The Reborn Sovereign of Ruin, Bound by His Star

Mezos had been looking forward to returning to Agaron.

He had not been looking forward to returning home.

Those were two entirely different things, and Severin had apparently decided to make the distinction as unpleasant as possible.

The moment their aircraft landed, the commander handed him a tablet containing his revised schedule.

Mezos opened it.

Then stared.

"Paid leave?"

"Seven days," Severin confirmed.

"I did not request leave."

"I approved it anyway."

Mezos looked up from the tablet, his blue eyes narrowing at the man standing beside the aircraft’s open doors.

Severin wore his usual dark military coat, looking entirely too pleased with himself for someone who had just removed the chief of imperial security from active duty.

"Arik is visiting his family," Severin continued. "Liam is visiting his in-laws. Kamal is remaining in Nuria, and I am perfectly capable of keeping the emperor alive for a week."

"That is debatable."

"Fortunately, you are on leave and cannot debate it professionally."

Mezos closed the tablet.

"You arranged this with Arik."

"Obviously."

"Traitor."

Severin smiled.

"Good luck with your father."

Mezos stared at him.

The bastard actually had the gall to wish him luck.

Then Severin turned and walked away before Mezos could formulate an appropriate response.

—

The Aradia residence stood in the southern administrative district of Agaron’s imperial capital, occupying a broad estate surrounded by old trees and stone walls that had been maintained with the same uncompromising precision Mezos remembered from childhood.

His father’s house had never been particularly welcoming.

Beautiful, certainly.

But General Theron Aradia considered unnecessary decoration a sign of poor discipline, and even the gardens looked as though someone had instructed the flowers to maintain appropriate distance from one another.

Mezos stepped out of the car and looked toward the entrance.

The house had not changed.

For some reason, that made his chest tighten.

The driver removed his luggage while Mezos adjusted the collar of his dark traveling coat, suddenly regretting his decision to arrive wearing civilian clothes rather than uniform.

Then the front doors opened.

An older attendant appeared at the top of the steps.

He stopped.

"Lord Mezos?"

Mezos recognized him immediately.

"Edmund."

The attendant’s expression changed so completely that Mezos forgot whatever sarcastic greeting he had prepared.

"You’re home."

Mezos nodded.

"I am."

Edmund came down the steps much faster than his age should have permitted.

For a moment, he appeared uncertain whether protocol allowed him to approach.

Then he caught Mezos by both hands.

"Thank the gods."

Mezos stared at him.

Edmund had served the Aradia household since before Mezos was born, and his usual approach to emotional situations involved finding an appropriate room and ensuring everyone had refreshments.

Now his eyes were wet.

"We were told you had returned," Edmund said. "But His Excellency would not let us arrange anything until you confirmed the visit yourself."

"That sounds like Father."

"He has been waiting since morning."

Mezos glanced toward the house.

"Has he?"

Edmund’s expression softened.

"Every day, my lord."

Mezos had no answer ready.

Inside, the entrance hall smelled faintly of polished wood and fresh flowers. The dark stone floor reflected the afternoon light entering through tall windows, while the family crest remained mounted above the staircase exactly where it had been throughout Mezos’s childhood.

The household staff had gathered near the adjoining corridor.

Mezos stopped.

There were more of them than he remembered.

Some were familiar faces, older now, while others had joined during his absence. Yet every expression changed when they saw him.

The housekeeper reached him first.

"Lord Mezos."

Her voice trembled.

Mezos barely managed to greet her before she embraced him.

That was new.

Mrs. Varen had once informed him that running indoors was unacceptable even if the building was on fire.

Now she was holding him as though he might disappear if she released him.

"We thought..." She stopped and pressed one hand against her mouth.

Mezos swallowed.

"I know."

A younger attendant wiped his eyes behind her.

Someone else laughed quietly in relief.

Mezos found himself surrounded by people asking whether he had been injured, whether he had eaten, and whether he intended to remain longer than a few hours.

He had crossed a fractured Gate, survived more than a year in an isolated empire, and returned to find the household behaving as though he had personally offended them by remaining alive without informing them sooner.

It was deeply inconvenient.

He was also having considerable difficulty speaking.

"Where is Father?" he finally asked.

Mrs. Varen stepped aside.

"In his study, my lord."

Mezos knew the route without thinking.

Past the staircase, through the western corridor, and toward the double doors at the end where he had spent most of his childhood being summoned to explain academic reports, training injuries, questionable friendships, and one particularly memorable incident involving Arik, an academy tower, and several ceremonial curtains.

He stopped outside the study.

For a moment, he considered knocking.

Then he did.

"Enter."

The voice was exactly as he remembered.

Mezos opened the door.

General Theron Aradia stood behind his desk.

He wore a dark military uniform with silver insignia at the shoulders, the formal jacket buttoned despite being inside his own residence. His hair had acquired more gray since Mezos last saw him, but his posture remained perfectly straight, one hand resting against a closed folder beside the documents arranged across his desk.

Mezos stepped inside.

"Father."

Theron looked at him.

The general’s gaze moved over his son with the familiar precision of a man accustomed to evaluating soldiers.

His face.

His shoulders.

The arm that had been injured inside Nuria.

His stance.

Mezos almost expected him to comment on the collar of his coat.

Instead, Theron walked around the desk.

Mezos straightened automatically.

A lifetime of military discipline was difficult to discard.

"I apologize for arriving without informing you of the exact time. Severin approved leave without consulting me, and the imperial transport schedule—"

His father reached him.

Then Theron pulled him into his arms.

Mezos stopped speaking.

For several seconds, he could not quite understand what was happening.

His father had embraced him before.

Occasionally.

When he was very young.

He could remember a few rare moments after particularly dangerous assignments, brief gestures of approval that had always ended before anyone else might notice.

This was nothing like those.

Theron’s arms tightened around him, one hand pressing firmly against the back of his head while the other held him across the shoulders.

Mezos slowly lifted his own arms.

"Father?"

Theron said nothing.

His grip tightened.

Mezos closed his eyes.

He had prepared himself for anger.

For a lecture about recklessness, misplaced loyalty, and the unprofessional decision to follow Agaron’s crown prince through an unstable Gate without considering what would happen to his military appointment.

He had even prepared several arguments.

None of them seemed particularly useful now.

His father finally spoke.

"You’re home."

The words were rough.

Mezos swallowed.

"Yes."

Theron drew back just enough to examine him again, although his hands remained firmly on his son’s shoulders.

"Are you injured?"

"Nothing serious anymore."

"Your channels?"

"Recovered."

"Your shoulder?"

"Functional."

The general’s eyes narrowed.

Mezos almost smiled.

"Completely functional, Father."

Theron nodded once.

Then embraced him again.

Mezos’s breath caught.

His father had called thirty-one times while he was missing.

He had spent more than a year waiting for a son who might never return, maintaining the same strict household, the same immaculate office, and the same professional composure while sending messages into a dead communication channel.

Now the general was holding him as though rank, regulations, and military discipline had never existed.

Mezos rested his forehead briefly against his father’s shoulder.

"I’m sorry."

Theron’s hand settled against the back of his head.

"Do not apologize for coming home."

Mezos closed his eyes.