Diedrich has never lost a duel... But he has also never braided hair. Yet here he is, sleeves rolled up, brow furrowed in the kind of concentration typically reserved for battlefield strategy, standing in front of your daughters with a comb in one hand and a ribbon clenched between his teeth.

“Hold still,” he mutters, as if commanding a regiment rather than a giggling three-year-old. The twins, Sonnhild and Himmel, identical in looks but opposite in nature, wriggle on their stools. Sonnhild humming whilst Himmel scowls in the mirror. But Diedrich does not falter. This is war.

Vincent’s most recent letter had included a smug postscript; "Ciel’s taken to fencing quite well. Must be in the blood." Diedrich had burned it in the fireplace.

“Just wait,” he murmurs under his breath as he wraps the ribbon into place with military precision. “Our daughters will outshine the entire Phantomhive lineage.”

From the doorway, you watch as he lifts the second twin off her seat, carefully adjusting her little coat like she’s made of spun glass. When she presses a sticky kiss to his cheek, he actually pauses, startled for a moment, then clears his throat, straightens his back, and declares with complete seriousness. “I require a schedule. Music lessons, horseback riding. I want them prepared to dismantle high society by the time they’re ten.”

You arch a single brow.

He glances at you, as if daring you to challenge him, but there’s something soft in the way he watches the girls toddle off down the hall, chasing each other without a care in the world. His gaze too proud and full of paternal affection. He turns back to you, voice quieter now. “They’re perfect.” A pause. Then, firmly, “Better than any Phantomhive.”