The morning sun glittered in golden diamonds over the green grass of the rolling hills surrounding Chaoedia. From the crest of this hill, where Gavriil sat astride his white gelding, he could see down into the dipping valley below where the house his son was to take up sat. It was a long, low house, nestled in a glade of trees, sitting sentry over a village of colorful homes. Hooves dragged on the rocky path behind him and he turned to watch Sybil’s dainty horse making her way towards him. Dorothea, at just seven, could have ridden a pony of her own but Sybil had wanted to make the journey together and had her daughter sitting in front of her on the saddle.

Iason, being twelve and just now a man, had his own pony. The family had started out when it was still in the wee hours of the morning because Gavriil wanted to arrive at just this moment. They’d stayed in this house before, of course and it wouldn’t be new to Iason, but it was different now, to see a house that would be his, land that was his as soon as the ink was dry on the documents. He wanted his son to see it in the shimmering morning, when the land was at its best, when the birds were in full song, and when they could see the sleepy village rousing itself below.

He glanced down at his boy and reached out, placing a heavy hand atop Iason’s shaggy head. “What say you, Lord Iason?” he asked, the gravel of his voice barely disturbing the chilly air around them. The morning would have been in danger of being quite cold, except that with such brilliant sunlight and no wind to speak of, they were all likely to be quite comfortable beneath their cloaks. “Does this barony please you?” If Iason said no, Gavriil would have taken him around the entirety of their lands to see if he liked one better, but he knew his son. His son was a capable person, though gentle and quiet - like the lands they looked down on at that precise moment.

Behind them, Sybil made a clicking sound at the back of her throat and urged her mare forward. ”It’s lovely, darling,” though it was unclear if she was speaking to her husband, son, or both. Her arm lay draped around Dorothea’s middle, keeping her close in a loose, protective hug. ”I don’t suppose the staff would have a breakfast ready?” she asked, this time definitely speaking directly to Gavriil.

He shook his head doubtfully. He hadn’t sent word ahead that they were coming, but his steward might have. If nothing else, it’d keep the servants on their toes and they’d be able to see how fast the staff would be able to scramble something together. At twelve, Iason would be within his legal rights to take possession of the house at once and not live with the rest of the clan in Meganea anymore, though Gavriil privately hoped he wouldn’t. The patriarch wasn’t going to sway his son one way or the other but simply give him the choice. His parental wishes were at war with his sense of duty. At 12, Iason was bearing the signs of maturity while still clinging to the childhood that hadn’t quite departed yet. It would be cruel and selfish to deprive his son of the chance to spread his wings and soar where he pleased.

“It may not be ready,” Gavriil said about the breakfast. “But we shall have it within the hour if Iason wants to go down and ask it of them.” It was the first test to see what sort of master Iason was liable to be. Would he be too timid and let the staff overpower him? Would he be too forceful? Or would he be something else altogether? Gavriil was interested to find out and unlikely to intervene, no matter what his son decided. At least, not in front of the staff.