The family cruiser did not hum the way public transports did. It breathed.
The cabin lighting was softer, warmer, calibrated not for efficiency but for comfort. The wide viewport curved along the starboard wall, revealing Luna receding slowly as we transitioned into upper transit lanes. The magnetic stabilizers adjusted with subtle shifts that only those accustomed to them would notice. I sat opposite Whitescale, my travel case secured beside me, watching the surface of the moon give way to distance.
Two guards occupied the forward section of the cabin, positioned without appearing rigid. They did not speak unless required. Their presence was not decorative; it was structural. One of them Argelia rested an elbow casually against the inner rail, pretending not to listen while listening to everything.
Whitescale sat across from me with one leg crossed over the other, posture relaxed but alert in the way only seasoned men ever truly achieve. He wore a dark green suit that fit him with effortless precision, the black shirt beneath it left open at the collar, two buttons undone to reveal twin silver chains resting against his chest. One bore a small religious insignia I had seen since childhood; the other supported a military dog tag worn smooth by years of contact. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, revealing scarred forearms and the absence of his left pinky finger, a detail that had fascinated me when I was younger. It had never seemed to inconvenience him. The rings on his fingers were understated but deliberate, each one bearing a small inscription or crest too fine to read from distance. A silver monocle rested over his right eye, connected to the family data hub secured along the back of his hand. His black hair was cut clean, though a streak of white ran from each temple toward the back of his head like twin brushstrokes of premature frost.
His skin was a rich copper tone that caught the cabin lighting warmly, and his pale blue eyes were the kind that noticed more than they announced. "You've been quiet," he said at last, studying me without accusation. "I was thinking," I replied. "That is usually a good sign." I shifted slightly in my seat. "The academy's restructuring the philosophy curriculum next term." He tilted his head a fraction. "In what direction?"
"Integration," I said. "They're blending classical frameworks with applied governance. Less theory isolated from action." A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "And how do you feel about that?" he asked, "I prefer the theory," I admitted. "It's cleaner."
"Cleaner is not always truer." I leaned back slightly, folding my hands together. "We started Descartes this term. 'I think, therefore I am.'" I paused, searching for the phrasing as I had written it in my notes. "The idea that existence begins in awareness. That identity stabilizes through cognition." Whitescale watched me with quiet interest. "And?" he said eyes not leaving me for a second, "I like it," I said honestly. "It feels… controlled. If I think, I exist. If I reason, I remain." He smiled properly then, a small but genuine expression. "Aristotle would argue you're beginning in the wrong place." I raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"
"'Knowing yourself is the beginning of all wisdom,'" he recited evenly. "Not merely thinking, but understanding what you are thinking as." I considered that for a moment. "Self-awareness before assertion." he could see the mechanics of my brain at work, "Before authority," he corrected gently. The cruiser shifted subtly as we cleared Luna's gravitational threshold. Outside the viewport, the curvature of the moon softened into distance. "I've also been studying the familiar bonding trials," I said after a moment. "Synrex spoke about them today." Whitescale's expression adjusted slightly not concern, but attentiveness sharpened. "And what did he emphasize?"
"That coherence matters more than strength," I replied. "That a familiar tests identity, not dominance." the air between us thick like two philosopher at war of understanding something about the cruelty of nature "That is accurate." he whispered, "They can kill you," I added. "They can," he said without dramatics. I nodded slowly. "And I have to complete a punishment slip during the break." That earned a short, amused exhale from him. "Professor Dame?"
"Yes." He leaned back slightly, monocle catching the cabin light. "I see Dame is still the same as when we were young men." I looked up quickly. "You trained together?" disbelief betraying my face not knowing it showed, "For a time," he said, eyes narrowing faintly with memory. "He was insufferable then too." I allowed myself a small smile. "He kicked Cælinus in class."
"That would not surprise me." Before I could continue, movement disrupted the cabin's balance. Argelia did not approach quietly, one moment she stood at the forward rail, the next she launched herself across the cabin with deliberate exaggeration, landing against me with enough weight to drive the breath from my lungs. "Centurion" I began, but the word dissolved into air as she forced me backward into the seat. "You've grown soft," she declared dramatically. "You're heavy," I managed, attempting to push her off. She gasped in theatrical offense. "Heavy?"
"All that training," I muttered, struggling to shift her center of gravity. "And I still can't handle your weight." she barely moved regardless of how hard i tried, "Exactly," she said triumphantly. "All that training, eating, sleeping, and you still complain. Weak."
Whitescale did not rise from his seat. He simply observed with patient amusement. "Argelia," he said evenly, "you are a decorated Centurion. Kindly stop behaving like an unsupervised child." Centurion Argelia Di Sandro rolled off me with exaggerated sadness, standing upright and placing a hand over her chest. "He insults me," she said, directing a mock-frown toward Whitescale. "In front of family."
