The grounds of House Amberson were quiet, save for the gentle murmur of leaves in the wind. The garden was lush, tended to with precise care, yet the air held a somber weight. It was the kind of stillness that preceded a parting.
Gary stood in front of the manor gates, dressed in his refined traveling coat—dark navy, embroidered with golden thread in a pattern that mimicked falling leaves. His shoulders were squared, but his gaze flickered often toward the towering marble columns of the entranceway. A shadow moved behind them.
His mother, Lady Elaine Amberson, descended the steps with a composed grace that only years of aristocracy could instill. Her silver-blonde hair was tied up in a traditional braid, and her gown shimmered like moonlit frost. But despite the elegance, her eyes betrayed the emotion she contained.
She came to a stop before Gary, reached out, and adjusted the collar of his coat, though it needed no fixing.
"You've grown taller again. And leaner," she said, trying to sound amused.
Gary smiled faintly. "Blame the Academy. Their food does more damage than dueling."
Elaine's laugh was short but warm. She touched his cheek briefly. "You'll do well, Gary. You always have. But remember—" she paused, her voice dropping, "—never chase power without cause. Strength is not your inheritance. Honor is."
Gary nodded. "I'll remember."
A distant cough broke the moment. Lord Cedric Amberson stepped forward, clad in a dark suit with a mantle draped across his shoulders bearing the insignia of their house. He offered no embrace, no visible affection—but his presence alone carried weight.
"The next month will define many paths, son. You need not rush down any of them."
Gary stood taller. "I'll walk the right one. Even if it's steep."
Cedric held his gaze for a moment longer, then gave a slight nod. "Then go. Your guards await."
---
Outside the gates, a sleek vessel awaited—an oblong construct of polished obsidian and translucent panels that shimmered with stars trapped beneath their surface. The edges pulsed with pale indigo light, and runes, nearly invisible, danced along the metallic hull like molten circuitry.
It did not move with wheels or hover with conventional lift. Instead, reality around it bent ever so slightly. The ground beneath it rippled subtly, as if gravity itself was choosing to obey the vehicle rather than resist it.
Inside, the air was still, but alive.
There was no hum of engines—only an ambient, silent resonance that pulsed in the bones of those aboard. Each pulse felt like a heartbeat from something ancient. The kind of sensation that made one question whether the vehicle was driven by technology, or by something far older, far stranger.
Bodyguards flanked Gary. Four in total. Two seated inside with him, their armored uniforms crisp, and two more rode in ghostlike carriages behind, shaped like floating thrones tethered to nothing. Each bore the insignia of House Amberson and the rank of elite private knights. None spoke. They were eyes and blades, not companions.
---
The journey passed in muted reflection. Mountains rose and fell, skies shifted from blue to violet to gold. When the Academy's twin spires came into view, Gary felt a strange tightness in his chest.
As the vehicle halted outside the grand gate, Ingrid was already there.
She wore her usual travelwear—silver scarf, dark tunic with reinforced seams, and that unimpressed expression only she could weaponize. But when she saw him, it faltered.
"You're late," she said, though she wasn't annoyed.
Gary smirked. "Fashionably."
She walked up and gave him a quick once-over. "You look like you've been through a war."
"Family dinners. Same thing."
They shared a laugh.
Then Ingrid glanced past him, and her smile softened.
"Look."
Gary turned.
Dawn stood by the gate.
And for a moment, the world forgot how to breathe.
He was dark-haired still, but the shadows seemed to gather behind him, not on him. His frame remained lean, yet the subtle unevenness of before—the slight tilt of his shoulders, the quiet compensation in every step—was gone. Now, he stood as if every joint, every bone, had aligned to something greater. His presence no longer fought itself. It commanded.
The tension that once coiled in his limbs had vanished. In its place was balance—a quiet, unshakable symmetry that felt unnaturally right.
The fading light of Solara bled across the sky, and for the briefest heartbeat, it touched him.
It wasn't just light.
It was adoration.
Golden rays slipped across his shoulders and hair, wrapping around his form like a divine coronation. His silhouette turned radiant, almost celestial. His eyes, usually quiet and deep, caught the light and refracted it—becoming distant stars trapped in mortal gaze.
And then—it was gone.
The illusion shattered.
No… not shattered. Faded.
Dawn blinked and smiled.
Just a boy again.
But Gary and Ingrid stood frozen.
They didn't speak. They didn't joke.
Because something in that moment had whispered to them—not in words, but in awe:
This is no longer the Dawn you knew.
He had crossed a line they hadn't seen. And he hadn't returned empty-handed.
The three of them stood there, the gate behind them, the Academy ahead. The sun dipped low, bleeding color across the world.
Three stars in the making.
The lands would not forget this reunion.
---