I knew he would come.
Not because someone told me. Not because guards appeared or servants whispered.
I knew it the same way I used to know back then,
that quiet tightening in my chest, the one that came before a door opened.
Footsteps echoed in the courtyard beyond the corridor. Heavy. Measured. Unhurried.
My body reacted before my mind did.
I straightened without meaning to. My shoulders stiffened. I waited for anger, for disappointment sharpened into words, for that familiar pressure that once meant I had failed to perform correctly.
The door opened.
Father stood there.
Patrick Ayer did not shout. He did not glare. He did not ask anyone for an explanation. His red hair was tied back as usual, his posture straight, his presence filling the space without effort.
His eyes found me immediately.
For a moment, nothing happened.
That was what unsettled me the most.
In my previous life, silence was never empty. It was a warning. A pause before judgment fell.
Here, it was simply… silence.
"Come," he said at last.
One word. Calm. Final.
I stood and followed him without protest. Roosevelt watched us go, his expression unreadable. My friends Krystoff, Valkyrie, and the otherswere left behind, uncertain. I didn't look back.
We walked.
Not to his office. Not to a private room. Not somewhere hidden.
We walked through the streets.
That alone confused me.
In the past, mistakes were buried, covered, and erased for the sake of appearances. Consequences existed, but only behind closed doors.
Now, my father walked openly, his son at his side.
People bowed as we passed. Merchants paused mid-conversation. Soldiers straightened.
No one spoke.
I expected him to tell me what I had done wrong.
He didn't.
We stopped in front of the damaged property, the inn's storage wall, cracked and partially collapsed from the prank that had gone too far. Fresh wood had already been placed against it as a temporary fix.
The owner stood there, nervous, wringing his hands.
Patrick stepped forward before I could say anything.
"I am Duke Patrick Ayer," he said evenly. "This damage was caused by my son."
The man froze, eyes widening.
Patrick bowed.
Not deeply. But sincerely.
"I offer my apologies."
The world tilted.
In my old life, apologies flowed downward, never up. Authority did not bend. Power did not acknowledge fault.
Here, my father did.
He straightened and gestured to me.
"Speak."
I swallowed.
My voice almost didn't come out.
"I'm… sorry," I said. I bowed too, clumsier, smaller. "I didn't think it would go that far. I'll take responsibility."
Patrick placed a hand on my shoulder.
Not gripping. Not heavy.
Present.
"We will cover all repairs," he continued. "And additional compensation for the disruption."
The man hurriedly waved his hands. "N-No, my lord, that won't be necessary."
"It will," Patrick said. No force. Just certainty. "Because this is not charity. This is accountability."
The matter ended there.
No threats. No humiliation. No spectacle.
As we walked away, my legs felt weak.
When we turned the corner, Patrick finally spoke again.
"It's easy," he said, "to forget how young you are."
I looked up at him.
"In many ways, you don't act your age," he continued. "You speak carefully. You think before you move. People forget."
His gaze softened, just slightly.
"But that doesn't mean you aren't a child."
Something in my chest loosened.
In my past life, maturity had been demanded. Expected. Used as a weapon.
Here, it was acknowledgedbut not exploited.
"Because you are my son," he said, "it is my duty to correct you. Not hide you. Not an excuse you."
I nodded.
"I understand."
He studied me for a moment, then exhaled quietly.
"You probably expected something harsher."
I didn't answer.
He seemed to understand anyway.
"Strength without restraint becomes tyranny," Patrick said. "Remember that. Even with good intentions."
We returned to the castle in silence.
Later that evening, I was summoned again, this time to the training grounds.
Not alone.
Krystoff stood stiffly at my side. Valkyrie met my eyes and shrugged as if to say of course. The others shifted nervously.
Patrick addressed all of us.
"Since this incident involved more than one child," he said, "its correction will involve more than one."
He looked at each of us in turn.
"You will all attend structured training under the Ayer household."
A murmur rippled through the group.
"There will be no favoritism," he added. "No exemptions."
Then his eyes settled on me.
"Least of all for my son."
I felt something warm spread through my chest.
Not pride.
Belonging.
"Those inclined toward the blade will train under Vice Commander Roosevelt," Patrick continued. "Those inclined toward magic will train under Lady Melinda's supervision and her appointed instructors."
Some faces lit up. Others paled.
The paths separated naturally, without being forced.
I realized something then.
In my past life, paths had been chosen for me long before I ever noticed the crossroads.
Here, the road was opening.
And for the first time, the weight of expectation didn't feel like a chain.
It felt like a name I wanted to live up to.