Archive of Our Own ^beta

The hidden room had never been designed for comfort. That had been intentional.

It was a space for calculations, not collapse. A retreat, not a refuge. Somewhere sacred where mana settled and thoughts could realign — in theory.

In practice, Ferdinand sat stiffly on the cold floor, cloak folded beneath him like a failed attempt at softness, and stared into the middle distance like it might offer answers.

It did not.

Seven days.

It had only been seven days.

Seven days since the sky had torn open and dropped two small disasters into his arms — literal disasters. Physical. Breathing. Synchronized.

He had caught them.

He still regretted that reflex.

They had introduced themselves calmly. Elegantly. Efficiently.

Kaorindis. Siorand.

Two children. Too composed. Too familiar.

They had his hair. His eyes. His exacting diction.

They called him "Father."

Not with hesitation. Not with hope. With certainty.

And Rozemyne… Rozemyne had smiled when they called her "Mama."

He had nearly walked into a wall.

Now, locked in solitude, he allowed himself one luxury: breath.

He inhaled. Exhaled. Pressed his fingers to his temple.

They were not his. That was the only sane conclusion.

Except —

Sylvester had started laughing like it was the best joke the gods had ever told. Karstedt made charts. Justus cried. Twice. Elvira was collecting fabric swatches and pretending not to hum.

And Rozemyne… Rozemyne had hugged them.

Ferdinand hadn’t been able to look directly at her since.

He glanced at the mana wards etched into the stone. Still intact. Still soundproof. No one would disturb him.

Good.

He needed time. To think. To recalibrate. To remember the order of things.

He had seven days’ worth of madness to unravel.

He could begin with the sky.

It always begins with the sky.

Remembering the first day, it was painfully obvious that something would happen.

The Temple was quiet.

Not peaceful-quiet. Not the sacred hush of contemplation or the satisfying calm of finished paperwork. No. This was the kind of quiet that made Ferdinand suspicious.

He looked up from his desk, quill poised, already preparing to scold whoever had broken the predictable rhythm of his day.

Instead, the air above his workspace shimmered. Just slightly. Like heat off stone.

Then— a magic circle.

No time to move. No time to question. No time to cast.

Two small figures fell from the sky.

He caught them. One in each arm.

They were warm.

They were coordinated.

They had his eyes.

-“Target landing successful,” said the girl.

-“Subject: secured,” said the boy.

He blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Both had pale blue hair. Both were dressed like miniature diplomats. And both regarded him with the kind of clinical detachment usually reserved for war mages or court officials.

Then:

-“Mana level: adequate. Dust levels: unacceptable.” “Time alignment within 1.4%. Mission Phase One… initiated.”

Still blinking, Ferdinand turned slightly. Not enough to dislodge them. Just enough to see if anyone else could witness the madness.

As if on cue:

The door opened.

-“Lord Ferdinand—”

Justus.

Carrying a tray of tea and an optimistic mood.

Tray: dropped. Tea: everywhere. Mood: annihilated.

-“WHAT THE—MY LORD?!”

Ferdinand didn’t look away from the children.

Justus did.

Several times.

-“Did you—did you split yourself?!”

-“No.”

-“...Technically,” he added. Too late.

Justus paled.

-“They have your glare,” he whispered. “And your judgment aura. And I think one of them just corrected my breathing.”

-“They did,” said the girl.

Ferdinand sighed.

The day had only begun.

The second day proved enough that all that happened the day before was not a new type of hallucination.

Morning in the temple began with tea, scrolls, and the quiet scratching of quills.

It lasted exactly seven minutes.

Kaorindis was reorganizing Ferdinand’s scroll cabinet again — despite explicit orders not to. Siorand stood by the window, quietly measuring sunlight angles like the fate of the kingdom depended on it.

-"Sunlight deviation: 6.2 degrees from yesterday," he noted.

-"Possible adjustment to morning schedule," Kaorindis replied.

Ferdinand, attempting to fill out a single castle report, was on his third sentence and sixth migraine.

He did not respond.

They were auditing his entire office. In silence. In sync.

The knock on the door felt like a divine test.

-"Please don't," he whispered.

The door opened anyway.

