The heavy door closed behind Noel with a dull thud. The scent of old paper and faint incense filled the office, and the only light came from a single oil lamp burning low on Albrecht's desk. Shadows stretched long across the walls, swallowing the gold-trimmed furniture in dim silence.

Albrecht sat there, posture rigid but eyes unfocused — a man carved from iron, yet cracking at the edges.

"Sit down," he said finally, his tone stripped of the usual command.

Noel obeyed, pulling a chair and sitting across from him. The silence that followed wasn't tense — it was weary, like two people standing at the edge of something they both knew would hurt.

After a long pause, Albrecht's voice broke the quiet. "I assume you already know why I called you here."

Noel's green eyes met his father's. "About my mother."

Albrecht gave a slow nod.

Noel said simply, his tone flat. "Judging by your face, this isn't the first time you've thought about her tonight."

The corner of Albrecht's mouth twitched into something like a smile, though it didn't reach his eyes. "No. It never really leaves."

He looked toward the flickering lamp for a moment, as if gathering the right words — something Noel had never seen him struggle with before. "Your mother was… different. Not just from the women I married after, but from everyone I've ever known."

Noel leaned back slightly, saying nothing, waiting.

Albrecht's gaze softened, his voice quiet now. "She wasn't born noble. She had no name that mattered, no crest to carry. Yet somehow, she held more grace than anyone in this damned house ever did."

The flame between them flickered.

For the first time in his life, Noel saw not the patriarch of House Thorne — but a man remembering someone he'd never truly let go.

Albrecht leaned back in his chair, eyes fixed on a memory only he could see. "She worked in the outer gardens back then," he began, his tone quieter than Noel had ever heard. "A simple woman who smiled even when her hands bled from pruning thornvines. She once scolded me for stepping on the flowerbeds."

Noel raised an eyebrow slightly. "You let someone scold you?"

A faint smirk ghosted across Albrecht's lips. "I did. And then I married two women who never dared."

The small trace of humor faded as quickly as it appeared. "I fell in love with her before I ever knew what duty meant. Before I was forced to become what this house demanded." He gestured vaguely toward the sigils carved into the walls — the weight of legacy. "The Estermonts, the Iskandars, even the Crown expected a Thorne to marry within the circle. Someone… suitable."

"So you didn't," Noel said quietly.

"I couldn't," Albrecht corrected. "Not openly." He exhaled through his nose, a bitter sound. "I kept her close. I gave her everything I could without breaking the chain that bound me here. When Mirelle and Serina came, she stayed — not out of desperation, but because she said love didn't need a title."

Noel listened in silence. He didn't know which was more foreign — hearing his father talk about love, or realizing how sincere it sounded.

"She was the heart of this place," Albrecht continued. "When she was around, the air felt lighter. The servants laughed. Even Mirelle smiled back then. It almost felt like this house had a soul."

He fell silent for a moment, his expression distant. "But she began to fall ill. Some rare sickness the healers couldn't name. Even then, she smiled. She said she didn't want pity, just time."

Albrecht's voice lowered further, barely above a whisper. "And when I looked at her, I swore I'd trade every ounce of power I had to stop that clock."

He looked up, meeting Noel's eyes. "But I didn't. And that's when I became the man you know."

The flame in the oil lamp wavered, casting streaks of gold across Albrecht's face. For the first time, the weight behind his words felt less like command — and more like confession.

"She was sick for years," he said softly. "Most days she could barely stand. And yet, when she told me she wanted a child…" He paused, running a hand through his blond hair — the same shade as Noel's. "I was furious. Terrified. I knew what it would cost her."

Noel's eyes narrowed. "But she did it anyway."

Albrecht nodded, the motion slow. "She said she wanted a piece of herself to live on. Even if she couldn't." His throat tightened as he continued. "I argued. Yelled. She laughed. Said I was making more noise than sense."

A faint smile crossed his face, fleeting but real. "That was her. Always smiling. Even when she was dying."

The words hung heavy in the air, pressing down on them both.

"When you were born," Albrecht continued, "you didn't cry. You just looked at her — with those same eyes." His gaze lifted to meet Noel's emerald irises. "For a moment, she smiled like she'd won some private battle. Then…"

He didn't finish the sentence.

Noel's fingers tightened against the armrest. "She died right after."

Albrecht gave a single nod. "She told me to protect you before the light left her eyes." His voice cracked slightly — the first fracture Noel had ever heard in it. "And I couldn't even do that properly."

Noel exhaled, his jaw clenched. "So that's why you couldn't look at me."

"Yes," Albrecht admitted. "Every time I saw you, it was like seeing her ghost. The same eyes. The same laugh when you were little. I hated it… because I missed her too much."

He leaned back, exhausted by his own honesty. "That's what broke this family, Noel. Not politics, not greed. Just grief left to rot."

Silence settled again — thick, almost sacred. Only the soft hiss of the oil lamp filled the air.

Noel leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes shadowed by the dim light. "You know… I used to wonder why everyone treated me like shit. Mirelle, Serina, even the servants. Guess I was the living reminder of what none of you could forget."

Albrecht didn't answer immediately. His gaze lingered on the desk, the surface marked with faint scratches — small ghosts of another time. "They loved her too, in their own way," he said quietly. "But they blamed you because I couldn't mourn her properly. I buried myself in this house, in work, in silence… and let that silence poison everyone around me."

Noel exhaled through his nose, slow and steady. "So it really was because of her."

"Yes," Albrecht said simply. "You have her eyes, her smile… even her way of standing your ground when everyone tells you not to. It's infuriating."

That drew a faint, bitter smile from Noel. "Guess that means I'm doing something right."

For a moment, father and son shared a rare stillness — not warmth, but something close. Understanding, maybe.

Albrecht rose from his chair, the weight of the years showing in his movements. "She'd have been proud of you," he said, voice low but firm. "Even if I haven't said it before, I will now — you survived everything this family threw at you. That's more than most could."

Noel stood as well, adjusting his cloak. "Pride won't stop what's coming," he said quietly. "But… thanks."

Albrecht gave a faint nod. "We'll talk again soon. The horde is coming. Rest while you can."

Noel turned to leave. Just before stepping through the door, he stopped — glancing back over his shoulder. "She'd have liked that you finally talked about her, you know."

Albrecht's lips twitched into something close to a smile. "Maybe. But I doubt she'd forgive how long it took me."

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