her lips. The grandeur before her was breathtaking.
Towering windows stretched upward, veiled with heavy crimson velvet drapes that pooled slightly on the warm marble floor, their color rich as spilled wine. At the heart of the room stood an impossibly long and wide dining table, hewn from amborynth wood—an exquisite rarity known for its intricate, swirling grain and deep, lustrous red tones. The Amboyna Majestra Tree, from which it came, was native to Hammendir and revered for its beauty and strength.
The chairs, crafted from the same precious wood, were no less opulent. Plush cushions of dark red velvet lined both the seats and armrests, completing a vision of regal comfort and refined artistry.
At the far end of the table, directly opposite the great doors, stood Siarcanis and Rheomund. As Fhena entered, both turned toward her with poised grace, their expressions warm with welcome.
"You're finally here. Let's eat," Siarcanis said with a softened smile, his eyes gleaming with warmth.
Without a word more, he bent slightly and scooped Fhena into his arms. With gentle grace, he carried her across the hall to the far end of the great table, placing her on the left-hand seat beside his own. Rheomund took the chair to his right, his posture already composed with the elegance of a future duke. Siarcanis sat at the head, where he could overlook the entire room like a watchful guardian.
Before them, twelve silver-plated domes covered a feast fit for kings. The polished lids glinted beneath the chandelier's glow, and Fhena couldn't help but gulp—a child's hunger tugging fiercely at her as the scent of roasted meats, fresh herbs, and honeyed pastries filled the air.
Then, with quiet solemnity, Siarcanis extended both arms to his sides. Rheomund immediately reached for his father's hand, and Fhena followed suit, slipping her small fingers into his larger, calloused palm.
Behind them, the servants and maids standing along the walls linked hands as well, a circle of reverence forming in silence. Siarcanis bowed his head, and all others mirrored him. Fhena lowered her head too, a flicker of memory surfacing—of quiet moments in the attic with her mother, and shared soft-spoken prayers at the Talemerein Magic Chamber with Mazu and their friends before meals. Familiar warmth bloomed in her chest.
She closed her eyes and smiled faintly as Siarcanis began to speak.
"virelen, Great One, we offer our gratitude for the abundance gracing this house, these people, and this city. We thank you for returning our daughter to us, for your protection in trials seen and unseen. Though hardship has crossed our path, still you shape all things for our good. We humble ourselves before your glory. Bless this meal, and every soul gathered here. virelen thae.Honos et Lehoi."
His words, solemn and sincere, echoed through the great dining hall like a sacred song.
The silver domes were lifted with practiced grace, revealing a royal spread that made Fhena's mouth water and her eyes glisten in awe. Aromas swirled through the air—rich, warm, and savory—pulling her in like a spell. Before her lay a complete banquet: a delicate amuse-bouche to awaken the senses, vibrant appetizers, no fewer than five main courses, individual palate cleansers, an array of cheeses, and finally, a dazzling arrangement of dessert digestifs and petit fours.
Fhena didn't know where to look. Everything shimmered, sizzled, or steamed in the most enticing way. It was overwhelming—but in the best possible sense.
"You must try everything, Fhena!" Rheomund said brightly, practically bouncing in his seat. "Master Chef Bradson is brilliant!"
Siarcanis gave a quiet nod, signaling the beginning of the meal. "Let's eat," he said with calm authority, then turned to the servants. With a single gesture, he dismissed them to their own quarters, leaving the dining hall in the quiet company of family—Siarcanis, Rheomund, Fhena, and Maelith.
By Matron Eula's order, Maelith had been tasked to accompany the young lady during her meals from now on. Though she had already eaten, Maelith stood dutifully behind Fhena's chair, a warm smile on her face as she watched the young miss gape in silent amazement at the banquet laid before her.
Fhena, no longer able to contain her hunger, reached out instinctively toward a piece of warm cinnamon bread. But just as her fingers grazed the edge, she froze. A breath caught in her throat. She shut her eyes, exhaled slowly, and then, with quiet restraint, pulled her hand back.
Siarcanis, noticing the sudden hesitation, furrowed his brow. "Fhena? Is something wrong, my sweetling?" he asked, concerned.