Lady Elvira entered in radiant horror. Fan: dropped. Voice: high. Judgment: instant.

-"YOU HAVE CHILDREN?!"

-"They’re not mine," he said flatly.

-"THEY HAVE YOUR EYES."

-"That is… unfortunately true."

Elvira interrogated. The twins answered. Age: ten. Mental or physical: yes.

Then Eckhart appeared. Blinked twice.

-"Did Lord Ferdinand split himself?"

-"They fell from the ceiling," Elvira answered.

The twins circled Eckhart like gentle sharks.

-"Favoring your left side," said Siorand.

-"Hair product changed," added Kaorindis.

Eckhart’s soul visibly detached.

Then came Sylvester.

Door: slammed. Presence: chaotic. Smile: doomed.

The twins turned. In sync.

-"...Oh no," Sylvester whispered.

They evaluated him with cold precision. He collapsed into a chair.

-"This is bullying," he mumbled.

Ferdinand sipped his tea and considered walking into the nearest wall.

Eckhart leaned in.

-"They are yours."

-"They fell from the sky."

-"That’s not a denial."

By midday, Elvira had fled. Justus had vanished. Ferdinand was left with two children and a growing sense of inevitability.

He didn’t close the ward. He regretted that.

-"Too many blind spots in the garden," Siorand said.

-"Bookshelves improperly arranged," Kaorindis added.

He told them to stay out of the archives. They obeyed. Technically.

They had already copied the maps. Of course they had.

That night, they stayed in their room. Technically.

Bitácora open. Notes detailed. Analysis complete.

They listed Elvira as scent-sensitive. Eckhart as easily overwhelmed. Sylvester as theatrically unstable.

Then they read quietly. Side by side. Book between them.

Ferdinand did not stay to watch them fall asleep. He had left just after the end of the analysis — because he knew, even then, that staying a moment longer would make things worse.

Not for them.

For him.

Day Three should have been uneventful.

He had planned it that way. Scheduled it. Designed the morning with the kind of strategic precision that would make a Royal Academy professor weep with envy.

And yet.

And yet.

He had woken up to silence. Not the good kind — the horrible , paralyzing silence of a temple that was too calm .

The twins were missing from their room.

His wards hadn’t been triggered. No alarms. No signs of forced movement.

Which meant they had left voluntarily .

Which meant they were planning something .

Which meant he was already too late.

He stormed into his office. Found it empty.

Of course it was empty. He’d set up a secondary ward just for this occasion — one designed to collapse the moment someone tampered with his tea shelf. It was still intact. Which meant they hadn’t been here.

Which meant they had gone somewhere else .

Which meant—

Rozemyne.

He had turned on his heel, heart accelerating in that specific, horrible way it did when she was involved.

By the time he reached the meeting room, it was too late.

He heard laughter.

Her laughter.

The real kind — the one that cracked through her usual guarded restraint and turned the air warmer. It was a sound he hadn’t heard in weeks . And she was giving it away.

To them.

He opened the door.

And there they were.

One on either side of her. Practically glued to her arms. Books scattered across the floor like sacred offerings. Teacups in dangerous proximity to rare manuscripts. And in the center of it all: Rozemyne, smiling like the world had never hurt her.

She looked… happy .

And they looked right beside her.

Kaorindis was curled up with a picture book and an expression of smug affection. Siorand sat perfectly upright, one leg tucked beneath him, correcting the narrator’s grammar in a tone painfully familiar .

It should have been touching.

Instead, it made something twist beneath his ribs.

Then came the moment.

The moment that undid all of his internal fortifications like wet parchment.

They called her “Mama.”

Out loud.

In perfect unison.

With joy .

And she didn’t flinch.

She smiled .

He turned and left the room before anyone could see the expression on his face.

Not that it would have helped. Kaorindis probably already documented it in a notebook titled ‘Emotional Deterioration: Subject F.’

He hadn’t run.

Not technically.

But the path from the meeting room to the hidden chamber had never been traveled so quickly — or with so many internal failures of composure.

He shut the door.

Reinforced the wards.

Sat down.

And stared at the wall.

They had called her Mama .

His children — no. Not his children. Miniatures. Aberrations. Magical errors with terrifying grammar and too many charts.

