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[i]"..The truth is only hidden to those who do not seek it.”[/i][/center]

	The young man who awoke in the dead hours of the morning, when not even the birds had arisen from their nests to greet the rising sun, slowly opened his eyes to an unfamiliar ceiling. While, chilly, the air was warmer than what was expected in the cold regions of Rodion, reminding the figure that he was in another country entirely. Slowly, he sat up from the mattress of his bed, blinking away the light that shown from his left eye until it no longer illuminated the dim room. With a sigh, he rose, stepping toward the dresser's mirror to prepare himself for the day.

	Sorrel Gran had developed shaded eyebags over the course of the hectic week, the multitude of life-changing events collapsing around him without a moment to catch his breath. The previous Lord of House Gran was still warm on the ground when he'd been given the right of succession, and no time was spent to watch vigil upon the man's burial site before the young heir whisked away to Veradis to cement his new position as the Scion of Storms. With his own personal misgivings on various matters unable to be dealt with healthily on top of that, it was no question that his mental and physical state had taken a toll.

	There was too much to be done in his homeland, restructuring the internal hierarchy, completing his studies of responsibilities as the new lord, flushing out the rats that dare to infiltrate the House of Gran during the transfer of power. Sorrel could only rely on his father's retainers- no, his [i]own[/i] retainers now -to deal with things while he was away. It could not be helped, after all the will of the Goddess was not something for mortals to ignore.

	Applying concealer beneath his eyes, even a young lord could not be found wanting in his weakest state, the redheaded noble strapped on his training gear before heading to the door. Though it was three more hours until sunrise, there was no better time to revitalize himself with a bit of exercise. However, as he approached the door frame, his gaze lingered for a moment upon the sword propped against the far wall. Narodu, the sharpest fang of Gran, a blade that was now his by right.

	He left it behind. He was not worthy to wield it for such a frivolous reason.

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	[color=red]"Halt,"[/color] the young lord ordered the coachman, slowing down the horse-drawn carriage as they approached the site of celebration. Though the modern age had come, and with it the transition from carriages to motor vehicles, the members of House Gran preferred the transportation of old. A warhorse cared for and trained over many years was more reliable than a machine they couldn't trust with their lives. 

	The reason they had delayed their arrival, however, was unrelated to such matters. Rather, it was the sight of a familiar limousine that made Sorrel pause, watching as the vehicle rolled in front of the where the Millennium Festival was being celebrated, and though the figure was but a speck in the distance, the nobleman couldn't help but feel a hint of nostalgia. The Prince of Veradis had arrived. He waited until the dirty blond hair disappeared in a sea of paparazzi before Sorrel signaled the carriage to continue onward, not wishing to steal the spotlight from his former... friend? Acquaintance. A person he knew through happenstance rather than a connection he forged on his own.

	As he approached the building, the reporters beginning to buzz as they noticed the symbol of his house- more likely for his position as a Scion rather than caring about a Rodion noble -the young noble cracked his neck, shook out his limbs, loosening his body in the time it took for the carriage to reach its intended destination and the coachman to move to open the door. Even when expecting it, the inexperienced heir couldn't help but wince at the sudden onslaught of flashing lights, taking a second to allow himself to adjust before taking his first steps down.

	With each movement, Sorrel felt his clothes tighten around him, clothed in a red and white suit with tunic that suited a knight more than a noble, draped in a mantle sewn with wolf furs that covered his back and flowed near his boots. An attire that wouldn't look out of place in Rodion, but was a step too casual for an event such as this. Yet, the noble heir wore it anyway, even with the few places that would be visibly re-sewn if one looked closely enough.

	It was the garb of a Rodion Lord, one that was worn both during formal events and war, a garment that radiated the pride of a noble as they stood ready for a duel. It was the clothes of Severnyy Gran, his father, and they clung to his body with every step. Perhaps it was merely because he stood an inch taller than the former lord, lacking space as it was hastily repaired for the occasion. Surely, it was merely his nerves, standing before people not as a young master to be pampered but a lord to be respected. Clearly, the slickness he felt was the sweat from stress, and the warmth that came with it was not the memory of blood staining the body that once wore this garb.

	[color=gray]"Your Holiness! What are your thoughts as the newly accepted Scion of Storms? Could you-"[/color]

	[color=gray]"-hat are your plans as Gran's new Lord? Have you any comment on-"[/color]

	[color=gray]-is timing your arrival after His Highness a political move? What is your stance concerning-"[/color]

	[color=red][i]'With your ill-gotten positions, granted by no effort of your own, how shall you be found wanting this time?'[/i][/color]

	Ignoring the questions asked not only by the reporters, but by his own subconscious, Sorrel Gran continued up the steps with his eyes affixed forward. He had not been allowed to bring any of his men, who would've assuredly chased off the buzzing happening outside the walls of the celebration, and the lack of a familiar presence made his steps feel all the heavier. The blade he had left that morning was strapped to his side beneath his mantle, its weight and lineage near unbearable for the boy-turned-adult, yet he allowed none of his weaknesses to be revealed in his gait, nor his face.

	And as he entered the hall, just in time to see the back of Prince Noah headed further in, Sorrel couldn't help but wonder what his peer thought of him, who now stood where their mutual friend would have if Theodore were still alive?