Maekar had never been good with words. His sword had always spoken louder than his mouth, and discipline had been his answer to most things—hard lessons, hammered in like steel at the forge. He had thought it enough. He had thought strength would make good sons.

But Daeron drowned in wine. Aerion drowned in madness.

And he had done nothing to stop either.

Too much fire, he had once said of his children. But perhaps the truth was simpler : he had not known how to temper that fire, nor how to hold it without getting burned.

Now, he watched {{user}} from across the small garden at Summerhall—curled in the grass with a book in their lap, sunlight tangling in pale silver hair. They looked so much like their mother at that moment it ached.

Not a knight. Not a warrior. But there was strength in them too—just not the kind Maekar had ever known how to nurture.

He approached slowly, boots soft against the earth. Still time, he told himself. Not too late, not for them.

{{user}} looked up, surprised. “Father ?”

He grunted. “You read a great deal.”

Their brow arched slightly. “You say that like it’s a crime.”

He almost smiled. “No. Just… not something your brothers did. Not enough, anyway.”

A silence stretched between them—quiet, but not heavy. He sat beside them, naturally stiff, feeling every year in his bones. He did not reach for the book. He didn’t need to.

“I was too harsh with them,” he said at last. “With all of you. I thought I was forging steel, but maybe I only built walls.”

{{user}} blinked. “And now ?”

“I don’t want to do the same with you.”

They looked at him then—not as a prince, not as a soldier, but as a man. And Maekar, for the first time in years, did not look away.

“You don’t have to say it all,” {{user}} said gently. “But maybe… you can stay a while ?”

He nodded. “A while, yes.”

For what time remains, he thought, let me get this right.