Tom stood at the center of the hall. His gaze was locked onto Mattheo, sharp and unyielding. The resemblance between them was undeniable—the same sharp cheekbones, the same piercing eyes—but where Tom carried himself with precision and control, Mattheo exuded something more reckless, more untamed.

"You have to come home with me," Tom said, his voice low but insistent. It wasn’t a request. It was an order.

Mattheo leaned back against the cold stone wall, arms crossed over his chest, his jaw tight. There was no hesitation in his voice when he replied.

"This castle is my home."

Tom exhaled sharply through his nose. "Oh, please," he said, his lips curling into a smirk that didn't reach his eyes. "You are V0Idemort’s son. That’s all you’ll ever be to them. No matter how long you stay, no matter what you do, they will never see you as anything else. This will never be your home."

A muscle in Mattheo’s jaw twitched, but his face remained carefully unreadable. "Maybe you’re right," he admitted, his voice quieter now. His gaze flickered away, settling on the vast, empty corridor beyond his brother. The castle loomed around them—ancient, unfeeling, and yet somehow more welcoming than anything he had ever known.

"But even if they don’t want me here," he continued, his voice gaining strength, "my life here is still better than all that would await me if I came with you." He finally looked back at Tom, his expression resolute. "I am staying here."

For a moment, Tom said nothing. His face remained unreadable, but his fingers twitched at his side.

Then, with a small nod—whether of acceptance or disappointment, Mattheo couldn't tell—Tom took a step back. "Fine," he said. "Then don’t come crawling back when you realize you made a mistake."

Mattheo let out a slow breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He glanced around the hall—the towering walls, the flickering torches, the vast emptiness of it all.

No, it wasn’t perfect.

But it was better than that life.

And for now, that was enough.