And yet.

They had her eyes, when they smiled. His voice, when they warned. Her stillness. His precision. The kind of contradiction that only made sense in them .

And they had called her Mama .

Worse — she had answered to it. Smiled. Blushed .

She hadn’t corrected them.

She hadn’t laughed it off.

She had accepted it like it was natural .

Ferdinand pressed both hands to his face.

No.

No, no, no.

This wasn’t—

He was not—

They couldn’t be—

He took a breath. Then another. Deep. Measured.

Useless.

Logic was failing him.

He tried to reconstruct the timeline, but it was sand through fingers. The numbers didn’t work. The magic was too advanced. There had been no ceremony , no bond , no possibility —

Rozemyne was small . Delicate. Childlike . She was not— she had never been—

And yet.

The way she had looked at them. The way they leaned against her without fear. The way they folded into her space like they belonged there.

It was familiar .

Too familiar.

He had never thought of her as… anything other than Rozemyne . A complication. A miracle. A strategic nightmare. A living mana anomaly with a deeply frustrating disregard for self-preservation.

He had never once— never —imagined—

But the twins had.

They had chosen her. Called her mother. Called him father.

And the worst part?

Some fractured, hidden piece of him hadn’t flinched at that.

Some traitorous part had whispered:

“Yes. Of course. Who else would it be?”

Ferdinand stood abruptly. Pacing.

He couldn’t afford this. Not now. Not ever. Rozemyne was his studen t. His responsibility . His family , yes — but in the fragile, distant way nobles defined it. She wasn’t…

She couldn’t be…

He sat back down.

Stared at the mana lamp on the wall until its flickering slowed.

It didn’t help.

The sound of their voices still echoed behind his ribs.

-“Good morning, Mama.”

-“Reading time, with you.”

-“Thank you, Mama.”

He exhaled sharply.

They said it like they meant it.

He rubbed at his temples, fingers trembling.

If he let himself believe it — even for a moment — if he entertained the idea that they were hers…

Then what did that make him ?

He wasn’t soft. He wasn’t kind. He was made of order and strategy and the kind of discipline that crushed affection before it bloomed.

He was not father material.

He had never been meant for joy.

He had never been meant for her.

So what were they?

And why did it hurt, just a little, to hear her accept them so easily?

Why did it feel like he was standing outside a house with no door?

He did not cry.

Of course he didn’t.

He merely sat in the quiet, hands still pressed to his face, wondering when the gods had stopped asking permission to unravel him.

And outside, somewhere beyond the sealed wall, two children laughed.

And called her Mama.

It was Day 4.

He hadn’t eaten.

He hadn’t slept.

He had considered bathing, then decided it would require standing .

So instead, he sat — motionless — on the cold floor of the hidden room with a blanket around his shoulders and the emotional stability of a discarded lecture scroll.

He wasn’t sulking.

He was thinking .

That the door had remained locked for almost twenty-four hours was a tactical choice. Not a tantrum. Not avoidance. Not a desperate attempt to avoid seeing Rozemyne again in case she smiled at them like that again .

No. He was simply being practical .

He had needed time. Perspective. A reasonable environment in which to analyze the growing mountain of evidence that the gods had, in fact, cursed him with something far worse than divine punishment.

Children.

His children.

Maybe.

Possibly.

Statistically likely.

He rubbed his face with both hands and let his head fall back against the wall.

-“Technically unconfirmed,” he muttered aloud.

The room, of course, did not argue.

They had her gentleness, hidden beneath structure.

They had his control, barely veiling affection.

They had the kind of unspoken synchronicity that shouldn’t exist without shared blood, or shared… something.

And they had looked at Rozemyne like she was home .

He’d seen that look before. In a mirror, years ago, before he'd known better.

Before the walls had gone up. Before the world had turned cold.

He had built his life in silence, in logic, in survival. And now the universe had sent him a pair of walking disruptions with his hair, her eyes, and feelings .

Unacceptable.

He stood.

Wavered slightly. Sat back down.

Right. Still dizzy.

He could function like this. He had gone longer without sleep. Longer without sustenance. He had lived through war, betrayal, the Royal Academy's final exams.

