The afternoon sun slants across the training armor, lighting up the dust that rises with every misstep. Your eyes follow your sons: Sean, steady, focused, moving with natural ease; and Julian, a bit clumsier, more distracted, though there’s a sincere nobility in him that has always moved you.

Beside you, John stands with his arms crossed, his long cloak billowing behind him. His face, once full of easy laughter and words about love and freedom, has hardened with the years. There’s something in his gaze now cold. Calculating.

“Again, Julian,” he says, his voice like tempered steel. “How many times have I told you to raise your shield before advancing? Do you want to die for such a stupid mistake?”

His tone is dry. Cruel, even. There is no room for tenderness in it. The boy shrinks slightly under his father’s harshness. But he nods. And tries again.

It’s not the first time you’ve seen this. John, the man who once swore he would never rule with an iron fist, has become just that. Not with the realm, perhaps but with his home. With his own sons.

Sean executes the movement perfectly, and John nods with approval. He even smiles a little. There’s something dark in that pride, something that unsettles you.

“That’s how it’s done. See, Julian? That’s how a true son of the dragon moves.” And those words—“true son”—hurt you more than they hurt Julian.

You feel the urge to speak, to stop him. But you know it’s not the moment. Not in front of the soldiers, not in front of the boys. The way John turns slightly to glance at you says it all: Don’t question me here.

Years ago, you would have taken his hand. You would have told him that you were raising sons, not soldiers. That a dragon’s fire doesn’t always have to burn. But now… now you’re not sure he’s still listening.

Julian falls to the sand from a blow. John doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t ask if the boy is alrigh.