"M-My apologies, Father… force of habit…" she murmured, voice low and eyes cast down in quiet shame.
Siarcanis turned to Maelith, who had also caught the moment. Her expression faltered—nervous, hesitant—before she stepped forward, walking softly to the Grand Duke's side.
She leaned in and explained in a hushed tone.
For nearly a year, Fhena had been made to eat without utensils. It had begun at the Solléonis Estate, shortly after a lesson with Lady Ossaria. Frustrated by Fhena's repeated mispronunciations, the lady's temper had flared. When Fhena, in a moment of stress and tantrum, slammed her small hand on the table, the tremor tipped a wine glass, sending its contents across Lady Ossaria's pristine white gown. The glass shattered, slicing a shallow wound into the woman's foot.
That single incident had been enough. As punishment, Lady Ossaria had ordered that Fhena be denied the use of cutlery—sometimes even full meals—leaving her to eat with her hands like a servant or a stray. Bread and water became her routine.
During those days, Maelith had done what she could, slipping scraps when the other maids weren't watching. But the doors were always locked from the outside. Most of the time, all she could do was watch helplessly.
Siarcanis's jaw clenched, but he said nothing. His hand instinctively tightened into a fist atop the table.
Across the table, Fhena sat silently, shoulders slightly hunched, painfully aware of the memory they'd unearthed.
Hearing this, a flicker of fury ignited in Siarcanis' chest—but when his eyes fell upon his daughter, crouched ever so slightly in her seat, fingers fidgeting in her lap and her gaze cast downward in quiet dejection, that fire cooled into something tender. He exhaled slowly, the weight in his heart far greater than any anger.
"Thank you, Maelith," he said, his voice steadier now. With a nod, he dismissed her. Maelith returned quietly to her place behind Fhena, hands folded, heart aching in shared silence.
Siarcanis, who had already taken up his knife and fork, suddenly paused. With a thoughtful expression, he set them down to the side, almost ceremoniously. Then, with a touch of dramatism, he took the napkin from his lap and tucked it neatly into the collar of his tunic.
Without hesitation, he reached for a roasted turkey leg with his bare hands, the crisped skin crackling softly beneath his fingers.
Rheomund, Maelith, and even Fhena herself stared at him in disbelief, as though he'd just committed culinary treason in the heart of nobility.
"Well," Siarcanis said with a wink, "I suppose I've never eaten a formal meal with my bare hands before. There's a first time for everything, isn't there?"
Fhena's face lit up instantly. Her small hands reached for the bread, mirroring his motion. A smile blossomed across her face, warm and childlike.
Rheomund blinked twice, sighed with the air of a young man far older than his years—and reluctantly followed suit, grabbing his own piece of roasted turkey leg with all the solemnity of someone accepting their fate.
Maelith, behind them, stifled a giggle. And just like that, the dining table became less of a courtly obligation and more of a family gathering
"Eat up, my children," Siarcanis said warmly.
And so they did—eating with easy smiles, shared glances, and light-hearted conversation that gently filled the great dining hall. Rheomund animatedly spoke of his lessons at the Imperial Academy, recounting his experiences with tutors, sparring sessions, and the occasional mischief with his friends. Siarcanis would respond with tales of courtly affairs, military stratagems, and political nuances, often pausing mid-discussion to explain the more complex terms to Fhena, never once belittling her age.
Fhena listened with quiet wonder, chewing slowly, her fingers dusted with crumbs and condiments. She felt a strange embarrassment though—even knowing well the intricacies of noble table manners from her past life as Nyala, who once trained in the imperial palace. But the shadows of abuse she'd suffered in her current life as Fhena often tangled her instincts. Her body remembered fear before formality.
Still, in that moment, all that faded. There was comfort in the way her father and brother shared her meal without judgment. Here, bare hands did not mean shame. They meant solidarity, warmth, and healing. And just like that, eating with her fingers no longer felt like a mark of punishment—but the memory of a shared joy, sealed at a family table with warmth, laughter, and the scent of home.
"Fhena, is the food to your liking?" Siarcanis asked, his voice gentle.
