Quentin circled me like an appraiser inspecting a suspiciously altered artifact. His amber hair caught the sunlight filtering through the apple branches, and his lime-green eyes narrowed theatrically as he reached forward and pressed a firm finger into my chest. I could feel the pressure distinctly more distinctly than I remembered feeling such small contact before as though my skin had learned to register touch with sharper clarity.
"Someone has beefed up in the last six days," he declared, poking again at my shoulder and then stepping back to examine my height with exaggerated scrutiny. "You've even become taller. Don't tell me the Ape has been feeding you some of his and that monstrous familiar of his food, or maybe you've gone back to drinking milk again." He winked at his own joke, already amused by himself.
I let out a slow breath through my nose, folding my arms loosely across my chest and studying him with deliberate calm. "Oh?" I replied evenly. "You nervous I might get taller than you, princess?"
The word landed exactly where it needed to. Jabir let out a short, controlled laugh that escaped before he could contain it, and even Diana's composure fractured slightly as she covered her mouth to hide her smile. Sofia, of course, laughed freely without understanding the weight of the history embedded in the exchange. Quentin turned sharply toward Jabir, eyes narrowing in mock betrayal. "It's fantasy seeing you laugh, little puss." The air shifted almost imperceptibly.
Jabir's smile vanished immediately, replaced by the familiar look that said he remembered exactly where that nickname had come from. Years ago, when we were younger and far less capable, Jabir had panicked in a narrow cave tunnel after becoming lodged between rock walls due to his then rounder build. Quentin had never let him forget it. "Little puss" had been born that day, alongside bruised pride and bruised knees. Jabir's gaze hardened, though the corners of his mouth still twitched faintly. "Careful," he said quietly, stepping closer.
Watching them now, I could not help but laugh not at them, but at memory. I remembered Jabir as a chubby, untamed child with hair like a manic lion, always slightly out of breath but never out of heart. I remembered Quentin as a tiny devil with messy amber hair and a stocky frame that looked like it had been built for stubborn survival. We had called him the Ugly Princess once. Sometimes the Leprechaun. It had never mattered what the names were, only that we gave them to each other without mercy.
Now they stood before me taller, stronger, sharper in face and frame, but the same current ran beneath them. They were my closest friends, bound not by blood but by shared stupidity and shared danger. The only difference between them and Sextus was lineage, and even that sometimes felt like a thin line.
As if summoned by memory itself, Sextus entered the garden path from the manor side. His presence altered space the way mountains alter wind. The sunlight struck the muted silver details on his fitted attire, catching faintly along the broad planes of his shoulders. He moved with that effortless heaviness that made smaller men seem ornamental.
Quentin did not hesitate. He sprinted toward him with all the grace of a reckless animal and leapt directly onto his back, wrapping his arms around Sextus's shoulders. "Ape!" he shouted triumphantly. Sextus barely adjusted his stance under the impact. He turned his head slightly, silver hair brushing his shoulder as he replied in a voice that vibrated through his chest like low thunder. "Princess."
The size difference between them was almost comical, yet they fit in that moment like mismatched pieces of the same weapon. Their relationship had always defied explanation. They sparred harder than most soldiers trained. They argued louder than council members debating territory. And yet when separated, they grew restless. I once read about oxpeckers and rhinos in an Old Earth text small birds that perched upon massive beasts, feeding off parasites while the larger creature tolerated their presence. But in this case, both creatures were half-mad and equally addicted to combat. That was Quentin and Sextus. Two feral things recognizing kinship in violence.
They joined us on the stone seating near the garden's center, and for a time we talked in overlapping bursts new techniques learned, training injuries hidden, exaggerated stories of near-victories and near-deaths. Sofia darted between them like a sovereign of chaos, occasionally striking Quentin with tiny fists and declaring herself champion.
The sunlight shifted slowly across the garden, warming the stone beneath us. I could feel the contrast between sunlit sections of the seating and the shaded coolness near the apple trees. The scent of fruit and fresh grass mingled with the faint sweetness of the cider perfume I wore. The air tasted clean, touched lightly with citrus from the altered orange trees.
A maid approached quietly from the manor doors and bowed her head slightly. "Dinner is ready," she announced softly. "It is being served in the main dining hall." The words altered posture immediately. Even laughter quieted slightly.
I scooped Sofia up instinctively, lifting her onto my shoulder in a motion that had become second nature. She shrieked in delight and gripped my hair as though steering a beast into battle. Jabir fell into step beside me, his shoulder brushing mine deliberately as if to confirm I was truly there. Diana walked just ahead with composed grace, and behind her trailed what I could only describe as the oxpecker and the rhino, still arguing loudly about new grappling techniques and hypothetical sparring outcomes in the training room.
As we crossed the threshold back into the manor, Quentin leaned slightly closer to me. "We're leaving after dinner," he said casually, though the weight beneath it was clear. "Heading to Mars for the Warrior Summit. We only came because you weren't replying. Figured we'd check on you in person." A faint crease formed between my brows. "I was busy," I replied, and even to my own ears it sounded insufficient. He tapped my shoulder once, firm but understanding. "We know. Diana and your mother told us."
The corridors felt cooler than the garden, shadows stretching long across the polished floors as we approached the dining hall. I could hear distant movement within chairs shifting, low murmurs, the faint clink of glassware. Then I felt it. The pressure. Subtle at first, like the change in air before a storm. Every conversation behind me softened. Even Sofia's chatter dimmed instinctively. We did not need confirmation. We knew. Father.
By the time we entered the dining hall, we were no longer laughing boys. We straightened unconsciously, shoulders squared, voices lowered, movements controlled. It was not fear. It was recognition. We took our places like young men before their lord, and the warmth of the garden settled quietly behind us like something that would return later but not here.