Damen had prepared himself beforehand if his father sensed any sort of grief or sings of weakness from him, he would suffer consequences.

"Father…. I have returned, home," Damon replied softly, his voice nearly yielding to the formidable presence of the Allard family patriarch.

Arthur's gaze didn't soften. If anything, it grew sharper, as if weighing Damon's words, testing their sincerity.

"Home, is it?"

Arthur replied, his tone laced with barely concealed disdain. "So, you actually consider this place your home? Your previous actions hardly reflect that, Damon."

Damon's jaw tightened, but he forced himself to remain calm. He could feel the familiar weight of his father's disapproval settling in the air between them, as cold and unyielding as stone.

"Yes, Father," Damon replied, meeting Arthur's gaze directly.

"Regardless of what you think of me, I am here, and I intend to honour our family to honour the Allard family."

Arthur leaned back in his chair, a faint smirk playing on his lips.

"Honour, you say…. Young Damon like your foolish brother, you do not understand the word honour. You speak of it as if it's a virtue to cling to, yet you fail to grasp the truth of it." His eyes bore into Damon, unyielding, almost taunting.

"Honour is a weapon, a tool used by those strong enough to wield it properly." He continued harshly criticising Damon and his unalive brother.

A flicker of pain crossed Damon's face at the mention of his brother, but he quickly masked it. His Father's words weren't just a warning, they were a thinly veiled criticism of the dead, a reminder of his brother's supposed failings.

"And if you think anyone will pity you or grant you mercy because of your supposed 'honour'," Arthur continued, his tone cold, "you are mistaken. The world we inhabit sees such emotions as vulnerabilities to exploit. Those who lack the strength to wield power are the first to fall."

Damon swallowed, feeling the sting of his father's words. But he refused to flinch. He met Arthur's stare, a newfound resolve settling in his bones.

"I'm not here to hide, Father. I've come back because I belong here. I know what I'm stepping into."

Arthur nodded in understanding with no clear emotion on his aged face.

Damon studied his father closely, searching for any hint of emotion, any flicker of an unguarded expression. But, as always, Arthur's face was an impenetrable mask, betraying nothing he did not choose to reveal.

"Head to the dinning room your mother is waiting."

Damon's gaze softened at the mention of his mother. Unlike his father, whose presence always seemed to fill the room with an almost suffocating intensity, his mother's warmth was like a quiet balm, always gentle and accepting. He had spent years away from her, but the thought of her still brought a flicker of something close to comfort a rare, fragile feeling in this house.

His mother Arna despite not birthing him was extremely doting of him never treating him inferior to her blood son Alex.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Without a word, he turned and left the study, his footsteps echoing in the empty hall as he made his way to the dining room. Each step felt heavier than the last, the weight of unspoken words and old wounds pressing down on him.

Entering the dining room, Damon saw her seated at the far end of the table, her eyes lighting up as she noticed him. She rose, her hands reaching out, and Damon felt the familiar tug of relief and affection.

"Damon," Arna's voice was warm and filled with emotion. "It's been too long."

For the first time that day, he allowed himself a small, genuine smile.

He warmly embraced her and without even noticing tears formed on his eyes, his cheeks warming.

"It's all my fault mother…I left Alexander when he needed me here."

"You mustn't blame yourself Damon, Alexander made his own decisions." Arna softly replied with Damon in her embrace gently brushing his blonde hair with her hands, desperately trying to console him.

But Damon shook his head, his heart heavy with guilt more tears forming in his eyes. "But I should've been here, Mother..I… I was just so wrapped up in everything else that I let him face his battles alone. I'm nothing but a coward."

Arna's gaze softened, her fingers pausing in Damon's hair as she looked into his eyes, her own filled with both sadness and something unreadable.

"Damon, Alexander was strong in his own way. None of us could have foreseen what happened. It… wasn't your fault."

"But, Mother," Damon's voice trembled slightly, "something about all of this doesn't feel right. I can't shake the feeling that there's more to his death. Alex was troubled, but he wasn't reckless. He would have told me if he were in serious danger."

Arna sighed and looked away, her expression guarded. "Damon, there are some matters best left in the past, best left undisturbed. Your father has been very clear about this." She tightened her hold on his hand briefly, as if to steady both of them.

"Let tonight's dinner be a moment of peace."

Damon nodded reluctantly, sensing the walls that Arna, too, had built around her heart. His questions would have to wait—if he could find any answers at all in this house.

The dining room was soon filled with the quiet murmurs of servants, bustling around as they set the table for the evening's dinner. Arthur entered, his expression steely as he took his seat at the head of the table, eyes barely flicking to Damon. In a way, it felt as if the family was merely a set of roles and formalities, an orchestrated dance where each member had their part to play.

As the meal began, a cold silence hung in the air, broken only by the occasional clinking of silverware. After a moment, Arthur cleared his throat, his voice cutting through the quiet.

"There is an announcement regarding Alexander," he began, his tone measured, as if he were addressing a room full of business partners rather than family. "The funeral will be held this Saturday at noon and in accordance with tradition, we will conduct the ceremony with… dignity."

Damon glanced up at his father, struggling to contain his emotions. The word "dignity" felt hollow in Arthur's mouth, a veneer that barely concealed his disdain for the son he had lost. Damon clenched his fists under the table.

Arna's hand reached out to his, squeezing gently in a silent message: Keep your composure.

Arthur continued, looking past them both as though he were speaking to the walls.

"Alexander's legacy… whatever that may be, will be managed as per his will and in line with family expectations. We will discuss the particulars when the time is appropriate."

Damon couldn't hold back any longer. "Father, do you believe Alexander's death was truly an accident? Surely you must have considered that he was dealing with something more. Why are we acting as if there's nothing worth questioning?"

Arthur's gaze snapped to him, cold and sharp. "Your brother's choices were his own, Damon. This is neither the time nor place for your speculations."

Damon's jaw clenched, but he met his father's glare without flinching. "Then when is the right time, Father? When do we get to speak about what really happened?"

Arthur's face darkened, his knuckles tightening around his glass. For a moment, it looked as if he might respond, but he merely took a long, measured breath.

"Alexander's memory will be honored in the way this family decides and you would do well to remember that, Damon."

Silence fell across the table, thick and charged with unspoken tension. Damon glanced toward his mother, who offered him a sympathetic look but gave a slight shake of her head, pleading for him to let it go.

But Damon knew he wouldn't. If his father wouldn't give him answers, he'd find them himself.