Lanterns in the Fog

The celebration at the Virell Estate had finally begun to quiet. The clinking of glasses, bursts of laughter, and smooth strains of the orchestra still hummed through the halls, but deep inside one of the older lounges—past the mahogany doors and beneath the aged chandelier—two men sat in calm retreat.

Hadrian Elion, still dressed in his dark uniform with the medals pinned at his chest, leaned back into the leather armchair with a quiet exhale. Across from him, Fred Virell, patriarch of the Virell family, swirled a rich amber liquor in a heavy glass, his expression unreadable.

The room smelled of firewood and aged scotch. A chessboard sat between them, untouched.

"I see you still drink the same brand," Hadrian murmured, nodding to the label.

Fred smirked. "And you still don't. But you'll sit through mine anyway."

"It's what brothers-in-arms do."

A long silence stretched between them—not uncomfortable, merely full of memory.

Then Fred spoke, his voice low but sure. "I watched them tonight, you know. Dancing. Not the bride and groom. Callum and Seraphine."

Hadrian took a breath, folding his hands loosely. "I watched, too. Their steps weren't perfect… but they didn't break away."

Fred gave a single nod. "They never understood why we wanted that marriage so badly."

"No," Hadrian agreed. "But they will."

"They think we forced it because of duty or politics."

"Maybe partially. But not fully."

Fred glanced toward the fireplace, his voice quiet. "I saw it in Callum early. That shadow. That intensity. He feels too much. If he falls, he falls hard. And he had no one to pull him back from it."

"You were afraid of Dahlia?" Hadrian asked.

"I was afraid of what she unlocked in him," Fred admitted. "She was his softness. But too much softness unguarded? That's how sons break."

Hadrian remained still, but there was something almost wistful in his tone. "And you thought my daughter would be his edge."

Fred chuckled faintly. "Your daughter is the blade, Hadrian. Honed and measured. I didn't want to dull my son. I wanted to give him something that could carry him when his own strength failed."

There was no toast. No agreement needed. Just two men, old enough to know that love wasn't always enough. That sometimes, protection came in the form of inconvenient choices.

"I only hope," Hadrian finally said, "that when they look back… they understand we didn't do it for control."

Fred raised his glass. "But because we knew what they were capable of… together."

---

Later that evening, before the final guests began departing, Fred Virell stepped outside onto the stone veranda, where Dahlia stood alone under the trimmed ivy arch.

She turned when she sensed his presence, but didn't move away.

The night wind played with the loose strands of her hair. She looked softer in the pale light, not like a bride's rival—but like a girl who had lost more than she ever confessed.

Fred stopped beside her.

"Dahlia."

She bowed her head slightly. "Mr. Virell."

He took a moment to look at her—really look. Not the polished poise she always wore in front of Callum, but the quiet woman she had become.

"I wanted you to know," Fred said, voice steady, "I never hated you."

Dahlia's fingers curled slightly against the stone railing, but somehow, her heart was filled with ease.

"I didn't reject you for your family or your face. That wasn't it. I saw what you meant for Callum. You were… the beginning."

She didn't look at him, but her jaw tensed.

Fred continued, "But not every beginning is the right one. You were everything he craved. Comfort. Escape. A softness he didn't have to earn. But it made him careless. He started skipping classes to accompany you on your mother's hospital appointments. Later, he ignored his responsibilities in the company. He wanted to run away with you and abandon the empire built on our shoulders."

Fred took a deep breath and paused. Then, she looked at Dahlia once more and added, "He is in a delusion of living a princely life of a fairytale lovestory."

He didn't speak harshly. Just factually. A father remembering a boy who nearly lost himself.

"I didn't dislike you," he said again. "But I feared what you unlocked in him was the door to his destruction."

Silence.

Dahlia never answered.

She just stared out toward the garden where the lanterns dimmed, and the wind stirred rose petals across the stone path.

And Fred, with a nod, left her in that silence—neither condemned nor forgiven.

---

By the time Sera and Callum arrived at Avienne Hall, the quiet reclaimed the estate.

Callum stood at the base of the grand staircase, his tie loose, jacket gone, posture a little too still. Seraphine was nearby, giving instructions to Jonas when she noticed him watching her.

He didn't call her name. Just waited.

And when she approached, he didn't look away.

"Are you tired?" she asked.

"I've had worse deployments," he replied, arching a brow.

Callum's lips lifted faintly. But there was a weight to his gaze.

"I don't want to go inside yet," he said, softer this time. "Can we go out for a bit?"

Seraphine's eyes narrowed. "To drink?"

"Maybe one," he replied. "But not to get drunk. I just… I just want to breathe somewhere else."

His voice wasn't desperate.

It was almost a plea.

A quiet request for peace.

She held his gaze for a long moment before nodding once. "I'll drive."