Whitescale's pale blue eyes shifted to me briefly before returning to her. "He inherited honesty from his father." She turned back to me immediately. "Spar," she said. I straightened in my seat. "Now?"
"Yes," she replied, already stepping back to create space. "Let's see if you remember anything I taught you." Whitescale's gaze settled on me then, not instructing, not restraining. Simply watching. I rose slowly. "If we're doing this," I said, adjusting my sleeves, "we might as well make it interesting." Argelia's eyes narrowed with curiosity. "Go on."
"Five clean hits," I said. "First to land them wins." She smiled immediately. "Agreed." this was no surprise to me knowing the woman's love for a spar and her deeper love for teaching me my place, "Loser buys drinks when we reach Home." She paused, calculating. "For everyone?" she looked at me eyes sparkling "For everyone," I confirmed. She extended her hand. "Done." I looked past her to Whitescale. "Float me?" He blinked once. "I don't have cash until we reach home," I explained smoothly. "Consider it an advance."
Understanding dawned slowly across his expression, followed by reluctant amusement. "You are creating debts before you earn income." face like a painting and voice of power couldn't turn me away from this bet "Investment," I corrected. Argelia folded her arms. "Are you negotiating sponsorship mid-challenge?" Whitescale shook his head, laughing under his breath. "Very well," he said at last. "I will cover your wager. But you will repay it." i pretend disbelief shaking my head "I always do," I replied. "That," he said dryly, "remains to be seen."
Argelia stepped back, rolling her shoulders as the cabin's internal gravity recalibrated slightly to accommodate movement. "Five hits," she reminded me. "Five," I echoed. And as the cruiser cut steadily through the dark beyond Luna, somewhere between discipline and affection, between philosophy and bruises, the break officially began.
Argelia and I circled each other in the central section of the cruiser's cabin, the internal gravity slightly reinforced at Whitescale's request to prevent accidental structural damage. The polished floor reflected the cabin lights faintly, and beyond the viewport Luna had shrunk to a silver crescent. Argelia's posture was loose, deceptively relaxed, but I had trained under her long enough to recognize the calculation beneath it. Her weight shifted almost imperceptibly between her feet, shoulders angled slightly inward, chin tucked just enough to conceal intention.
"Wow," she said, tilting her head with exaggerated appraisal, "someone has really been training."I exhaled slowly through my nose. "You taught me." showing my boyish grin and a soldiers stand "Don't flatter yourself." she said mockingly. I adjusted my stance, lowering my center of gravity slightly. I was about to respond properly when she moved, there was no visible preparation.
She dropped low and accelerated toward me, her speed abrupt and clean. I reacted instinctively, attempting to close distance before she could capitalize on momentum. Rushing in often disrupts a speed-based attack; it collapses the space required for leverage. But Argelia had already anticipated that adjustment.
At the last second, she braced her palm against the reinforced flooring, converting forward motion into vertical lift. Her body coiled and uncoiled in one seamless transition, launching upward and over me in a fluid arc. For half a second I tracked where she had been rather than where she was, and that half-second was enough.
She landed behind my right shoulder and delivered a controlled strike that snapped my torso forward. The impact was precise not full power, but clean. "One," she said calmly. Whitescale's laughter rolled softly through the cabin. "Careful," he advised, adjusting the monocle slightly as he observed. "You are not back in the academy. Centurion Di Sandro has years of combat behind those shoulders."
I straightened, jaw tightening slightly from the impact. I nodded once toward Whitescale without breaking eye contact with Argelia. She smiled faintly. "That look," she said. "That's better." We reset.
This time I did not rush. I let her initiate distance changes while I focused on reading the tension in her hips and shoulders rather than her feet. She feinted left, testing reaction speed. I did not commit. She shifted weight again and came in high, which I parried cleanly, redirecting her forearm while stepping inside her range. I landed a light but valid strike against her ribs before pivoting out of reach. "One," I said evenly. She nodded once in acknowledgment.
The exchange intensified gradually rather than explosively. We traded controlled strikes, each testing timing and patience. She clipped my thigh with a low sweep that nearly destabilized me; I recovered and tagged her shoulder in return. By the fourth exchange my breathing had deepened, and by the fifth she landed a glancing strike along my jaw that snapped my head sideways just enough to remind me she had not forgotten how to end things quickly.
"Five," she declared, stepping back. I touched my jaw lightly and felt the warmth building beneath the skin. "You could have taken it easier," I muttered. She laughed outright at that, the sound sharp and unapologetic. "You bet drinks." Whitescale rose from his seat then, smoothing his sleeves as though concluding a formal meeting. "And you owe everyone on this cruiser," he said pleasantly. "Prepare yourself accordingly."
