asterism
Siegbert is not difficult to find once classes adjourn; he’s a boy of routines, a spitting image of his father even if he might think himself lacking. Following his afternoon lessons, he’ll be training. After training, he’ll enjoy a brief respite with a snack or two before he sits down to focus on his homework. Xander knows this as well as he knows the order of the seasons.
This is his son, the brightest asterism in Nohr’s skies. In time, he will learn; in time, he will grow. And in time, he will inherit blade and crown, steel and gold—and he will realize that he was a constellation all along, a shape of his own making, perhaps not perfect but whole nonetheless.
Xander is proud of him, even if he does not say so as often as he feels it.
“Your form has improved, Siegbert,” he notes, speaking through the harsh crack of a training sword bearing down on a worn training dummy. “You’re steadier on your feet—though perhaps by too much. You’ll find it difficult to catch an attack from behind if you were to be so assaulted.”
But it’s an improvement, still. Siegbert always improves, sometimes by miles, sometimes by inches.
It’s good to see him grow.
@perfectionist-prince