CHAPTER 110: A FATHER’S QUESTION

The Thorne family estate sat three hours outside the capital by carriage. Gareth watched familiar landscape pass through the window, his analytical mind cataloging changes since his last visit. Rolling hills showed early spring growth. Farmland displayed efficient crop rotation. Stone walls marked property boundaries with geometric precision that spoke to generations of careful planning.

Everything about the Thorne holdings reflected the family’s nature organized, efficient, calculated for maximum productivity with minimal waste.

But Gareth’s mind kept drifting back to the rift. To three days of survival that had tested every analytical framework he’d developed. To the bodies he’d cataloged with clinical detachment because emotional processing would have compromised tactical effectiveness.

The carriage rolled through the main gate. Past guards who stood at attention with military precision. Past gardens arranged in symmetrical patterns that optimized aesthetic appeal while maintaining practical herb cultivation. Past servant quarters built with architectural efficiency that housed staff in comfort without unnecessary extravagance.

Home.

The word felt different now. Hollow in ways it hadn’t before the dimensional catastrophe.

Gareth’s father stood on the manor steps. Lord Marcus Thorne was fifty-eight, silver threading through dark hair, sharp eyes that missed nothing, posture radiating the controlled authority of someone who’d spent three decades as senior royal administrator. Behind him stood Gareth’s mother, Lady Elaine Thorne composed, elegant, her expression carefully neutral in the way that suggested significant emotion being professionally contained.

The carriage stopped. Gareth descended with his precisely packed belongings, noting how his parents’ micro-expressions shifted as they cataloged his physical condition. Uninjured. Healthy. Whole.

Unlike one hundred forty-eight others who would never return home.

"Gareth." His father’s voice carried neither excessive warmth nor coldness simply acknowledgment of fact delivered with controlled relief. "You survived."

"Yes, Father. Though survival was... complicated."

Lord Thorne’s analytical gaze swept over his son with the same methodical precision Gareth recognized in himself. Cataloging details. Processing information. Noting the subtle changes that three days of dimensional hell had carved into his youngest child’s bearing.

"Come inside. We’ll discuss your experiences properly after you’ve settled." His father’s hand briefly touched Gareth’s shoulder a rare gesture of physical contact from a man who typically expressed affection through practical support rather than demonstrative warmth. "Your mother has been monitoring Academy communications obsessively since the incident was reported."

Lady Elaine stepped forward, her carefully maintained composure fracturing slightly as she embraced her son with uncharacteristic intensity. "Thank the gods you’re safe. When we received word that a dimensional rift had consumed two hundred students, that survivors were being extracted one group at a time..." Her voice tightened. "Every hour without confirmation of your survival was agony."

Gareth returned the embrace awkwardly, his analytical mind noting how physical affection felt simultaneously foreign and necessary after three days where human connection had been reduced to tactical coordination during crisis. "I’m sorry for the worry. Communication from within the rift was impossible, and extraction was... chaotic."

They entered the manor. Servants moved with quiet efficiency taking Gareth’s belongings, preparing rooms, operating with the practiced coordination of staff who’d served the Thorne family for generations and understood that competent service meant anticipating needs before they were voiced.

Gareth’s quarters were exactly as he’d left them. Books organized by subject with cross-referencing system he’d developed at age twelve. Desk arranged with geometric precision that optimized workflow while maintaining aesthetic balance. Window overlooking the estate’s eastern fields where morning light would provide ideal reading conditions.

Everything in its proper place. Unchanged. Waiting.

He unpacked methodically, the familiar routine providing comfort through mechanical repetition. Clothing folded and stored according to season and formality. Academy materials organized for potential reference despite suspension of instruction. Personal effects arranged according to long-established system that balanced accessibility with spatial efficiency.

The routine was soothing. Expected. Safe.

But something felt fundamentally displaced. As if he’d returned to a room designed for someone who no longer quite existed a version of himself who hadn’t spent three days cataloging corpses and coordinating survival tactics while classmates died around him.

A soft knock interrupted his organizational meditation.

"Come in."

His mother entered carrying a tea service, her movements graceful despite the obvious weight of maternal concern she was working to contain. "I thought you might appreciate refreshment before dinner. Your father is preparing questions, and I wanted a moment of conversation before the analytical inquisition begins."

Gareth accepted the tea with genuine gratitude. The familiar blend imported from the southern provinces, precisely steeped to optimal temperature tasted like home in ways that physical space alone couldn’t provide. "Thank you. And you’re correct that Father will have extensive questions. The dimensional rift represents both personal trauma and strategic intelligence opportunity. His administrative instincts won’t permit him to prioritize one over the other."

"He loves you," Lady Elaine said quietly, settling into the chair near his desk. "His analytical approach to crisis is how he processes fear. When we received initial reports about the rift, before survivor lists were published, he spent six hours compiling every piece of available intelligence about dimensional incursions and extraction protocols. Not because the information would bring you home, but because research gave him illusion of control when he felt helpless."

