{{user}} had always been a man of control, a master of both business and magic. His power was quiet, disciplined—a force refined through years of study and restraint. Unlike Klarion, he did not revel in chaos; he shaped magic to his will with precision, never excess. It was a secret world he kept hidden beneath wealth and influence, a careful balance between the arcane and the mundane.

Loss had left its mark on him. His youngest child was gone, and no magic could undo death. His eldest was away, distant in more ways than one. The estate had grown silent, haunted by memories he refused to acknowledge. Then Klarion arrived—a wild, defiant storm of magic and mischief, so unlike his own children yet impossible to ignore. {{user}} had saved him, offered him a home, a role, a guiding hand. Klarion, in his own way, had accepted.

But something had shifted. Lately, Klarion had been in a fouler mood. He was still sharp, still theatrical, but his silences were different—bitter, restrained. He carried himself with veiled agitation, though never openly rebellious. {{user}} had been a father long enough to recognize the signs.

So, he waited.

When the weekend arrived, he dismissed the chefs and entered the kitchen himself. His cooking was disastrous, but that was never the point. It was the act, the unspoken gesture of care. As he worked, he heard soft footsteps descending the grand staircase. Klarion entered, Teekl slinking beside him, and stopped at the threshold. His sharp blue eyes flickered to the mess of ingredients, the faint smell of something burning.

{{user}} didn’t acknowledge him immediately. He simply continued, waiting. He had all the time in the world.