The hearth inside Count Vanhart's private lounge crackled with muted flame, casting wavering shadows against old stone walls. Once, this room had been a place where visiting nobles shared quiet wine, where laughter softened winter's bite.
For five long years, it had been silent.
Tonight, two men stood within it once more.
Count Vanhart—still, composed, bearing the weight of a father and a ruler.
Viscount Malloren—broad-shouldered but weary, eyes worn by nights beside a daughter who could no longer stand.
Their breaths lingered faintly in the cold air, neither quite willing to speak first.
Until Malloren did.
He looked at the flames, not the Count.
His fist trembled once—before stilling.
"I was your friend once," he began, voice low, anchored with something painfully honest. "And after your daughter crippled mine, I harbored… illness toward you."
The words fell between them like slow snow.
He swallowed, steady but soft.
"But this week, when I learned that your daughter was wronged… that she fought with power she never asked to bear…" He paused briefly. "I understood. It was not her will to hurt mine."
He inhaled through tightened jaw.
"So I ask—for forgiveness, my friend."
Silence expanded.
Count Vanhart did not look away from him.
Nor did he rush to answer.
The crackling embers snapped once.
Only then did he speak.
"Do not ask forgiveness for matters birthed from deception."
Malloren's brows lowered faintly.
The Count continued.
"It was my elder brother who administered that cursed compound to Sera. It was his intent to harm—not hers." His gaze deepened, heavy with something colder than anger. "In that… you did not betray me. You simply misunderstood."
He stepped closer, placing a hand over Malloren's shoulder.
"And misunderstanding," he said quietly, "is the burden of being human—not the crime of being enemy."
Malloren's eyes trembled.
His fist, once clenched, slowly opened.
"…Arven," he whispered, using the Count's given name.
The Count's expression softened, only slightly.
"For five years," Malloren murmured, "I carried bitterness. And for five years, you carried silence."
"Yes." Vanhart's voice was ancient. "Because if one father's grief answered another with words… I feared I would speak with my blade instead."
Malloren's breath hitched.
Neither man embraced.
But the weight between them shifted.
No longer iron.
Something warmer.
After a quiet moment, Malloren stepped back, straightening his cloak.
His voice steadied, turning from apology to purpose.
"For five years," he said, "I treated my daughter with everything House Malloren could spare. And because of that…" he exhaled slowly, "…we are nearly dry."
The Count's eyes narrowed.
"Dry?"
Malloren nodded, gaze firm now.
"Malloren territory can sustain itself for two more years at most. Our financial power… has greatly diminished." His next words dropped like stone. "We lack the strength to purchase assistance. And without trade… we vanish within a decade."
Count Vanhart's expression darkened.
"You didn't tell the Crown."
"I didn't want pity," Malloren murmured. "I wanted resolution."
The Count was silent.
Malloren's next words cut the quiet.
"I ask you, as a man, not a noble—"
He stepped forward.
"…will you sell harlroot to House Malloren?"
Count Vanhart blinked.
Malloren continued.
"Our territory is prepared to serve as your primary buyer. I am willing to purchase the first fifty percent of available stock directly—before any merchant, before any guild. I intend to be one of the ten privileged in Kel's plan."
He lowered his head.
"And after House Malloren secures one position… the other nine may compete."
His breath trembled.
"This time, I do not ask to be defended."
He lifted his head.
"I ask to be included."
The room was utterly silent.
Count Vanhart's expression shifted—not toward pity, not toward hesitation.
Toward resolve.
He slowly stepped toward Malloren.
The fire behind them flared as if struck by breeze.
"You ask," the Count said, "not to preserve Malloren."
He paused.
"You ask to stand beside me."
Malloren's chest tightened.
"…as friend," he whispered.
Vanhart nodded.
"As friend," he confirmed, "and as house."
His voice settled like winter stillness before sunrise.
"Then hear me clearly."
Malloren looked up.
"You will not "purchase" from Vanhart," the Count said. "You will invest in it."
Malloren blinked.
"Your offer of 50%—accepted," Vanhart said.
Malloren exhaled shakily.
"But hear this, Lorian Malloren—"
Malloren's eyes widened.
The Count spoke his full name the way one would steady a blade.
"You will sit among those first ten not as debtor, but architect. Your territory will sign as co-strategic partner. Your financial recovery will be tied not only to our product… but to our rise."
Malloren felt something strike his heart.
He could not form words.
Count Vanhart stepped to his side.
"When Lysenne walks," he said softly, "let it not be into a house returned. Let it be into one reborn."
Malloren lowered his head.
His voice cracked.
"…I do not know how to thank you."
"You will not," Vanhart replied quietly.
"You will stand beside us when winds shift."
Malloren's eyes closed.
"…Always."
In the silence, something passed between them.
Not the rekindling of past friendship.
Something older.
Something forged.
Malloren turned toward the window again.
Outside, flakes drifted down, slow and light.
"The boy…" he murmured, "Kel… is only thirteen."
"Yes," Vanhart said.
"And yet he moves as though he has walked across many lives," Malloren whispered.
Count Vanhart answered slowly.
"Perhaps…" he mused, "we stand now not beside a child…"
His gaze deepened.
"…but beside a turning point."
Malloren's fingers trembled over the window frame.
"Then may Goddesses weigh this land with mercy," he whispered.
"For what rises in storms often reshapes the world."
Outside—the wind shifted.
Young harlroot leaves swayed but did not bend.
As if listening.