Tristan approached the grand entrance of the manor, with Amelia and her maid leading the way. The towering double doors creaked open to reveal a man clad in a crisp black suit and white shirt—undoubtedly the butler. With a graceful bow, he greeted Amelia and delivered his message with solemn precision.
"Lady Amelia, your father requests your presence in his office."
Amelia offered a curt nod before ascending the grand staircase that loomed just beyond the threshold. As she climbed, she glanced over her shoulder at Tristan, who stood motionless at the base of the stairs.
"Come with me," she instructed, her voice clear and commanding.
Without a word, Tristan followed her up the polished steps to the second floor. They turned down a long, opulent corridor lined with gilded sconces and velvet drapes, eventually arriving at a large wooden door, rich with age and authority. Amelia knocked firmly.
"Enter," came a deep, resonant voice from within.
She opened the door slowly, Tristan trailing behind by only a few steps. The room beyond was an office of regal design—bookshelves towering on either side, a lush carpet bearing the Green family's insignia, and behind a broad wooden desk sat a man of formidable presence. His silver hair and well-groomed beard lent him an air of gravitas, and the green suit he wore barely contained his broad frame. A golden tassel lay draped across his shoulders like the sash of a war general.
Tristan lingered by the door while Amelia approached the desk, stopping several paces short.
"Greetings, Father. You summoned me," she said with quiet reverence.
The man's gaze fell upon Tristan, narrowing slightly—not in suspicion, but in familiarity. His attention lingered on the young man's striking red hair.
"Is he a Vermillion?" he asked, his voice low and sharp.
Without hesitation, Amelia dismissed the notion. "He is not."
The patriarch's eyes shifted back to his daughter, disappointment etched into the lines of his face. He stood, his stature commanding, and walked to one of the two bookshelves that loomed beside him. Amelia remained still, her silence not born of fear, but of profound respect.
Tristan, however, felt out of place. The tension in the room clung to him like a second skin. He turned slightly, intent on leaving, but was halted by the sudden and thunderous voice of Darell Green.
"I did not grant you permission to leave."
The words stopped Tristan cold. His hand froze inches from the doorknob, arrested by something intangible—an authority that transcended mere words.
What... is this? he thought, unnerved.
The patriarch retrieved a worn tome from the shelf and returned to his seat. Each turn of a page seemed to emit an aura of refinement, as though the book itself demanded reverence.
"Amelia," he said without looking up, "no matter how often I attempt to reason with you, you continue to defy me. Why?"
"I'm sorry, Father," she replied, "but I will not abandon my ambitions."
Darell paused on a particular page, his finger tracing along lines of faded ink before finally stopping. He turned the book to face his daughter.
Amelia stepped forward, lifting the tome to read the passage he indicated.
"The Ruins of the First Star."
Tristan furrowed his brow, the phrase foreign to him.
"What is that?" he asked, breaking the silence—an act many would consider bold, perhaps even disrespectful.
But the head of House Green did not react with disdain. Instead, he saw it as a chance to educate.
"The Ruins of the First Star are the birthplace of our sovereign ruler," Darell explained. "It is said he emerged from the ruins, bathed in radiant light, as though divinely chosen."
"I'm not following," Amelia admitted, confused.
A rare, almost wistful smile graced Darell's face. "Our rulers have tasked our noble family with retrieving an artifact of great significance from those ruins. I wish for you, my daughter, to lead the expedition."
"I refuse," she said without hesitation.
The silence that followed was deafening. Tristan blinked, surprised, the heavy atmosphere returning in full force. He glanced at Amelia, whose expression remained as unreadable as ever.
Did she just reject her father's command? he thought. If it weren't so tense, I'd say she's kind of a badass.
Amelia exhaled slowly, collecting herself before offering a more measured response.
"The academic year begins in two weeks. A proper expedition to the ruins would require at least three. I refuse to miss even a single week of school."
Darell said nothing. Yet his silence reverberated through the room, steeped in disappointment and frustration. Tristan could feel the unspoken emotion like a pressure on his chest.
With a wave of his hand, Darell dismissed them both.
Amelia bowed, then turned to leave. Tristan mimicked her gesture and followed close behind. They walked down the corridor toward a nearby chamber, the atmosphere still heavy with unspoken words. But Tristan, ever unafraid to speak his mind, broke the silence.
"Weren't you a little... harsh with your father?"
Amelia quickened her pace, clearly avoiding the question.
She's such a child, Tristan mused.
Despite her usual elegance and composure, she now resembled a petulant girl retreating from a scolding. He caught up to her easily, matching her stride.
"Why are you running?" he asked.
"I'm not running—I'm walking very fast," she replied flatly.
Her "walk" swiftly devolved into a full sprint. With a frustrated huff, she lifted her voluminous dress and cast aside her heels, dashing down the corridor. Tristan followed suit. Though Amelia had greater stamina, his sheer speed was unmatched when he pushed himself. He surged forward, gaining on her. Desperate to end the chase, he reached out and tugged the hem of her dress.
She tripped.
Face-first.
Tristan winced. Guilt struck him instantly as he rushed over to her.
"Hey, Amelia... I'm sorry," he said, offering his hand.
Silence.
Then—a soft, unexpected giggle.
Tristan blinked, looking around in disbelief, as if questioning the source. It was unmistakably Amelia, yet so unlike her usual self that he could hardly believe it.
The giggle blossomed into laughter—genuine and contagious. She rolled onto her back, eyes alight with joy, a wide smile breaking across her normally impassive face.
The girl who rarely showed emotion was laughing.