He could survive this.

He could pretend.

If he folded every impulse into its appropriate drawer — if he labeled the chaos as “external interference” and shoved it beneath academic detachment — he could walk out of this room and perform .

They called her Mama.

He breathed through his nose. Once. Twice.

Fine.

So be it.

Let them have her.

He would be the High Priest. The strategist. The barrier. The one who kept everything together .

Even if a traitorous sliver of his mind whispered: they called you Father, too.

He stood again.

Straighter this time.

He would bathe. Dress. Return to his office. Pretend his heart wasn’t full of static.

He had reports to write.

He had questions to ignore.

And if he caught Rozemyne smiling again like that, he would simply… look away.

As if it didn’t break something soft and hidden inside him every time she laughed like she belonged .

When he finally opened the door to his hidden chamber, the temple hadn’t collapsed.

Pity.

He stepped out into the corridor like a man returning from exile — slow, composed, unreadable. His robes were immaculate. His mana contained. Not a single strand of hair out of place.

On the outside, he was fine.

Inside, he was ash held together by protocol.

He made it to his office without incident. No shrine maidens in sight. Justus, wisely, was nowhere to be found. The air was calm. Sterile. Familiar.

He hated it.

A knock came. Too gentle. Too polite.

A report, perhaps. Or a schedule.

Instead, a voice floated through the door.

-“Rozemyne has gathered the twins for a study session.”

He froze.

No.

He had only just regained enough composure to walk upright. He wasn’t prepared to see them together . Her laughter. Their eyes. That infernal word again— Mama —

He exhaled slowly.

Then stood.

He would observe. From a distance. Like a responsible adult.

A responsible adult with nothing to hide and no emotions to bury under twenty years of repression.

He opened the door and walked.

Each step measured.

Each breath timed.

He could do this.

The meeting room door was ajar. Voices inside — hers, light and bright like spring sunlight; theirs, sharp, soft, entangled like braided thread. There was even laughter.

He paused just beyond the threshold.

No one had noticed him yet.

He could turn around.

He didn’t.

He stepped inside.

Three heads turned toward him.

Three smiles bloomed in perfect harmony.

Rozemyne sat cross-legged on the floor, scrolls spread around her like a nest. Kaorindis had taken over the chalkboard. Siorand was balancing inkpots atop a theology tome like it was an exercise in stress testing.

And all three of them looked at him like he belonged there.

His heart stuttered.

No.

He was not—this was not—he was not part of this.

He narrowed his eyes.

They activated smiles.

Rozemyne offered him tea.

Kaorindis handed him the cup.

Siorand adjusted his seat so there would be space beside them.

He took the tea.

He sat.

He said nothing.

He drank.

It was sweet.

Far too sweet.

He hated it.

And didn’t put it down.

Kaorindis scribbled something in a notebook labeled “Live Observation: Subject F.”

Siorand pretended not to read over her shoulder.

Rozemyne was humming. Content. At ease.

He hadn’t seen her like this since—since before the poison.

Since before the near-death, near-loss, near-emptiness that had nearly hollowed them all out.

And now she was glowing again.

Because of them .

He looked away.

Justus passed by the open door.

They made eye contact.

He was the one who looked away first.

Again.

Then came the game.

He should have stopped it. He should have scolded them. He should have stood and walked out when Kaorindis sat in his chair and recited his own warning about soul rearrangement.

But he didn’t.

He stayed.

He watched.

And when Siorand mimicked his deadpan warning about death wishes and categorization, Ferdinand choked on his tea.

They laughed.

Even Rozemyne.

Especially Rozemyne.

It was a sound that wrapped around his ribs and squeezed.

He did not smile.

But he didn’t stop them either.

Because something in him —something old and fragile and unguarded— whispered:

Let them laugh.

Let them call her Mama . Let them call him Father.

Just… don’t believe it.

Not yet.

Not now.

Because if he let that thought in — even once — it would break everything.

So he sipped his too-sweet tea.

And when Kaorindis leaned her head against Rozemyne’s shoulder, and Siorand reached for his sleeve like it was safe , Ferdinand simply closed his eyes.

Only for a moment.

Only to rest.

Not because it felt right.

Not because it felt like home .