Fhena nodded eagerly, her cheeks full and her eyes bright.
"But… what of the servants, Father? Do they eat when we do?" she asked, her gaze drifting toward the now-quiet doors where the staff had exited after the blessing.
Siarcanis offered a soft smile. "Yes. They have their own dining hall—just as fine and grand as this one."
And it was true. Whatever Siarcanis possessed, he ensured it was shared. His house did not rule with cruelty or distance. Resources, warmth, and even dignity were given freely. On the opposite wing of Soleis Castle stood a second dining hall—a twin to the one they sat in—built solely for his household staff, with the same opulent decor and generous meals.
Hearing this, something stirred in Fhena's chest—an admiration that deepened like the roots of an ancient tree. It reminded her of Vaelkain, who had always spoken of dining with the palace staff and making time to know their lives. What Siarcanis did now may not be exactly the same—but the spirit of that kindness lived here too.
I'm starting to already love this family, she thought quietly, her heart a fuller than before.
TWO WEEKS LATER
Two weeks had passed, and Fhena was steadily—perhaps even impressively—regaining her strength. Her once fragile frame had begun to fill out with color and life, and though her steps were still light, they now held a budding confidence. Even her posture, once timid and curled inward like a withering petal, was slowly being corrected.
Thanks to the Matron Superior's training, Fhena had taken to a traditional method of posture refinement: a thin yet sturdy bamboo stick was placed vertically along her spine, aligned to encourage a natural upright stance. Another, shorter stick was laid horizontally across her upper back, just beneath the shoulder blades. Her arms were looped gently over it, drawing her shoulders back and opening her chest. The result was a subtle yet powerful formation—a cross across her upper body—meant to train poise and grace through gentle, physical guidance.
Unlike balancing books atop her head, which had once been used to train noble bearing, this method spared her from excessive strain. It had become a daily practice—thirty minutes each at morning, noon, and evening—like a ritual of rediscovery, helping her reclaim the dignity her body had been forced to forget.
All the while, Maelith remained faithfully at her side. Whether helping her dress, walking alongside her in the garden, or sitting in quiet company during reading hours, Maelith was never far—unless Fhena was with Rheomund, who had begun to keep his little sister close.
With each passing day, Fhena's body and spirit remembered what it meant to be cared for, to be respected, and slowly—very slowly—what it meant to stand tall.
Fhena no longer slouched. Her face had taken on a healthy glow, her cheeks gently plumped by the nourishment of four hearty meals a day. Even her powers had begun to stir again, subtly strengthened through secret nightly exercises when the castle lay asleep. Her speech had smoothed as well—more fluid now, with fewer hesitations, though her behavior, despite the maturity that lingered in her soul, was slowly beginning to mirror that of a true child. She laughed more, sulked when teased, and followed her impulses with unburdened honesty.
And in that childlike heart, Rheomund had carved a special place. She found herself drawn to him almost impulsively, trailing after him with a quiet trust she herself didn't yet understand. To her delight, Rheomund welcomed it. They would play beneath the afternoon sun, their laughter drifting like birdsong through the courtyards. And in the evenings, once his studies with his sharp-eyed castle aide Walsh Oumer, were completed and his duties fulfilled, the two would read together in the library.
There had been no word of Lady Ossaria nor of the abuse case, and within the castle walls, her name was treated like a forbidden spell—unspoken by the servants, avoided in polite company. Yet beyond Hammendir's stony cliffs and in the bustling streets of the capital, word had spread like wildfire. Whispers of Lady Ossaria's cruelty toward the Grand Duke's daughter turned into a full-blown scandal, staining her name with shame and earning her an unforgivable reputation among both the nobility and common folk alike.
Siarcanis, bound still to his duties, had departed for Sidria two days after Fhena's return home. Though his absence left a quiet ache in her heart, he never let distance silence him. Letters began to arrive—warm, encouraging, and filled with fatherly affection. Fhena, though still unsteady with a pen, would do her best to respond. Her hands trembled with each word, and her letters were often crooked and blotched with ink, but she poured all her effort into each line. Though her official lessons would not begin for another fortnight, this practice—however frustrating—was far better than not speaking to him at all.