I looked between them, narrowing my eyes slightly. "You coordinated that." Argelia folded her arms, expression innocent. "Coordinated what?" Whitescale adjusted the cuff of his suit. "Debt is an educational tool." Before I could respond, Argelia stepped behind me and slipped an arm loosely around my neck in a playful headlock, careful not to apply real pressure. "Debts must be paid, little man," she said into my ear. "I'm taller than you," I protested. "Only vertically."
The cruiser's descent thrusters activated then, the vibration subtle but distinct as Mercury's gravity signature engaged. Through the viewport, the planet's surface glowed in harsh brilliance, its scarred terrain reflecting intense sunlight in blinding streaks. Defensive atmospheric arrays shimmered faintly at the edges of orbit, refracting radiation into controlled dispersion fields.
By the time the cruiser settled into docking alignment, my jaw ached faintly and Argelia looked entirely satisfied. The main shaft doors opened with a controlled hydraulic release, revealing the docking corridor beyond. Warm air rushed inward, carrying the mineral tang of Mercury's regulated atmosphere. I adjusted my bag over my shoulder and stepped down onto the platform, boots striking metal with familiar resonance.
My data hub vibrated against my wrist before I had taken three steps. Quentin. I activated the projection and his image stabilized mid-stride, hair slightly disheveled, expression animated. "What happened?" he demanded immediately. "You took longer than expected." he exhaled "Combat," I replied. He leaned closer toward the projection field. "With who?"
"Argelia." His eyes widened. "You're alive?" he whispered not wanting her to hear his voice "Technically." i said still breathing heavy. He laughed "I had to leave early. My father insisted on dinner with a potential family he wants me to marry into." I stopped walking briefly. "You?"
"Yes, me," he said, rolling his eyes. "Apparently alliances require sacrifice." I tilted my head. "You trapped princess," I said evenly. "Like the old Earth stories." He stared at me for a beat before bursting into laughter. "If I'm a princess, you're the brooding knight." My face tensed slightly brooding, "I don't brood." i hissed "You absolutely brood." he said mid laughter.
Before I could retaliate verbally, Argelia leaned into the projection field from behind my shoulder. "Quentin Messier," she said smoothly. "Are you currently dating anyone?" He blinked. "That depends who's asking." i never get tired of these two and their childish manners, i swear if it weren't for the age difference you'd think Argelia was our age mate. "Are you single?" she continued, ignoring the question. "Because if you are, I know just the right prince for you."
Quentin froze, then pointed accusingly at me. "You planned this." I had been trapped into one of their moments again, "I did not," I said calmly, Whitescale's laughter carried faintly in the background. Quentin shook his head, grinning despite himself. "I will remember this betrayal." As we continued walking along the docking corridor toward the private transport terminal, a smaller voice cut through the ambient noise. "Aziri!" I looked up.
My younger sister was running toward me, hair untamed by discipline, expression bright and unguarded. The sight of her dissolved whatever residual tension remained from the corridor encounter earlier. "I have to go," I said to Quentin, smiling despite myself. He nodded. "Call tonight." he said "I will." with a gentle smile for my friend, "And ask your father about watching the Diamond Rain," he added quickly. "Don't forget."
"I won't." i insisted. The projection faded as I lowered my wrist, and I barely had time to brace before my sister collided into me with far less control than Argelia had shown earlier. This time, I did not complain about the weight.
She collided into me with full momentum, small arms wrapping around my waist as though I had been gone for years rather than months. I caught her easily before the force of it could send us both backward, laughing despite the ache still lingering along my ribs. "You took forever," she accused, pulling back just enough to glare up at me "I was gone five months," I replied. "Not five years." smiling at her, "That's the same thing."
Whitescale stepped forward smoothly and relieved me of my travel case while Argelia shifted behind us with practiced instinct. Two guards fell into formation at a respectful distance, and my sister's personal caretaker joined us quietly from the docking corridor. As we began walking toward the estate gates, she slipped her hand into mine and began speaking without pause. "I missed you," she declared. "Everyone has been boring. Even Argelia." Argelia let out a theatrical gasp behind us. "Boring?" i looked like a young father now, "Very boring." Sofia said in her young innocent way, "I risk my life daily," Argelia muttered. "You nap daily," she corrected.
I shook my head as we passed beneath the outer archway of the manor's perimeter. The Vaillancourt estate rose before us in quiet magnificence, its off-white stone glowing beneath Mercury's regulated sunlight. The building did not shout wealth; it embodied it. Tall black doors dominated the central entrance, carved deeply with our crest—the four-eyed serpent coiled around a throne each line etched with such precision that shadow and light seemed to animate it.
Security posts flanked the main approach, embedded within sculpted stone columns that controlled entry for vehicles and foot traffic alike. As we walked through, guards straightened and inclined their heads. "Welcome home, Aziri." Maids and estate staff mirrored the gesture with softer warmth. It never failed to feel surreal returning not merely to a house, but to a living structure of lineage and memory. "Carry me," she demanded suddenly.
