The return voyage passed without incident.

That alone felt unnatural.

The ship cut through Morgain territory beneath a sky choked with cloud and snow, the altitude high enough that the world below vanished entirely. Endless white peaks drifted past like half-remembered shapes, their tops swallowed by mist. For long stretches, there was nothing to see at all—just grey, cold, and the steady groan of the hull pushing forward.

Trafalgar stood inside the command cabin beside Alfred, one hand resting loosely against a support beam as the ship sailed blind through familiar skies.

Alfred wore his usual heavy coat, thick monster fur layered and worn smooth by years of use. It made him look larger than he was, but nothing hid the stiffness in his movements, nor the way the cold settled into his bones no matter how long he endured it.

"Tch," Alfred muttered, pulling the coat tighter around himself. "This damned cold… my old bones are going to snap one of these days. Makes you wonder why I ever agreed to work for your grandfather in the first place."

Trafalgar glanced at him sideways, the corner of his mouth lifting faintly. "Oh? Thinking of retiring somewhere warmer, Captain Alfred? Vaelion, maybe? I'm sure my father would be thrilled to hear that."

Alfred shot him a look, then broke into a shameless grin. "Heh. Don't think that'd do me any favors. Let's leave it at jokes, yeah? We'll be docking soon enough. This time, at least, we were lucky. No storms. No monsters. Nothing crawling up from the clouds trying to eat us."

For a moment, the cabin was quiet again, filled only with the soft creak of wood and the distant wind scraping against the hull.

Trafalgar broke the silence. "What will you do after this, Alfred?"

The old man hummed thoughtfully. "What will I do, what will I do… good question." He scratched his beard. "Probably ferry one of your brothers or sisters here or there. Can't say I'm fond of most of the Morgain brats, though. You and your older sister—Lysandra—you're the only ones I can stand."

Trafalgar raised a brow. "You're honest, at least. What would happen if they heard you say that?"

Alfred snorted. "I've lived long enough not to care if some puffed-up noble gets offended just because he was born into a name." He paused, then added dryly, "Just don't repeat that part in front of the wives."

Trafalgar mimed sealing his lips. "Not a word. Besides, they'd ignore you anyway. Right now, I'm the center of attention."

Alfred crossed his arms, his expression shifting. "Tch. At least you're aware of it." His voice lowered. "I'll be honest with you, boy. From here on out, it's going to be miserable. Before, you were the useless bastard no one bothered with. That's changed."

Trafalgar didn't reply.

The next time he returned to the family estate, it wouldn't be whispers or sideways glances waiting for him. It would be intent. Hands moving in the dark. Smiles sharpened into something else. Everyone but Lysandra would be watching him now, measuring him, weighing whether he was worth removing. And trying to get rid of him.

And if his life was threatened, he wouldn't hesitate to draw his sword.

Consequences didn't scare him.

Valttair had never punished the First Wife for what she had done to him as a child. Trafalgar doubted that had changed.

'Did he ever truly punish her?' he wondered. 'Or was it easier to pretend it never happened?'

The ship shuddered slightly as the clouds began to thin.

The mountains fell away beneath them, and at last, the land opened.

Euclid came into view.

His city. His domain. His responsibility.

Soon, he would have to speak with Arthur. Warn him. Prepare the soldiers he had been training for what was coming. Decide who was worth promoting. Who could lead. Who would break.

The clouds continued to peel away, layer by layer, until the world below finally revealed itself in full.

Euclid spread out beneath the ship—stone and steel, walls etched into the land with deliberate intent. Roads cut clean lines through the snow-dusted ground, converging toward the city's core like veins returning to a heart. Banners marked territory. Towers marked vigilance.

It was familiar.

And heavier than it had ever been before.

Trafalgar watched in silence as the ship descended, the sense of ownership settling not as pride, but as weight. This wasn't just where he lived. It was what he was responsible for. Every street. Every soldier. Every life that would be caught in what was coming.

There would be no easing back into things.

The moment his boots touched the ground, he would need to speak with Arthur. No pleasantries. No delays. Arthur had to know that war was no longer a distant possibility—it was approaching, slow and inevitable, like winter that never truly left Morgain lands.

The army Arthur had been training would not remain untested for long.

That was certain.

Trafalgar's mind shifted into structure, into lists and decisions. He would review the troops personally. Not reports. Not secondhand praise. He needed to see them move, fight, react under pressure. Some would be useful. Some would disappoint. Some would break the moment they understood what real battle meant.

Better to learn that now.

New squadrons would need to be formed. Command structures adjusted. Captains chosen not by lineage, but by capability. Arthur had already been given permission to promote anyone he deemed promising.

Trafalgar intended to find out if that trust had been earned.

The ship lowered further, Euclid growing larger beneath them, sharper, more real. This return wasn't an end to anything.

It was the opening move of another phase.

One where preparation would decide who survived—and who didn't.

Outside the cabin, the cold bit harder.

The wind swept across the deck in steady currents, carrying snowflakes that melted the moment they touched the ship's hull. Near the railing stood a lone figure, wrapped in a dark cloak, hood drawn low. To anyone else, she would have looked like another passenger avoiding attention.

Aubrelle had chosen it that way.

Just as she had that night in the bar—hidden, unremarkable, unseen by those who didn't need to see her. Officially, no one knew she was returning with Trafalgar. And for now, that secrecy mattered.

Behind her, footsteps approached.

Trafalgar exited the cabin without looking back. Alfred remained inside, hands resting on the controls, eyes following the young man as he crossed the deck. Trafalgar stopped beside Aubrelle, close enough that the wind no longer reached her the same way. Neither of them spoke.

From the cabin, Alfred watched them in silence.

Still just a boy, he thought. A good one, despite everything. Despite the blood tied to his name. Despite the path already closing in around him. Trafalgar carried himself straighter now than he used to, sharper, more aware—but that didn't change the truth beneath it.

He was young.

And what awaited him would grind far older souls into dust.

Alfred exhaled slowly, fog clouding the glass for a moment before fading.

It wouldn't be easy. Not with the House turning its eyes toward him. Not with war stirring again. Not with truths buried for nearly seventeen years beginning to surface.

But he would endure.

Because he was a Morgain.

And because, whether the world remembered it or not, whether the House admitted it or not—

He was the son of Magnus du Morgain.

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