In the meantime, Hammendir had become a haven of warmth and comfort. Servants and noble kin close to House Solléonis had sent gifts in a steady stream—stuffed animals sewn with golden thread, wooden toys carved by hand, and books filled with illustrations and stories. Many letters arrived too, wishing her well and offering blessings. Since Fhena's handwriting was still unreliable, it was Rheomund who wrote back on her behalf, composing careful replies with the precision of a scholar and the protectiveness of a brother.
Each day, little by little, Fhena's world became safer, softer—and full of love.
Though her days at Soleis Castle had grown brighter—her meals rich, her rest undisturbed, and her freedom gently nurtured—there remained one absence that tugged endlessly at her heart: Sager. Since their encounter with Aefhen, there had been no sign of him. Not a whisper in the wind, not a shimmer of spirit.
Where had Aefhen taken him? Had he sent Sager on a quest to reclaim his earthly form? Was he wandering some sacred plane to return stronger?
I miss Sager…
The thought echoed in her mind as she stood by her bedroom balcony, the summer breeze playing with the strands of her hair. Her eyes swept across the golden highlands and deep green folds of Hammendir, but her heart lingered elsewhere.
It was nearly time for her afternoon play with Rheomund, yet her gaze remained distant—until a flicker of movement drew her attention. There, nestled among the garden's swaying wild daisies and blooms of the savanna, something stirred. A spark. A breath. A soft mound of fur catching the light like spun gold.
Her heart leapt.
Without a second thought, Fhena dashed out of her room, the hem of her dress fluttering behind her like wings. She heard startled calls from the maids urging caution, but the sound faded beneath the thrill in her chest. She flew down the hall, across the lake bridge, and into the garden beyond.
And there, right in the middle of the sunlit sea of flowers, lay a familiar little form—curled, breathing, warm. Sager.
His cub body was tucked among the blooms, rising and falling with the calm rhythm of deep sleep. Fhena slowed her pace, walking gently as though afraid a single misstep might wake her from a dream. She knelt beside him, reaching out with trembling fingers and brushing her hand across his soft fur.
Sager purred low in his chest at her touch.
"Sager," she whispered, barely more than a breath.
The cub's eyes slowly fluttered open—glowing faintly, knowingly.
Sager yawned wide, his small jaw cracking open as sunlight dappled over his golden fur. He pushed himself upright and stretched languidly—hind legs extending behind him, front paws reaching forward to dig softly into the soil. His back arched like a bowstring, tail flicking lazily in the summer breeze, while his ears twitched in sleepy satisfaction.
Settling into a seated pose, he gave one last yawn before turning to Fhena.
"Master," he said through their mind-link, his voice warm and drowsy. A gentle smile followed, and he dipped into a slow, respectful bow.
Fhena's heart soared. Without hesitation, she darted toward him and wrapped her arms tightly around his furry frame.
"You're back!" she cried with a laugh, joy bursting from her like a bell chime. But her brows drew together in a small pout. "Why are you only back now?"
"Ah, I slept," Sager replied simply, his voice drifting through their bond like a yawn itself.
"You… slept? For two whole weeks?" Fhena blinked, half in disbelief.
"Uh-huh. Aefhen said I needed it," he answered, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world.
Fhena furrowed her brows. "Strange," she murmured. But after a breath, she shook her head and leapt to her feet. "No matter! What's important is that you're back—and visible!" she beamed, burying her hands into his impossibly soft fur, the silky golden strands slipping through her fingers like sunlight.
"I missed you too, Master," Sager purred, his tail flicking in lazy delight.
Suddenly determined, Fhena scooped him up from behind. "I'm bringing you to my room this instant! You still look like you need more sleep. You can nap in my arms, Sager!"
Just as she turned toward the castle, arms wrapped around the cub nearly as large as she was, a startled voice rang out.
"EH?!" Rheomund, en route to his sister's room, froze mid-step—instinctively falling into a combat stance as though a wild monster had breached the castle. His eyes widened at the sight of Fhena hugging what appeared to be a live lion cub.
"Is… is that—?!" he pointed, utterly aghast.