No.

Certainly not.

By Day Five, Ferdinand had made a decision.

He would survive.

Not through force.

Not through analysis.

Through detachment.

If the world insisted on becoming theatre, then he would become the audience. A silent, unsmiling witness to the madness. He would categorize everything. Label every emotional threat as “External Absurdity: Harmless if Ignored.”

It was either that, or dissolve into a spiral of existential collapse.

Again.

And frankly, his mana reserves couldn’t take it.

So when Justus informed him that Rozemyne had brought Damuel to visit the twins, Ferdinand had not flinched.

He had simply raised one brow.

-“Damuel?” he asked dryly.

-“Armed,” said Justus.

-“...I see.”

He did not interfere.

He observed.

From a distance. Like a scholar watching two ink blots destroy a knight’s will to live.

It was oddly therapeutic.

Damuel had lasted longer than expected. But only barely. By the second “footwork critique” and third “mana misalignment comment,” he looked moments from collapse.

Siorand handed him a protocol sheet titled “How to Catch a Collapsing Knight.”

Kaorindis offered a muscle salve.

Rozemyne clapped like a proud parent.

Ferdinand, standing in the shadow of a pillar with a perfectly neutral expression, sipped his tea and internally noted:

Subject D: exposed. Humiliation index: stable. Loyalty reinforcement: high.

He felt something near amusement.

It was dangerous.

But it was also… effective.

Let others carry the emotional chaos. Let Rozemyne smile and Damuel sweat and the twins recite their assessments like miniature strategists at war.

Ferdinand would not engage.

He would document.

He would keep his distance.

Even when Kaorindis handed Damuel a thank-you note for protecting Rozemyne.

Even when Siorand murmured, “You always do,” with that soft, unbearable sincerity.

Even when Rozemyne — foolish, heartfelt, herself — told Damuel that his life mattered too.

Ferdinand’s fingers tightened briefly around his cup.

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t move.

But something in his chest shifted. Slightly.

A crack. Small. Barely there.

He filed it away under: Unavoidable Side Effect of Prolonged Rozemyne Exposure.

He would not analyze it.

He certainly would not feel it.

He returned to his office before anyone could see his expression.

There, on his desk, someone had left a note in Kaorindis’ handwriting.

A list of observations:

- Damuel: emotionally reactive. Loyal. In need of validation.

- Mama: high emotional output. Dangerous when sincere.

- Father: stability fluctuating. Tea tolerance low. Still watching.

At the bottom:

“You didn’t laugh out loud. But your shoulders relaxed. Progress recorded. ❤️”

He folded the note.

Did not destroy it.

Did not file it, either.

He placed it in the drawer beside the emotional threshold chart.

And locked it.

Because if he didn’t, he might start believing the ridiculous thought that had crept in last night:

They’re good children.

And worse—

They’re mine.

Day Six began with the sound of footsteps.

Not the soft, scurrying kind of grey priests.

Not the rhythmic precision of shrine maidens.

No — these were heavy . Noble. The kind of footsteps that announced themselves with entitlement and experience.

Karstedt.

Ferdinand didn’t even look up when the man entered uninvited.

He had expected this moment since Day Two.

And yet... he still hated it.

Karstedt said nothing at first. Just stood there, in the doorway, staring.

Ferdinand kept writing.

He didn’t need to look to know the twins were sitting quietly on either side of him, like judgmental bookends. Kaorindis had taken up half the correspondence queue. Siorand was reviewing a glossary of magical contracts.

Both silent. Both working.

And Karstedt was still staring.

-“You have children,” Karstedt said at last.

Ferdinand did not look up.

-“No.”

-“They’re twins.”

-“...”

-“Then why do they move like you, talk like you, and scowl better than you ever did?”

He paused. Sighed. Tapped his quill twice.

He said nothing.

Kaorindis raised a brow.

Siorand smiled.

Karstedt continued to hover like a suspicious storm cloud.

Ferdinand could feel the questions building — the conclusions, the speculation, the very noble male instinct to dissect lineage with blunt instruments.

And yet.

Karstedt didn’t say the word.

Not “father.” Not “yours.” Not even “how.”

He just stared. Then turned and left.

