Chapter 267: Return

The carriage came to a halt just shy of the imposing gates of the Stonehelm estate, but Boren hesitated to step down.

He lingered for a few moments, gazing through the window at the towering iron gates ahead, their surface intricately engraved with the clan crest, a mountain cleaved by a hammer.

The sight stirred something deep within him, a feeling he thought he had buried long ago when he left this place. Four months had passed, more than four months since he walked away without looking back.

Back then, he had silently vowed that no matter what challenges lay ahead, he would never return to this estate to bow his head again. And yet here he was not dragged back by failure or summoned by command, but coming willingly to seek an audience with the very man who had never treated him like a son.

With deliberate slowness, he stepped down from the carriage, his boots meeting the stone path leading up to the gates. The wind carried familiar scents of trimmed hedges and cold stone, both comforting and distant.

He recalled standing on this very path as a child, watching carriages come and go while servants whispered behind him. He remembered the sideways glances from family members during clan gatherings, the faint scoffs and smirks whenever his name was mentioned.

It was never loud; Stonehelm pride expressed itself not in shouts but in silence, exclusion, and looks that conveyed one message: you do not belong here.

The guards at the entrance recognized him almost immediately. Their expressions shifted from routine indifference to surprise in an instant. One of them straightened instinctively.

“Young Master Boren,” said the guard cautiously.

Boren offered a small, calm smile. “It has been a while.”

The guards exchanged glances; whatever rumors had circulated in Greyvale about the Adventurer Guild had reached even here. Curiosity flickered in their eyes, perhaps even respect and maybe a hint of uncertainty.

“I’m here to speak with my father,” Boren stated firmly.

There was a brief pause before the heavy gates began to creak open slowly, as if testing his resolve one last time.

Without hesitation, he moved forward into the expansive courtyard paved with pristine white stone and adorned with tall banners bearing the Stonehelm crest.

Servants moved quietly along its edges; some slowed their steps upon seeing him, their eyes lingering just a moment longer than usual. No words were exchanged, but it was clear: his return was unexpected, at least under these circumstances.

Boren maintained his steady pace despite any old memories stirring within him; he refused to show it.

Eventually, he arrived at the main hall where massive doors stood wide open. As he stepped inside, an immediate change enveloped him, the air grew cooler and stiller. The grand hall soared above him with pillars lining both sides, each carved with scenes depicting Stonehelm victories from years gone by.

The floor glimmered faintly under the light of the chandeliers above, while ancestral portraits of past patriarchs and elders adorned the walls.

Their faces were stern and proud, eyes painted with an unmistakable authority, generations of Stonehelm gazing down from oil and canvas.

Boren paused in the center of the hall, hands clasped behind his back as he studied the portraits.

He remembered walking through this very hall as a boy, trying to hold himself tall even when his shoulders felt burdened. He recalled standing beneath these same portraits during clan evaluations, where elders scrutinized the younger generation.

He could still feel the quiet disappointment wash over him when his name was called last, the polite nods from those around him serving as a subtle reminder that some branches of their family tree were stronger than others.

Once, he had gazed up at these portraits with dreams of one day belonging among them. Now, his perspective had shifted entirely.

Just then, the soft echo of footsteps broke through his reverie.

Turning around, he saw an older man approaching from a side corridor. Dressed in formal attire befitting the estate’s chief butler, he carried himself with a straight posture despite his age; each step measured and dignified.

It was William, the family butler.

William stopped at a respectful distance and bowed slightly.

“Young Master Boren,” he said calmly.

Boren nodded in acknowledgment. “William.”

A brief silence enveloped them, a moment heavy with unspoken years.

“The Patriarch has accepted your request,” William continued. “He is waiting for you in his study.”

Boren nodded once more. “Understood.”

With a gesture toward the long corridor leading deeper into the estate, William stepped aside. Without hesitation, Boren began to walk forward, with William trailing just behind him.

As they moved down the corridor, their footsteps echoed softly against polished stone. The walls were adorned with weapons displayed in glass cases, hammers, axes, shields, all relics from past campaigns. The air carried a faint scent of aged wood and incense.

William observed Boren quietly from behind. A flicker of pity crossed his old eyes whenever he saw him; it was an emotion he couldn’t quite shake off.

His lips pressed together slightly as he let out a soft sigh, almost too quiet to hear.

“The Young Master has grown,” he murmured softly, not intending it as flattery but rather as an observation grounded in truth.

After several minutes of walking, they reached the final stretch of corridor where a heavy wooden door reinforced with dark iron frames stood at its end.

Boren halted just steps away from it.

For a moment, he simply stared at that door.

The last time he stood here was more than four months ago when his father had called him in, a moment filled with hope that perhaps this time would be different; that they could speak not out of obligation but as father and son.

That day, he walked in with expectations but left in silence. His father had asked about his well-being and his job as a receptionist at the Adventurer Guild, but there was no warmth in his voice.

Before Boren could say anything meaningful, he was dismissed. The conversation lasted less than five minutes, and as he made his way down the corridor afterward, he felt smaller than when he had entered.

He had vowed never to seek acknowledgment again. Yet here he was, not looking for recognition but for leverage.

Taking a slow breath, he noticed the air felt heavier near this door.

William stopped beside him.

“The Patriarch is inside,” the butler said quietly.

Boren nodded and raised his hand. For a brief moment, an old hesitation bubbled up, but he shook it off and knocked.

The sound echoed against the wood, firm yet controlled. There was no immediate response, but after a moment, a calm, measured voice came from within.

“Enter.”

Boren’s eyes flickered at that familiar tone. It had never needed to be loud; its authority spoke volumes.

He exhaled slowly to steady himself before pushing the door open.

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