The sleek black limo hummed softly as it glided down the winding country road leading to Ambrose Hall Academy. Inside, the atmosphere was tense, the air heavy with unspoken words. Edmund sat on one side of the polished leather seat, his back straight, hands resting lightly on his lap. His uniform was immaculate—blazer unwrinkled, tie perfectly aligned, and the golden buttons catching the faint light from the car’s interior.

Across from him, Percival lounged with his legs crossed, the picture of indifference. His blazer was slightly askew, and the top button of his shirt was undone, as if to mock the very notion of perfection their family demanded. He swirled a glass of whiskey lazily in his hand, breaking the silence with the faint clink of ice against glass.

“You could at least pretend to care about appearances,” Edmund remarked coolly, his hazel-green eyes meeting Percival’s with calculated precision. His voice was calm, as always, but carried an undertone of subtle admonishment.

Percival raised an eyebrow, leaning back further into the seat. “And you could loosen up for once, little brother. Not everything is a Belmont performance.”

Edmund’s gaze didn’t waver. “Our presence at the opening ceremony is a reflection of Father’s legacy. I refuse to tarnish it with carelessness.”

Percival smirked, lifting his glass in mock salute. “Always the perfect son, aren’t you? Tell me, do you ever get tired of being his little golden boy?”

Edmund’s expression remained unreadable, though the faintest flicker of something—irritation, perhaps—crossed his features. “If I were tired, I wouldn’t show it. Discipline, after all, is what separates us.”

The limo slowed as the towering gates of Ambrose Hall came into view, the intricate crest of the academy etched into their iron bars. The driver rolled down the window to present their invitation, and the gates creaked open, revealing the grand path lined with lanterns leading to the manor.

Percival downed the rest of his whiskey, setting the glass down