"You shouldn’t be this upset over missing two throws, Issy."

Though upset was an understatement. She looked downright indignant.

"Hmph! It’s not fair. I know I threw those darts right," she huffed, crossing her arms with a stubbornness that was almost endearing.

I smirked. "You’ll get it next time."

A hollow attempt at encouragement. Let’s be real—how often does anyone actually win at rigged carnival games? Exactly. These stalls are designed to make you lose. Only someone with superhuman precision (or the audacity to cheat with magic) could hit those spinning targets. And even then, the whole booth would probably collapse under the weight of some overpowered lunatic’s frustration.

But moving on…

"Shouldn’t Father be here by now?" I asked.

We were supposed to meet him near the Ferris wheel. And here we were. Waiting.

"How odd…"

Then I saw him.

His imposing figure cut through the crowd, accompanied by someone else. His cloak nearly brushed the ground, gold embroidery glinting under the oil lamps. Father walked with that unshakable elegance of his, holding an umbrella, exuding a presence that felt carved from marble.

Damn. Has he always been this… regal?

Embarrassing to admit, but yes. His aura was ridiculous.

When they got close enough, Isolde spotted him.

"Papa!" she shrieked, launching herself at him.

I wasn’t far behind.

I sprinted after her, determined to overtake her. Water splashed under our steps, soaking the hems of our clothes—but that was trivial. Too insignificant to care about.

We jumped at the same time, latching onto Father.

He laughed, accepting our tackle-hug without resistance. "Lucius! Isolde! How have you—Good hell, look at your coats. You’re soaked."

Isolde pressed her face against his, nuzzling him affectionately.

Even after eight years, my parents looked absurdly young. Guess molecular healing magic has its perks.

"Hello, dear," Mother greeted, smiling.

Father leaned down to kiss her. I, with well-honed survival instincts, covered Isolde’s eyes before she had to witness such embarrassing displays of affection.

"Your Majesty, my respects," Mother said, shifting to a more formal tone.

"None of that. On festival days, I’m just another civilian with no authority."

Your Majesty?

Ah.

So he’s the monarch.

That explains… a lot. His bearing, his presence, the way he seemed to command the space around him even at a distance.

And, of course, the jet-black hair and crimson eyes didn’t make him any less intimidating.

"Then these must be Lucius and Echidna," the monarch said, studying us with a calculated gaze.

Echidna.

Isolde’s middle name—one we never use. Like mine.

(Mine’s Van. I’d rather forget it.)

"Echidna? Darling, we agreed to call her by her first name," Mother chided Father with sweetly sharp disapproval.

"Ah… Haha, my apologies. I forgot," he replied, taking the scolding in stride.

Really?

He remembered Isolde’s middle name but forgot mine?

Sounds less like an oversight and more like a flimsy excuse to deflect Mother’s wrath.

But I’ll let it slide.

For now.