The morning air was crisp as Aren and Selene stepped outside the estate.
The grand, modern structure of the Vale family manor stretched behind them — marble gleaming white under the sunlight, black banners bearing the Vale crest stirring gently in the breeze.
The estate grounds were wide and lush, a private world of carefully tended gardens, training fields, and walking paths framed by rows of towering silverleaf trees.
For a while, Aren and Selene simply walked in companionable silence.
Selene's arm linked through his, her head occasionally brushing against his shoulder as they strolled.
It felt... easy. Natural.
Something he hadn't allowed himself for too long.
Aren eventually broke the quiet with a low sigh.
"I need to talk to Lyra," he said.
Selene glanced up at him, patient.
He kept his eyes ahead, voice steady — but there was a tightness to it, a rare uncertainty.
"I want her to understand," Aren said slowly, "that I didn't choose Darian because he's the firstborn. Or because he's a man."
Selene squeezed his arm lightly, encouraging him to continue.
"I didn't choose because I thought he was better," Aren said, his voice turning softer.
"I chose because... I needed one. One successor. One name to pass officially."
He paused at a fork in the path, frowning at the stones underfoot.
"But the Vale family belongs to them both," he said firmly.
"Darian. Lyra. No matter who wears the title — they are my children. Equally. What was mine, is theirs equally. Authority, care, protection — it belongs to both of them."
Selene smiled faintly.
"You've always thought that way," she said. "You just never said it out loud."
Aren let out a short, almost embarrassed breath.
"I don't know how to say it," he admitted.
"Not when they've spent their whole lives seeing me as..." he waved a hand vaguely, "a figure. A legend. Not a man."
He hesitated, then stopped walking completely.
Turning to face her fully, his expression more vulnerable than he intended to show.
"Selene," he said quietly, "I want you to tell them."
She blinked.
"You," Aren repeated softly.
"You raised them. You were there.
I... wasn't."
His voice was rough, strained.
"I was buried under duty when they needed a father. I was the man the world needed... not the father they deserved."
Selene's eyes softened painfully.
"They trust you," Aren said.
"They know you."
He took a shaky breath.
"Please. Tell them what's in my heart. Convince them, if they have doubts.
Let them hear it from you... because if it comes from me, I fear it will sound like an order."
For a long moment, Selene simply looked at him — truly looked at him — at the man he had always been underneath the armor.
Then she nodded once, gently.
"I will," she said.
"For you.
For them.
For our family."
Relief washed over his face — so raw it made her chest ache — and he squeezed her hand tightly before they resumed their walk.
The rest of the morning slipped into his first true "day of rest" in decades.
No reports.
No battle strategies.
No summons from faraway provinces.
Just the estate, the sunlight, and his family.
He started his walk through the grounds alone, greeting the staff warmly — men and women who had served the Vale family for generations.
Their smiles were real, touched with relief.
They had all lived under the long shadow of the Grand Duke's endless duties.
And now, they could see — perhaps for the first time — the man beneath.
At the small private training field, Aren found Elara.
The serious girl was already drilling sword forms, her expression sharp with focus.
Her black hair was tied neatly behind her, her every movement precise and controlled.
Aren leaned casually against the fence, watching for a while before speaking.
"Your form is rigid," he commented mildly.
Elara froze mid-strike, whipping her head around to find him there.
Her cheeks flushed slightly, but she bowed deeply — not from fear, but respect.
"Grandfather," she said. "Good morning."
He nodded at her stance.
"You're focusing too much on correctness," Aren said, stepping onto the field.
"You forget to breathe. To move with life."
He took a wooden practice sword from the rack and tossed it lazily between his hands.
Elara watched, eyes wide, as he demonstrated a few simple movements — fluid, alive, unpredictable — a living storm in human form.
When he stopped, he handed her the sword.
"Again," he said.
Elara set her feet, and this time... she moved better.
Not perfect. Not yet.
But freer. More natural.
When she finished, Aren gave her the rarest of rewards: a small, approving nod.
Elara's chest puffed up with silent pride.
"Thank you, Grandfather," she said, bowing again.
He ruffled her hair — an act so unexpected that she nearly stumbled — and left her there, smiling quietly to herself.
Later, he found Mira by the pond near the gardens.
The playful child was tossing stones, trying to skip them across the water.
When she spotted him, she beamed and waved enthusiastically.
"Grandpa! Come play!"
Aren chuckled — a sound that would have made entire battlefields freeze in shock — and strolled over.
"I haven't skipped stones in a century," he said dryly.
"Then you need practice!" Mira declared, hands on her hips.
She handed him a stone, and he accepted it solemnly.
With a flick of his wrist, Aren sent the stone flying — it skipped eight times before disappearing across the pond.
Mira gasped.
"Teach me! Teach me!" she demanded, bouncing on her toes.
So he crouched beside her, demonstrating the grip, the angle, the flick of the wrist — patiently, gently, with the same care he once reserved for training warriors bound for the front lines.
Mira's first stone plopped into the water like a sad little frog.
Her second, too.
But her third... skipped once.
She screamed in triumph, throwing her arms around Aren's neck.
"You're the best, Grandpa!"
He caught her easily, lifting her high into the air, and for a moment — just a moment — Aren Vale felt younger than he had in lifetimes.
No wars.
No summons.
No crushing destiny.
Just sunlight.
A granddaughter's laughter.
And a future he could finally look forward to.
As the afternoon drifted into evening, Aren walked back toward the manor, feeling strangely — beautifully — full.
Selene stood waiting for him on the terrace, a glass of wine in her hand, her violet eyes warm.
He joined her silently, taking the glass she offered, and together they watched the sun set behind the silverleaf trees.
It was a new chapter.
A life not of duty, but of love.
And for the first time, Aren Vale was ready to live it.