CHAPTER 68: CHAPTER 68

The sun crept slowly across the tiles of Starfall’s eastern wing, lingering on the quiet faces that gathered in the old garden.

Anthony and Aurora had set aside the duties of estate life for a few rare hours, choosing instead to share quiet tea with their son beneath the gentle shade of the willow.

Ethan had always loved these moments—a smooth ceramic cup warm in his hands, the faint perfume of moss and wild roses drifting on the air.

Today felt different: heavier, softer, filled with the hush that only comes when hearts are open.

Anthony stretched his legs, sighing contentedly.

"You know, my father used to tell a story with every sip of tea. I thought him ancient and silly, but now I see the wisdom in his ways—memory is a medicine of its own."

Aurora smiled, settling against her husband’s arm.

"He told stories not just for himself, but for us—for you, Ethan. That’s what families are: living libraries."

Ethan traced the rim of his cup thoughtfully. "Did you ever feel lost in the old tales? Like the history was too much to live up to?"

Aurora’s eyes sparkled.

"More times than I can count. The Drake name is heavy, darling. My side of the family was humble—farmers and scribes, someone who worked under the Drake family. When I married in, I worried every day I wouldn’t belong."

She glanced at Anthony, who grinned and pressed his shoulder into hers.

Anthony’s voice dipped, quiet and sincere.

"Truth is, I felt the same. My father was stern, his expectations impossible. He wanted me to cultivate not just power, but legacy. I disappointed him with every prank, every foolish mistake." He laughed, soft and rueful.

"But he taught me the value of learning from mistakes. Sometimes, the old ways are just what we need."

Ethan watched his parents, feeling the weight and warmth of those revelations settle into him.

"How did you find your place—with each other, and with the family?"

Aurora looked down at her hands.

"I found my place by embracing imperfection. It took me years to realize I was enough: as a mother, as a partner, as a Drake. The first time I hosted a festival here, I burned the rice, forgot the proper words for the lanterns, and cried under the table. Anthony found me, swept me up, and said, ’Every tradition started with a mistake.’"

Anthony squeezed her hand.

"How many times have I ruined the dumplings? Or tripped during the Lantern Dance? We built this family on laughter and forgiveness more than rules and rituals."

Pause. Ethan felt a swell of gratitude—for the security of being wanted and accepted, for being both a Drake and a child in a family that understood the difference between heritage and heart.

"Father," Ethan asked,

"did Grandfather ever talk about the earlier generations? The first generation of Starfall?"

Anthony’s eyes twinkled.

"He spoke often of the old days—the hardships, the narrow escapes, the pride of surviving where others failed. Back then, our ancestors were wanderers. One story says the first Drake starfall was a runaway apprentice who outwitted a band of rogue cultivators with nothing but clever lies and a stolen spoon."

Aurora’s laugh was soft, surprised. "A spoon?"

Anthony nodded.

"Legend grows in the telling. Our first branch head was a survivor, smart and a little reckless. The lesson isn’t about victory in battle—it’s about resilience. Each generation faces its own darkness, and the tool that saves us isn’t always a sword."

Ethan considered that, feeling the warmth of legacy twine through him.

"So our strength isn’t power, but endurance? Wit?"

Anthony grinned. "Exactly. Even now, the world thinks the Drakes are fierce. Truth is, we’re stubborn and adaptable. We’re a family that endures, learns, and loves fiercely."

Aurora cut in, her tone gentle.

"That’s why we protect each other—here, in this garden, in the kitchen, during the darkest winters. Family isn’t about being perfect; it’s about supporting one another, letting kindness be the foundation for everything."

Ethan nodded. "Did you ever wish you’d lived another life? Something easier. Quieter."

Anthony’s eyes softened.

"I thought about it after my father died. I wondered if I should have left, become a traveling scholar, or opened a shop—something simple, honest. But I met Aurora, saw you born, looked at this estate full of memories. No other life could have filled me with as much meaning."

Aurora brushed Ethan’s hair from his forehead.

"There’s beauty in every story, Ethan—the little lives, not just the grand destinies. I would choose this life again, with all its struggle and joy, all its quiet mornings and loud festival nights."

Ethan felt a lump rise in his throat, pride and longing tangled together.

"Thank you—for sharing this with me. For showing me how to live and love without fear."

Aurora leaned close, voice full of reassurance. "Love is never wasted. Even when you leave for the academy, or face the world’s trials, you take a piece of us with you. There is no Drake legend strong enough to sever that bond."

Anthony smiled. "Remember, when things turn hard, you have a home. A place to rest, a place to return. That’s the gift our family gives—roots for when you need to stand strong, wings for when you need to grow."

Ethan looked out at the garden, the sunlight catching on the petals of a single iris.

He remembered the stories told at night, the lessons passed along in laughter and tears, the safety of his mother’s embrace and the steady encouragement of his father’s words.

He spoke softly, "What legacy would you wish for me to carry forward?"

Aurora answered first. "Kindness, Ethan. Not just to others—to yourself. Let your heart be gentle, let your mind be curious. We’ll be proud of you, no matter the path."

Anthony’s words followed, warm and certain.

"Courage, son. Not the daring of battle, but the courage to seek truth, to admit fault, to change your mind for the sake of what’s right. Never be afraid to be vulnerable, to ask for help, or to start over."

Ethan nodded, gratitude shining in his eyes. He realized, for all the ambition and secrecy nestled within him, the deepest thread of identity was woven from these moments—the legacy of a family that chose love above pride, forgiveness above fear.

The afternoon passed gently.

They worked together in the garden, tending vegetables, planting bulbs for the next season. Aurora shared gardening tricks and stories about her first attempts at cultivation—failed harvests, unexpected triumphs, and lessons learned.

Anthony recounted the day Ethan basic martial art technique, how he’d nearly singed his eyebrows off and how Aurora had fussed over him for a week. "You were determined," Anthony said.

"Not to be the strongest, but to get it right. That’s what set you apart, even then."

As twilight approached, Ethan sat between his parents on the old stone bench by the reflecting pool. The air was filled with the gentle hum of crickets and the distant melody of the festival’s afterglow.

Aurora placed a quilt over Ethan’s shoulders. "You never tire of learning, do you? Always thinking. Always searching."

Ethan smiled, accepting the gentle joke.

"There’s so much I don’t know. So many stories left untold. I wish I had more time—to ask, to listen."

Anthony nudged him.

"Then ask now, son. That’s how you keep the story alive. We’re here. The world might never know our names beyond these walls, but you will."

Ethan leaned into his parents, heart tender and resolute.

He shared hopes for the future—not just for himself, but for Starfall, for family, for the humble joy of ordinary days. Aurora held his hand; Anthony wrapped an arm around his shoulders.

The night grew deeper, stars glimmering overhead. Inside, the house was quiet, the echoes of laughter and memory settling into the walls. Ethan understood now—legacy wasn’t a burden, it was a gift: a story crafted by generations, made rich not by power but by love.

He promised himself to carry that story forward, no matter what challenges came.

To remember the lessons of kindness, courage, resilience, and gentle strength. To be a son worthy of the Drakes—and of these two extraordinary people.

As sleep beckoned and the world stilled, Ethan’s final thought was simple and strong:

Roots and wings. That was all he ever wanted. All he could ever need.