The insight made Gareth pause, tea cup halfway to his lips. He’d always understood his father’s analytical nature as personality trait rather than coping mechanism. The realization that Lord Thorne’s methodical information gathering might serve emotional regulation as much as strategic planning added layers of complexity to their relationship dynamic.

"I didn’t consider that perspective," Gareth admitted.

"Your father and you are remarkably similar," his mother continued, her tone gentle but direct. "You both process the world through analytical frameworks because emotional responses feel overwhelming and difficult to manage. The difference is that you’re beginning to recognize when analysis alone is insufficient, while he still believes comprehensive enough data can solve any problem."

Gareth sipped his tea, considering her assessment with the same methodical precision he applied to tactical problems. His mother’s emotional intelligence had always been impressive, but he’d typically dismissed it as separate domain from his own analytical capabilities rather than complementary perspective that could enhance understanding.

"The rift forced me to make decisions where analysis alone was inadequate," he said slowly, organizing thoughts that still felt fragmented and incompletely processed. "Petra and I coordinated our groups through situations where optimal tactics couldn’t be determined because variables exceeded calculation capacity. We relied on intuition, collaborative judgment, emotional reading of group dynamics..." He paused. "Skills I’d previously considered less rigorous than pure analytical reasoning."

"And now?"

"Now I recognize them as different forms of intelligence. Valuable in contexts where my preferred methodologies reach their limits." Gareth met his mother’s gaze directly. "Which doesn’t mean I’ve abandoned analytical thinking. Simply that I understand its boundaries more clearly."

Lady Elaine smiled with obvious pride. "That’s significant personal growth. Particularly for someone who arrived at the Academy convinced that friendship was primarily valuable for information gathering rather than intrinsic human connection."

The gentle rebuke made Gareth wince slightly. His first-year approach to social relationships had been embarrassingly transactional in retrospect analyzing classmates as data sources, calculating optimal interaction strategies, treating friendship as resource rather than genuine bond.

"Speaking of classmates," his mother said carefully, "your father received preliminary palace briefings about the SS-rank survivors. Baron Millbrook’s daughter sustained severe injuries preventing corruption. And Lord Ashford’s youngest son was the last survivor extracted, having crossed three kilometers of collapsing dimensional terrain while critically wounded."

"The briefings are accurate," Gareth confirmed. "I spoke with Kael after his return. His survival circumstances were exceptional by any reasonable standard."

"Your father will want detailed assessment of the Ashford boy’s capabilities." Lady Elaine’s tone carried warning. "Not from paternal nosiness, but because royal administrators are compiling intelligence profiles on survivors who demonstrated unusual effectiveness during crisis. Kael’s performance has attracted significant institutional attention."

Gareth’s jaw tightened fractionally. "I’m aware. The King conducted private audience with Kael shortly after his medical discharge. Captain Aldric has been monitoring his recovery. Multiple authority structures are observing him with strategic interest that goes beyond normal concern for traumatized student."

"Will you provide your father with analytical assessment of your friend’s capabilities?"

The question struck directly at ethical boundaries Gareth was still learning to navigate. His analytical instincts immediately began cataloging relevant data about Kael combat effectiveness, unusual recovery rate, tactical sophistication beyond first-year training, careful management of information flow that suggested experience with strategic deception.

But his developing understanding of friendship recognized that compiling intelligence profile on someone who’d trusted him during crisis would constitute betrayal regardless of how thoroughly he rationalized it as serving kingdom interests.

"I’ll provide tactical analysis of survival strategies I observed during the rift," Gareth said carefully. "Coordination protocols. Group dynamics under pressure. Observable patterns in how different students responded to extreme circumstances. But I won’t compile personal intelligence profiles on classmates who trusted me with vulnerability during trauma."

His mother’s expression showed something between relief and pride. "That’s ethical boundary I hoped you’d recognize. Your father will be disappointed his administrative instincts prioritize information gathering but I believe you’re making correct choice."

"Even if it limits kingdom security intelligence?"

"Kingdom security isn’t served by systematically betraying personal trust to feed administrative databases," Lady Elaine replied firmly. "That approach creates surveillance culture where citizens learn to hide everything from authority structures, which ultimately produces less reliable intelligence than relationships built on genuine trust and voluntary cooperation."

The perspective was sophisticated enough to appeal to Gareth’s analytical mind while validating his instinctive resistance to his father’s likely requests. Political theory supported ethical instinct a satisfying alignment of frameworks.

A bell chimed softly from downstairs. Dinner announcement delivered through household system that coordinated meal service with mechanical precision.

"Ready to face your father’s questions?" his mother asked with gentle humor.

"As ready as possible given that I’m still processing events myself."