August 8th, Year 1437
Lucius Earhart
– Are you certain it's wise to grow closer to the young master? – Cedric asked quietly, eyes fixed to the floor, as if the very question was already too bold.
I didn't answer right away. I simply turned my gaze toward him—less a rebuke, more a quiet fatigue veiled beneath composure. Cedric flinched slightly, and as if guided by some unspoken instinct, averted his eyes.
– What exactly troubles you? – I asked after a pause. – His rising popularity? Father's recognition? Or the fact that Raphael, with nothing more than a handful of untested youth, managed to carry out an operation you deemed hopeless?
He remained silent. His back was straight, posture rigid, but the tension in his shoulders was thick—like the morning mist in the garden, where the dew has yet to dry beneath the first rays of sun.