Ferdinand let out a slow breath.

The twins returned to their work without comment.

But Kaorindis’ lips quirked upward. Just slightly.

She knew.

Later that day, Ferdinand noticed something strange.

Elvira avoided his office.

Not directly. Not suspiciously. But noticeably.

She sent notes via attendants. Declined invitations. Cited embroidery projects with the kind of exaggerated sweetness that usually preceded scandal.

He narrowed his eyes.

She knows something.

She had always been good at secrets. Better than most. But now she was smiling too calmly. Walking too lightly.

She was plotting .

He made a mental note to prepare a counterattack — or at the very least, a fanproof argument for why certain revelations were above her social clearance.

He didn’t need Elvira whispering theories into Rozemyne’s ear.

He already had enough to process.

Especially with how the twins had taken to Rozemyne like mana to a vessel.

And worse: she had begun responding without flinching .

-“Thank you, Mama,” they said.

-“You’re welcome, sweethearts,” she replied.

He watched them from behind his reports, unmoving.

And then… something new .

That afternoon, while Kaorindis adjusted his bookshelf again , she murmured, just loud enough:

-“We aligned the historical texts chronologically. It felt right.”

He blinked.

Then, without thinking:

-“That was… efficient.”

She didn’t answer.

But her smile — fleeting, satisfied, a flicker of pride — did something strange to his chest.

A warmth.

Soft. Sharp. Infuriating.

He ignored it.

Filed it under: Behavioral Reinforcement: Accidental.

By evening, he was reviewing mana expenditures for the temple when Siorand passed him a scroll.

He opened it.

Inside: a perfectly written report.

- Temple garden security gaps: addressed.  

- Justus’s tea inventory: updated.  

- Carla’s allergy triggers: documented and mitigated.  

- Father’s tolerance for public affection: still low. Increasing under pressure.

He stared.

Then, for the first time in days, he chuckled.

Out loud.

Softly. Once.

Kaorindis peeked up from her diagram and said nothing.

Siorand didn’t react.

But later, when they were leaving the room, he heard the girl whisper:

-“He laughed.”

And her brother replied, equally quiet:

-“Log it.”

Ferdinand let them go.

And for once, he didn’t lock the door behind them.

By Day Seven, Ferdinand didn't try to stop them.

Not really.

The twins came and went. They corrected schedules, criticized tea blends, reorganized ward lines, and rewrote one of Eckhart’s mana training routines with footnotes.

Rozemyne laughed more. Smiled more. Called them her “Mini Ferdinands” with the kind of warmth that normally required permission to feel.

He had stopped flinching.

Not because it didn’t affect him.

But because flinching had become inefficient .

Better to let it pass through him.

Better to pretend that every time they called him “Father,” it didn’t land like a soft blade under the ribs.

He had come to accept this much: he would never be free of them.

He wasn’t sure he wanted to be.

That morning, they had left a ribbon on his desk.

One of Rozemyne’s old ones. Fixed. Repaired. Reinforced with invisible mana lines to preserve its color.

There was no note.

Just the ribbon. Curled neatly. Resting atop a scroll labeled:

-“Request: May We Attend the Royal Academy?”

He hadn’t answered.

Not yet.

Later, he caught Rozemyne watching him.

They were sitting on the stairs — her, Kaorindis, Siorand. The book between them long forgotten.

He had stepped around the corner too soon.

He meant to leave, to give them space.

But he heard it.

-“You really feel like family,” she whispered.

And they answered, soft as sleep:

-“We are.”

Ferdinand did not move.

Did not breathe.

Then he turned.

Walked away.

Before they could see the way his shoulders trembled.

Before they could see the smile that almost made it to his lips.

That afternoon, the meeting room was overfull. Seven nobles, three too many opinions, and a single subject everyone pretended not to be afraid of saying aloud: the twins.

Ferdinand sat with arms crossed, expression blank. His posture projected composure. Inside, he was calculating how many seconds of silence he could maintain before someone snapped.

Sylvester, of course, was the first to break.

-“Two new individuals reside in the temple,” he said, voice overly formal, as if this were a diplomatic crisis and not an existential one. “We need to determine their placement.”

Justus muttered something about nightmares.