I lifted her without resistance and settled her onto my shoulders. She squealed in satisfaction, hands tangling lightly in my hair. Argelia moved instantly and fastened a compact pulse shield around her waist with efficient precision. The device activated with a faint hum, an invisible barrier calibrated to absorb impact before harm could reach her. "In case you forget how to walk," Argelia said lightly. "I never forget," I replied. "Everyone forgets," she countered.
We had nearly crossed into the inner courtyard when a voice cut through the air. "Sofia M. Vaillancourt." The name was not shouted. It did not need to be. It carried authority without raising volume, the small body on my shoulders went rigid. Fifi slid down behind me at once, attempting to conceal herself between my back and Whitescale's composed presence. I turned, the greenhouse stood to the right of the manor, its arched glass panels catching the afternoon light and refracting it into prismatic streaks across the courtyard stone. Within it, beneath filtered sunlight and layered foliage, stood my mother. The greenhouse was her domain.
Rows of altered trees stretched in curated harmony behind her orange trees whose fruit glowed deeper than natural citrus, peaches ripened to impossible softness, banana clusters thick and golden with enhanced nutrient density. Each tree had been adjusted through years of genetic refinement, calibrated not only for yield but for fragrance, resilience, and flavor. And then there were the apple trees. They stood closer to the glass, where the light was strongest.
I had planted the first one with her when I was small enough to require assistance holding the spade. I remembered the soil beneath my fingernails, the way she had guided my hands rather than corrected them. Over the years those trees had changed. Their fruit no longer resembled common orchard apples. They grew slightly larger, their skin luminous with faint marbling that caught sunlight like polished stone. The reds were deeper, almost garnet; the greens carried veins of gold beneath the surface. Their scent was unmistakable sweet but layered, carrying notes of honeyed spice and something faintly floral that lingered longer than expected. They were more filling than ordinary fruit, engineered to sustain energy longer, yet they remained beautiful enough to be mistaken for art.
My mother stood among them as though she had grown from the soil itself. She was tall nearly a foot taller than me and carried that height with effortless grace. Her silver hair fell in waves that mirrored my own, catching the greenhouse light and reflecting it in quiet brilliance. Her eyes, pale and steady, held the same reflective quality as mine, though where mine unsettled, hers commanded. Her skin was a flawless olive-tanned tone, luminous beneath the filtered glass.
She wore a simple earth-toned dress, its cut modest and elegant. On another woman, it would have been understated. On her, it transformed. The fabric seemed to contour not merely to her form but to her presence, becoming something ceremonial without adornment. I remembered Father giving it to her during the Allied Summit in old Canada two years ago. I remembered the way the room had shifted when she entered.
Now, framed by altered orchards and filtered light, she appeared less like a political figure and more like something deliberately sculpted by time itself. She stepped forward from the greenhouse threshold. When she reached us, she did not greet me first. "Sofia M. Vaillancourt," she repeated.
Fifi peeked out from behind me, eyes wide with carefully crafted innocence. It is a dangerous thing to be adored by someone so small and so intelligent. She knows precisely how to widen her eyes, how to tilt her head, how to soften her voice until even I must struggle not to surrender immediately. Mother regarded her for a moment longer than necessary before shifting her gaze to me. She cupped my face in both hands.
The contact was warm, grounding, and absolute. She studied me with quiet intensity before leaning forward and kissing both of my cheeks. "By the Emperor," she murmured softly, "you returned in good health." I smiled before I could restrain it, inhaling the familiar scent of her—floral, warm, faintly sweet, layered with the orchard behind her. I had not realized how deeply I missed it until that moment. "I did," I replied. "Mostly." Her eyes flickered briefly toward the faint bruise along my jaw. "Mostly?" she asked. "Training," I answered.
There was the faintest curve at the edge of her lips that suggested she knew precisely what that meant. Before Fifi could leverage her innocence further, I straightened slightly and inclined my head. "I am tired from transit," I said carefully. "May I be excused to shower?" Mother's gaze softened again then shifted. It is difficult to describe the difference. For a heartbeat, she did not look at me only as her son. She looked at me as inheritance. As continuity. As something that must be measured as well as loved. "Your father will arrive within twelve hours," she said evenly. "We will meet him at the docking station." i nodded "Yes, Mother."
"Your brother and sister are already here," she continued. "Greet them before you disappear." said still stand and looking at me with all her beautiful, "I will." She held my gaze one second longer, searching for something unspoken. Then she nodded. "Go."
I bowed properly before turning toward the manor entrance. As I walked, I could feel her eyes on my back. There was warmth in that gaze. Pride. Relief. And something else not fear. Not doubt. But concealment. The greenhouse doors reflected her silhouette for a moment longer before the manor swallowed me into cooler shadow.