Fhena grinned. "It's a lion cub! I-I found him in the gardens!" she declared with sparkling eyes. "Let's keep him, Rheo!"
Rheomund's face contorted into an expression somewhere between panic, disbelief, and the resigned horror of an older brother realizing his little sister had just picked up an apex predator.
"HAAAAAAAAH?!"
An Hour Later
Walsh Oumer, the young master Rheomund's aide, was a man in his early thirties—some years younger than the Grand Duke Siarcanis. His long, crimson velvet hair was tied neatly behind him, cascading down to his waist like a regal banner. Thin rectangular spectacles framed his sharp, wolf-like eyes, a piercing shade of sea-deep blue.
He bore little resemblance, in manner at least, to his twin brother, Wallace Oumer—the Grand Duke's chaplain—whose shorter, rose-blush hair framed his face in straight, curtain-like locks that stopped at the chin. Wallace stood just an inch taller, with eyes the color of pale aquamarine and skin kissed with a deeper olive hue, compared to Walsh's fair complexion. Yet despite their differences, the Oumer twins were unmistakably kin—identical in their sculpted features and distinguished presence.
Earlier that day, Walsh had caught sight of a peculiar scene—one that he would later describe as both alarming and mildly comical: young Rheomund and Lady Fhena, attempting to sneak a lion cub through the castle corridors as if smuggling a sweet pastry from the kitchens.
Now, the matter had escalated to a formal conversation.
They were all seated in the solar room, bathed in soft afternoon light. Rheomund, Fhena, and the lion cub—whom the young lady insisted was named Sager—were squeezed together on one settee, trying their best to look innocent. Across from them sat the Matron Superior, whose serene expression did little to mask her rising exasperation, and Maelith, whose nervous glances danced between the cub and the Matron's unreadable face.
Sager, for his part, was curled beside Fhena like a napping house cat, blissfully unaware of the silent inquisition about to unfold.
"Please? Can't we keep him?" Fhena pleaded, her voice trembling with hope, eyes shimmering with unshed tears like dewdrops ready to fall.
Beside her, Rheomund sat with his arms firmly crossed and one leg draped over the other, bearing the air of a miniature magistrate. He hadn't said a word in her defense—not a plea, not a protest. His silence spoke volumes, and none of them were helpful.
"Young Miss," Walsh began softly, his voice low and measured like velvet over stone. "What you're asking is to keep a wild, feral creature. He may appear gentle and darling now, but this is a lion cub. In time, he will grow into a beast. And no matter how vast Soleis Castle may seem, it cannot become a sanctuary for such a creature. You may be harmed without warning."
His words were not cruel—they carried no bite, only a sincere concern. After all, Walsh knew what the young lady had endured under Lady Ossaria. The last thing he wished was for another danger to find its way into her fragile recovery.
Fhena's smile wilted like a flower under frost. She looked down at Sager, who lay curled against her, snoozing with a contented, sleepy grin on his little feline face. With a soft whimper, she hugged him closer, burying her cheek in the plush golden fur.
She knew. She knew how unreasonable she must look—clutching a lion cub and begging like a child denied dessert. Her mind, adult and rational, scolded her from within. But her body—small, tender, aching for comfort—betrayed her. Her emotions had become echoes of the child she now resembled.
"I… I understand," she mumbled into Sager's side.
Maelith, standing nearby, offered a hesitant voice. "Indeed, m'lady. Though this castle is large… it is no place for a wild animal."
Still, the Matron Superior said nothing. Her silence was a watchful one—keen, calculating. She was not one to speak in haste.
Rheomund let out a slow, deliberate sigh and finally turned toward the others. "The lion is no ordinary beast," he began, his voice calm but edged with conviction. "It is the emblem of House Solléonis. If we reflect upon this house's ancient lineage, the lion was not merely chosen for heraldry—it was Aefhen's own sacred form when he walked the earth to guard his bloodline. It symbolizes blessing, protection, and the sun's divine favor upon the firstborn of Lehoi."
He paused, his gaze shifting to the drowsing cub nestled in Fhena's arms—then to Fhena herself, who was no longer hiding her face in Sager's fur but was now gazing up at him, her eyes wide with awe, hanging onto every word like a disciple at a temple sermon.
