Klaus raised his hand to knock, but the door swung open before his knuckles touched wood.

"Young Master Klaus!"

The maid's gasp of surprise rippled through the annex like a stone dropped in still water. Within moments, half a dozen servants had materialized in the entryway, their faces lighting up with genuine joy that caught Klaus off guard.

"My lord, you look..." The head maid, an older woman named Marta who had worked for the family since before his birth, studied his face with the careful attention of someone who had watched him grow up. "Well. You look well."

Klaus felt his lips curve into the first genuine smile he'd worn in days. These people had seen him at his worst—the cursed child who couldn't form a proper mana core, the stubborn boy who insisted on sword training despite his limitations, the young man who'd returned from Northwatch forever changed. Yet their eyes held nothing but warmth.

"It's good to see you all," Klaus said, and meant it.

What struck him most was their ease around him. Since awakening after the Icarus incident, Klaus had grown accustomed to people flinching in his presence. His transformed state had radiated pressure that made even trained soldiers step back instinctively. Conversations had been stilted affairs where people struggled to maintain eye contact.

But these servants showed no such discomfort. They bustled around him with familiar efficiency, taking a cloak he wasn't wearing, offering refreshments he didn't need—normal gestures that spoke to relationship unchanged by cosmic transformation.

Klaus realized his aura had finally stabilized. The overwhelming energy that had made his mere presence exhausting for others had settled into something almost undetectable. He felt the same power coursing through his reconstructed form, but it no longer leaked out to pressure everyone around him.

"Is my mother in?" Klaus asked.

"Oh yes, my lord. She's in the garden with little Miss Elaria." Marta's expression softened as it always did when she mentioned his infant sister. "The young miss has been asking about you. Well, not in words exactly, but she gets this look whenever someone mentions your name."

Klaus felt something tight in his chest loosen. During those first confused weeks after his return, he'd been unable to face his family properly. His memories had been a chaos of lifetimes bleeding together—fabricated recollections of cosmic authority mixing with genuine moments of childhood, making it impossible to know which emotions were real and which were manufactured.

He'd kept his distance not out of lack of love, but because he hadn't known who he was anymore. How could he hold his infant sister when he wasn't sure if his hands belonged to Klaus Lionhart or some ancient entity wearing his face?

But now, after sorting through the systematic manipulation of his memories, after achieving balance through the Singularity Principle, Klaus felt solidly himself again. Enhanced, yes. Transformed beyond normal human limits, certainly. But fundamentally, irreducibly Klaus Lionhart—son, brother, protector of people he loved.

"Where's my father?" Klaus asked as they walked through hallways lined with family portraits.

The servants exchanged glances. Marta cleared her throat delicately. "Master Ludovic departed three weeks ago, my lord. He received word of ancient texts in the Kingdom of Vaelthorne that might contain methods for... for addressing damaged cores."

Klaus nodded, understanding. His father's shattered mana core had been family shame for years—the promising young noble who'd somehow destroyed his own potential in mysterious accident no one discussed. Ludovic had spent Klaus's entire childhood as living reminder of what failure looked like in a family of magical prodigies.

"Did he say when he'd return?"

"No fixed date, my lord. But he seemed... hopeful. More hopeful than I've seen him in years."

Klaus wondered if his own transformation had given Ludovic new belief that damaged cores could be healed. The irony wasn't lost on him—the son everyone had pitied for his weak core had transcended the entire system, while the father everyone whispered about was still searching for conventional solutions.

They emerged into the garden where Klaus stopped dead.

Elisabeth sat on a stone bench beneath flowering trees, sunlight catching the golden threads in her hair as she gently rocked a bundle of pale green fabric. Even from a distance, Klaus could hear Elaria's soft coos of contentment—wordless baby sounds that somehow conveyed personality despite their incoherence.

His mother looked up as footsteps approached, and Klaus watched emotions flicker across her face in rapid succession. Relief, joy, concern, love—all mixing together into expression that needed no words.

"Klaus." Her voice was soft, careful. "You came."

"I should have come sooner." The words emerged before Klaus could stop them, carrying guilt he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "I should have—"

"No." Elisabeth's voice carried gentle firmness that cut through his self-recrimination. "You needed time. We all understood that. What you went through..." She shook her head. "I'm just glad you're here now."

Klaus approached slowly, giving her time to adjust to his presence. He'd forgotten how beautiful his mother was—not the artificial beauty enhanced by magic or cosmetics, but natural elegance that came from strength refined by compassion. Her golden eyes held depths that spoke to someone who'd survived her own share of cosmic complications.

"How is she?" Klaus nodded toward the bundle in Elisabeth's arms.

"Growing fast. Too fast, sometimes." Elisabeth's smile carried mixture of pride and weariness that every parent understood. "She's been sleeping better since... well, since whatever changed in your aura. It used to make her fussy—all that energy pressing against everything around you. But now..."

Elisabeth shifted slightly, and Klaus caught his first clear glimpse of his sister since returning from the Icarus cult's ritual.

Elaria had grown considerably during the weeks of his absence. Her face had lost the undefined quality of newborns, developing features that hinted at the beauty she'd inherit from their mother while carrying subtle echoes of Lionhart bone structure. Her hair had darkened to shade that reminded Klaus of autumn leaves, and her eyes...

Her eyes were alert in way that seemed unusual for infant so young. They tracked movement with focus that suggested intelligence already developing beyond normal parameters. When her gaze found Klaus, she made soft sound that might have been recognition.

"She knows you," Elisabeth said with satisfaction. "Even when you were... struggling to be yourself, she always knew you were her brother."

Klaus felt something break open in his chest—not painful but releasing, like dam giving way to let trapped water flow free. All his cosmic significance, his transcendent power, his mysterious titles and ancient memories—none of it mattered as much as this moment with his family.

"May I?" Klaus held out his hands.

Elisabeth nodded, carefully transferring Elaria to his arms. Klaus had held her before, during those confused early days after his return, but this felt different. Then, he'd been afraid his transformed state might somehow harm her. Now, he simply held his sister with steady confidence that had nothing to do with supernatural enhancement.

Elaria studied his face with serious expression that made Klaus smile despite himself. She reached up with tiny hand, fingers brushing against his cheek in gesture that seemed deliberate rather than random infant movement.

"She's strong," Klaus observed, feeling unusual vitality in his sister's small form.

"Beast Art bloodline," Elisabeth confirmed. "It manifested early, probably because of all the unusual energy around the estate lately. She'll be formidable when she's older."

Klaus looked at his mother with curiosity. "How are you handling all this? The changes, the uncertainty about what I've become?"

Elisabeth was quiet for long moment, studying both her children with expression that held complex mix of emotions. When she spoke, her voice carried weight of careful thought.

"You're still my son," she said simply. "Whatever power you've gained, whatever cosmic significance you might have—you're still the boy who used to sneak extra sweets from the kitchen, who practiced sword forms until his hands bled because you refused to accept limitations."

Klaus felt tears threaten—not of sadness but of relief so profound it was almost overwhelming.

"I was afraid," he admitted. "Afraid that becoming... this... might have changed something fundamental. That I might not be able to love you the way I did before."

"And do you?" Elisabeth's question was gentle but direct.

Klaus looked down at Elaria, who had fallen asleep against his chest with trust that spoke to bond transcending any transformation. He looked at his mother, whose presence reminded him that power without love was meaningless decoration.

"More than ever," Klaus said, and knew it was absolutely true.