The Last Godfall: Transmigrated as the Young Master

"When you talk like this, you sound less like the child I brought up and more like someone I hardly recognize."

The words caught him off guard. For a heartbeat, he wondered if she saw through him. But her expression carried nothing accusing, only weariness. He forced a small smile. "Then I'll try harder to sound like him."

She watched him a moment longer, but didn't press. Instead, she touched Jeriko's arm, holding it gently. "If he could speak, he'd tell you not to rush into this trip. He always thought you leapt before you looked."

"And I always thought he worried too much."

"You're more alike than you think," she said, her eyes still fixed on Jeriko. "That's why the two of you argued so often."

He lowered his eyes to the floor. Inheriting Vencian's memories meant he understood the truth in her observation, but he himself hadn't lived those arguments. He carried the guilt of knowing he was filling a role Jeriko would never recognize again. "Then maybe it's easier this way," he said quietly. "He can't argue with me now."

Her breath escaped somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. "You say the cruelest things, Vencian."

"They're true," he replied, though the conviction in his voice faltered.

Her hand slipped back into her lap, resting on her knee. "Go, then. I won't stop you. But don't think I'll forgive you if you return in pieces."

"I'll come back whole."

"You can't promise that."

"Then I'll lie and say I can."

She looked at him then, her eyes softening even as her lips held steady. For the first time in the conversation, he felt something genuine rise in his chest—an ache that hadn't belonged to him a month ago but had grown all the same. It unsettled him, but he stayed seated, unwilling to leave her yet.

The room fell silent again, filled only with Jeriko's steady breathing.

— — —

Roselys stood by the tall window of the High Preceptor's office, her fingers tracing the patterns on the windowsill. From here, the grounds stretched outward in lines of green and stone, broken by the glimmer of the Daraeth River.

Far in the haze, even the tower of Quesil Migdol left a faint mark against the horizon. She stared at it longer than needed. It was easier than thinking about the conversation that was about to begin.

The heavy wooden door creaked open. High Preceptor Larion entered, shoulders squared in his usual manner, a faint smile crossing his face as his gaze landed on her. "So it was true. You did come see me today."

She turned slightly, keeping her expression neutral. "I thought it was time."

He set aside a stack of folders on the table before moving toward her. His eyes, softened with warmth, carried a trace of surprise. "I'm glad. You haven't been by the house in far too long. I almost thought you meant to keep your distance forever."

Her reply came without hesitation. "You know why I stayed away."

Larion sighed and lowered himself into the chair behind his desk. "Yes, you've made your reasons clear before. But still, a family isn't meant to remain divided."

Roselys walked toward the desk, seating herself across from him. Her tone stayed careful. "I didn't come to argue over that."

"Then why are you here?" He drummed his fingers on the desk, a patient look forming, as though he already guessed the answer.

"I want to ask a favor," she said, and her voice held less weight than she wished it did. "There's an opening under Professor Thalverin. I want to serve as his assistant. His work in archaic studies—"

Larion lifted a brow. "Thalverin?" A small chuckle slipped out. "With the thesis you've produced, he'd be the one asking you for guidance, not the other way around."

Roselys stiffened at the remark. He always had this way of saying things—praise that carried more pressure than comfort. "Even so, I want to learn directly from him. I can gain more by working close."

His gaze sharpened as he leaned forward slightly. "Or is there something you're not telling me? You've already proven yourself. Your thesis is being discussed across every faculty hall. Do you really think you need my permission anymore?"

She looked away, fixing her eyes on the neat rows of scrolls along the wall. "I'd still prefer your support."

For a moment, silence stretched. Then his tone mellowed again. "If it's support you want, you've always had it. You're my daughter."

The word weighed on her more than she could show. She pressed her fingers against the armrest. "Not everyone agrees with that."

"Ah." His smile faded. "So we're back to this again. You avoiding your sister, keeping away from home because of her. Roselys, she'll never change if you keep running. You think this distance is helping, but it isn't."

Her throat tightened. She wanted to argue, but the words would only repeat old paths. Instead, she spoke in a lower tone. "I don't want to cause more harm. That's all."

Larion shook his head, exhaling slowly. "You see harm where there's only jealousy. She needs time. And you—" He stopped himself, studying her face. "You need a place that's more than borrowed chambers and cold halls. Come back home, even if only for a while."

Unease twisted in her chest. Going back would mean looking into eyes that reminded her daily of what she had broken. "That isn't possible."

Before he could press further, a knock sounded at the door. An attendant stepped in, carrying a stack of letters and reports. Larion accepted them with a nod, scanning the first page as if to steady his thoughts. The interruption gave her a chance to breathe, though it left a knot inside her.

When the door closed again, he set the papers aside. "I'll speak with Thalverin," he said finally. "He'd be foolish to decline you. But I want you to promise me you'll reconsider the rest."

"I can't promise that," she answered quickly, then forced herself to add, "but I'm grateful for the help."

He watched her a moment longer, as if searching for the part she wasn't saying aloud. But he let it rest.

On the desk between them lay a bound copy of her thesis. The pages bore her handwriting, the theories already sparking conversations among scholars. The scarlet trail she had written about, traced across the surface of the moon, remained the center of it. What no one else knew was that it had appeared on the same night Luke Marlowe's soul crossed into this world.