"This cub," Rheomund continued solemnly, "appearing here, of all places, in this time… could well be a sign from Aefhen himself. To turn it away now would not be simple caution. It would be rejecting his gift—his protection. A slight against the very spirit that guards this house."
There was a quiet shift in the room. The air felt heavier somehow, as if the weight of the ancestors and their watching eyes had settled across their shoulders.
Fhena's eyes bounced between Rheomund's cool, steady gaze and Walsh's silent stare, then to Maelith, who looked mildly astonished. The warmth bloomed in her chest like sunlight breaking through mist. Her heart skipped—not with fear, but with pride. Her brother had spoken—not just for her, but for Sager.
She beamed, her arms tightening around the golden cub, a sense of belonging rising in her like a tide.
"Then, young master," Walsh said, folding his arms and raising a brow, "are you suggesting that this little cub is a guardian sent by Aefhen himself?"
"Possibly," Rheomund replied calmly. "In the recorded history of House Solléonis, there have only been two appearances of golden lions. One before the first Emperor, Arkanos. The other before the famed Sun General, Aquilis. Both were turning points in Solistia's legacy."
Fhena, emboldened by her brother's confident recollection, spun around to face Walsh, her face puckering into a dramatic scowl. Lips pursed upward, nose adorably scrunched, brows furrowed into fierce little peaks—her whole expression declared war, in the form of an indignant five-year-old.
Walsh blinked at her, amused despite himself.
"And how," he asked, turning his sharp gaze back to Rheomund, "can we be sure this lion cub truly came from Aefhen?"
Rheomund paused, thoughtful. "How?" he echoed under his breath. Then, with quiet resolve, he lifted his chin. "Because the lion has always been Aefhen's chosen form. His companion. His eyes among men. And Aefhen," he said with calm certainty, "remains the eternal guardian and head of House Solléonis."
Walsh's eyes glinted as he leaned forward ever so slightly. "So, it's your intuition, then, young master?"
Rheomund gave a sly smirk. "No. Faith."
Fhena, who had been following their conversation, blinked slowly. Her brows knit together, lips parted in a quiet frown. Wait... what's going on? Why does this sound like a courtroom? Her expression teetered between exhaustion and disbelief.
The Matron Superior finally cleared her throat, drawing everyone's attention with the subtle authority of one used to obedience.
"Very well," she declared. "The cub may stay."
Fhena's eyes widened with hope.
"However," the Matron added, turning her steely gaze upon the two siblings, "you two—heirs of House Solléonis—will care for it yourselves. That means feeding it, bathing it, cleaning up after it. No maid nor servant shall be held responsible. Is that clear?"
Fhena nearly squealed, giving the Matron a gleeful thumbs up and grinning from ear to ear. Rheomund, meanwhile, aghast, stared into the middle distance like a man just handed a death sentence. Cleaning up after a lion cub? That was not in his books.
Walsh, clearly enjoying himself far too much, stood up with a satisfied smirk. "Well then," he said lightly, "I suppose we must inform the Grand Duke." His voice was tinged with teasing delight, and he swept from the room with a bow.
The Matron Superior and Maelith followed suit, leaving Rheomund and Fhena alone with the still-sleeping Sager.
"YAY!" Fhena cried, grabbing Sager like a prized stuffed toy and spinning him in the air with all the strength her tiny frame could muster. Sager blinked sleepily and gave a drowsy huff, clearly resigned to the chaos.
Rheomund, meanwhile, slumped in his seat like a defeated general. I was just defending her, he thought. If I'd known this was the price, I'd have tossed the cub out the window myself.
Still… he couldn't help the soft smile that tugged at his lips as he watched his little sister glow with joy. That smile—the one that lit up a room, that made everything feel right—he would protect it no matter what.
"Thank you, Rheo!" Fhena threw herself into his arms with a laugh. "You were so awesome! You're the best brother ever!"
Rheomund sighed in mock defeat but wrapped his arms around her.
"Yeah, yeah. But next time, I'm defending you after I read the fine print."