Eckhart looked ready to bolt.

Elvira smiled. Too sweetly. That alone made Ferdinand suspicious.

Rozemyne was there, flipping through a book. She had not been invited. She had come anyway.

Ferdinand didn’t stop her.

They threw titles around — "Mini Ferdinands", "blessed devils", "my precious ones." Rozemyne simply said, "They’re very polite."

All eyes turned to him. He stared at the ceiling.

Karstedt, never one for subtlety, dropped the bomb again:

-“They’re from the future.”

He wanted to scoff. He settled for,

-“That theory is unsupported.”

-“More supported than you having secret children,” Karstedt countered.

-“They are not mine.”

Nobody believed him. 

Justus was asked if he wanted to be their legal father. His response involved bureaucratic trauma and personal dignity.

Elvira suggested he already acted like one.

Rozemyne agreed.

Ferdinand said nothing. It was safer.

Then the twins arrived.

They entered without knocking, cloaked, coordinated, calm. Ten years old in tiny bodies — timeless in presence.

-“If this is about our long-term placement,” Kaorindis said, “we believe we are entitled to a vote.”

Ferdinand’s fingers twitched.

Siorand added,

-“We are children. Tiny. Mysterious. Potentially dangerous. Extremely polite.”

They presented scrolls. Graphs. Charts.

They proposed a plan:

• Justus as legal guardian.
• Sylvester as emergency support.
• Rozemyne as cultural supervisor.
• Ferdinand as emotional model.

He blinked.

-“Excuse me?” he said flatly.

-“You’re very expressive. Inside,” Siorand replied.

He reached for vize. There was none. Justus passed him his own glass.

They spoke of the Royal Academy. Of their speech drafts. Of attendance rankings based on gossip risk.

They looked at him with matching fondness.

-“We’re staying,” Kaorindis said.

-“If that’s acceptable,” Siorand added.

Then they turned to Justus. Smiled.

-“Please be our ‘biological’ father, Papa.”

Justus died a little inside.

Ferdinand did not laugh. But when they signed the papers, and Rozemyne clapped, and Justus covered his face with a sigh that sounded suspiciously like affection—

Ferdinand did not leave.

He sat through the end.

And when the meeting adjourned, and the room emptied, and Rozemyne leaned over and whispered,

-“You didn’t object,”

He simply replied:

-“I didn’t.”

She smiled. He looked away.

That night, the temple was quiet.

The twins were asleep.

He knew because he had checked.

He told himself it was for security reasons. For predictability . For containment .

But there they were — curled up like bookends beneath a shared blanket. Kaorindis still clutching a half-folded report. Siorand asleep mid-sentence.

He watched them from the doorway for too long.

Too long to be proper.

Too long to keep lying to himself.

They had his patience.

Her warmth.

His caution.

Her courage.

And none of his permission.

They had simply appeared. Claimed him.

And somehow… made it true.

He stepped forward.

Kneeling slowly, he picked up the scroll from Siorand’s hand and set it beside the bed.

Kaorindis shifted. Reached in her sleep. Her fingers brushed his sleeve.

-“...Papa,” she mumbled.

He froze.

Siorand murmured something too quiet to catch.

Then silence.

Ferdinand stayed there, kneeling, watching them.

Then, after a long pause, he reached into his robe.

Pulled out the ribbon.

And tucked it beneath their shared pillow.

A gesture.

Small.

Final.

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t stay.

He just rose, turned, and walked away.

And this time, he didn’t pretend it was someone else’s heart that was breaking open.

The air was still.

The cold had crept through his cloak, his bones, the back of his neck.

Ferdinand blinked. Once. Twice.

He was back.

Back in the hidden room. Back where this unraveling had begun.

His knees ached. His throat burned. His fingers had gone numb at some point, curled into fists.

He released them slowly.

Seven days. He had walked through each of them again. From memory. From denial.

And still — they had followed him here. Into silence. Into thought. Into everything.

He exhaled.

No conclusion had been reached. No truth declared. No names rewritten.

But the facts remained: He had caught them. He had let them stay.

And that ribbon…

He closed his eyes.

They weren’t his.

But gods help him…

They had never felt like anyone else’s.