Change Is Coming (12)

The soft scratching of a quill against parchment filled the air, punctuated by the occasional rustle of paper. The scent of aged books and freshly inked documents lingered in the vast study, where warm candlelight flickered against the dark wooden bookshelves lining the walls.

Solara sat still, her posture poised but rigid, perched on an intricately carved chair. She absently tucked a stray strand of her fiery orange-blue hair behind her ear, the colors dancing in the dim glow. Her teal eyes flickered sideways, stealing a glance at the young man seated a short distance away.

Vryne.

He sat with effortless composure, one leg crossed over the other, his neutral gaze fixated on nothing in particular. Draped in a tailored white button-down shirt, a dark brown vest from Valmont Tailors pressed immaculately over it, his attire exuded elegance and restraint. His black pants were perfectly creased, the material thick and expensive, custom-made to his measurements. A pair of polished obsidian leather dress shoes from House Velmoor rested firmly against the tiled floor, the engraved insignia barely visible under the dim light. Black gloves of sleek Drexsic-weave silk encased his hands—an unspoken symbol of control, composure, and nobility.

Yet, something about him felt… different.

Solara's gaze lingered a second too long. Leaner? No, not quite—his frame seemed more defined, his presence heavier. The subtle change in his posture, the quiet confidence in his stillness—something had shifted within him.

It was ironic. The entire purpose of her stay in the Drexsic manor was to deepen their relationship before their engagement was formally recognized. And yet, she had spent the past week avoiding him. He had done the same.

Their last real conversation echoed in her mind—his firm declaration that he would find a way to dissolve their engagement.

And then those words that lingered in the recesses of her thoughts…

"You're too good for me"

She refused to dwell on it. Flattery or deceit, it was not her concern. And yet, despite herself, she wondered… was it true? Had he truly changed?

Her thoughts fractured as Ivor Drexsic spoke at last, his voice calm, unwavering.

"Now then, shall we proceed?"

He did not look up from the parchment in his hands, scanning one after another with practiced ease. Clad in a dark gray suit of rich fabric, his presence carried an unshakable weight. His dark-brown hair was neatly combed back, the stark contrast of his sharp, midnight eyes absorbing everything with unreadable intent. In his hand, a quill moved swiftly, signing document after document before passing them to the old attendant standing at his side.

Then, without breaking stride, he asked, "Are we ready to sign the engagement papers?"

The words settled like cold steel in the air.

Solara stiffened.

She turned her gaze back to Vryne, only to find him already looking at his father. The same neutrality, the same calm indifference. And then, he spoke.

"I would like to cancel the engagement."

Silence.

The study, once filled with the rhythmic sounds of parchment and quill, grew deathly quiet.

Ivor's hand froze mid-signature. Slowly, he set down the quill, his obsidian gaze lifting to meet his son's.

"Explain," he said, his tone unchanged—calm, neutral, unreadable.

Vryne did not hesitate.

"I do not see a future between Solara and me."

His words were even, absolute.

Solara inhaled sharply, head snapping toward him in disbelief. She had expected resistance, a discussion, perhaps even an argument—but not this. Not this unshaken resolve.

Ivor studied his son, his gaze unreadable, his fingers tapping lightly against the desk.

"Why?" His voice, still composed, held an almost imperceptible shift—a flicker of authority.

Vryne remained impassive. "Because I do not wish for it."

The briefest twitch crossed Ivor's brow.

The tension in the room coiled tighter.

Solara could feel it, the invisible force pressing against her skin, thickening the very air. The old attendant, standing beside Ivor, let out a quiet cough—a subtle move, one meant to break the suffocating silence.

Ivor's gaze flickered to the old man, then back to his son. After a long pause, he sighed, leaning back into his chair.

"Very well. We shall discuss this later—when, hopefully, we reach a more… agreeable conclusion."

The dismissal was clear.

Vryne stood first, turning without hesitation toward the door. Solara hesitated but quickly followed, offering a small bow of respect before stepping after him.

The door clicked shut.

The moment they were gone, Ivor let out a quiet, frustrated sigh.

The old attendant, ever composed, tilted his head slightly. "Was this outcome unexpected, Master?"

Ivor exhaled, rubbing his temples. "I anticipated reluctance, but I thought the Greysteel heir would be the one to oppose the engagement—not my own son."

His gaze drifted to the corner of the room. The shadows stirred.

"Come out," he ordered.

From the darkness, a woman emerged.

The first thing visible was her crimson-red eyes, gleaming in the dim candlelight. Long black hair, cascading into a silver ombré, framed her sharp, alluring features. She moved with silent grace, offering a precise bow.

"Phyllis," Ivor addressed her.

The woman straightened, her voice smooth and measured. "My Lord."

"Report. Anything unusual?"

Phyllis's gaze met his, unwavering.

"Vryne has begun training in spear combat, archery… and boxing."

Ivor's fingers halted mid-tap.

His expression remained still, yet one would have recognized the smallest shift in his demeanor—a sliver of intrigue, of something unexpected.

"Boxing?" He repeated the word, as though testing its weight.

Vryne had never once expressed an interest in such things. Every detail of his upbringing, his studies, his habits—all had been curated, controlled. Yet now, without permission, he had chosen his own path.

For the first time in years, Ivor felt something slip from his grasp.

Slowly, he exhaled.

"You will observe him more closely." His voice was low, decisive. "From now on, you will act as his personal maid."

Phyllis's eyes flickered with the faintest surprise before she lowered her head.

"Understood."

Without another word, she vanished back into the shadows.

Ivor turned to his old attendant, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

"Have you ever dealt with a disobedient child before?" he mused.

The old man's lips curled into the ghost of a smile. "Three, in fact—my grandchildren."

Ivor said nothing.

Instead, he straightened in his chair, picked up his quill, and resumed signing the engagement documents.