The Kingdom of Diamond was in a state of cautious anticipation, with rumors of strained relations with the neighboring Kingdom of Creed growing louder by the day. Arlan, of course, only picked up fragmented whispers—stray words caught in passing, tense glances shared between the staff, and brief, serious conversations held behind closed doors. But even at two months old, he could sense an unspoken heaviness settling over his home.

The Kingdom of Creed was mentioned in the same way one might speak of a shadow on the horizon, a distant storm that everyone hoped would pass but none could ignore. It was a land known for its disciplined soldiers and formidable magical prowess, and the people of Diamond, though loyal and proud, couldn’t help but wonder what a clash between the two kingdoms might bring.

Baron Aldric Roquefort, head of House Roquefort and Arlan’s father, was often summoned to the capital for meetings with the king and his councilors. Arlan could see the toll it took on his father, who would return from each trip with a more serious look in his eye. Though Arlan couldn’t understand the words, he picked up on the heavy atmosphere that seemed to cling to his father’s shoulders, as if every meeting brought with it a burden he alone had to bear.

Despite his responsibilities and the growing tensions, Baron Roquefort would always find time for his son. These moments were the baron’s solace—a brief reprieve from his duties and the ever-present worries of potential war. Arlan became aware that, to his father, he was more than just an heir; he was a spark of hope, a future worth fighting for.

Every afternoon, when the baron returned from his duties, he would come to the nursery and scoop up Arlan with surprising gentleness. Arlan couldn’t understand the language yet, but he felt the warmth in his father’s voice as he murmured words of encouragement, his tone carrying a mixture of pride, hope, and affection.

“Arlan, my boy,” the baron would say, lifting him high with a small, rare smile. “You may not understand me now, but someday you’ll grow into a man who will lead this house—our family, our people. I know you’ll be strong.”

Arlan gazed up at his father, his young mind recognizing the intent, even if the words were foreign. There was something powerful in the way the baron looked at him—a conviction that ran deep, as though he saw in Arlan the potential to carry on the family’s legacy. And even though Arlan was still an infant, he felt a spark of determination awaken within him. He wasn’t just a child; he is the future of House Roquefort.

The baron, though gruff and somewhat formal with his subjects, was surprisingly gentle with his son. He would carry Arlan around the manor’s gardens, showing him the blooming flowers, the majestic trees, and the rolling hills that stretched beyond the estate’s borders. Sometimes, he would bring Arlan to the stables, introducing him to the family’s prized horses, patting their strong necks as he spoke softly.

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“This will all be yours one day, Arlan,” he would say, pointing toward the land. “Every inch of it, every person who works this soil—they’ll look to you. So, remember, strength is not only in the sword but in the heart. A true leader protects his people.”

In these moments, Arlan felt an odd sense of responsibility. His father’s words and gestures, though beyond his full understanding, gave him glimpses of the future waiting for him. He was more than just a child in this life; he was a son of the baron, with a legacy and duty ahead of him.

Arlan would reach out, tiny hands grasping at his father’s robes, as though he wanted to reassure the baron that he understood, that he would be ready one day. The baron’s smile would soften, and he would stroke Arlan’s hair, murmuring words of encouragement and pride.

One evening, after a particularly long day, the baron sat beside Arlan’s cradle, a weariness in his eyes that only Arlan seemed to notice. He gazed down at his son, his expression softened, and though Arlan couldn’t comprehend everything, he felt the weight of his father’s hopes.

“Arlan,” he said softly, his voice barely more than a murmur, “I know you can’t understand this yet, but one day you will. One day, when I’m no longer here, you’ll stand in my place, and you’ll need to be stronger than I ever was. You’re my only son, my heir… and everything I fight for now is to ensure you have a future.”

There was a long pause as the baron sighed, reaching a hand down to clasp Arlan’s tiny fingers. “The world is not always kind, my son. The Kingdom of Creed looms close, and there may come a day when you’ll have to defend all we hold dear. I pray that I’ll still be here to teach you when that time comes.”

Arlan could only stare up at his father, feeling the unspoken weight behind the words. Though he was only an infant, he recognized that his father’s love was not just tender but fierce—a love that was ready to shield him from harm, a love that would fight to the last breath to secure his future.

The baron’s gaze lingered on him, the edges of his eyes crinkling with a quiet pride, and for a fleeting moment, he seemed less like a warrior or a noble and more like a father—one who saw his own dreams and aspirations reflected in his son.

After a few quiet moments, the baron leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to Arlan’s forehead. “I’ll teach you everything I know, Arlan. You’ll learn to wield a sword, to command respect, and perhaps, with time, even to use magic as I do.” He raised a hand, and a faint, glowing light flickered at his fingertips before disappearing.

Arlan’s eyes widened, his heart racing at the sight. So, his father could use magic as well. The realization filled him with both excitement and a strange sense of responsibility. His father was not only a baron, not only his protector, but a wielder of magic—a power that Arlan hoped he might someday inherit.

Baron Roquefort sat with him for a while longer, his gaze thoughtful as he watched his son. Then, with a final, reassuring smile, he rose, leaving Arlan to drift into sleep.

(End of the Chapter).