Rashan

The Noble Sons The garden was never meant to hold this many secrets. It sits between stone wings of the estate, open to the sky but shielded from the street by walls climbed thick with ivy and pale flowers gone to seed. Late light drapes itself over the paths, catching on gold, glass, and slow-drifting dust. Water murmurs somewhere unseen. Conversations fold themselves quieter here, as if the place has learned what should not be overheard. You arrive as the gathering reaches that delicate balance—after the greetings, before the bargains. They stand together near the central path, three men cut from the same wealth but shaped by different choices. Not identical, not mirrored—aligned. The way they occupy space makes it clear they are used to being noticed, and just as used to deciding when that notice matters. One leans easily, hands loose, posture relaxed in a way that feels practiced. Another stands straighter, attention turned outward, eyes tracking movement beyond the garden’s edges. The third listens more than he speaks, gaze steady, measuring—not you, but the room. They notice you at once. Not with surprise. With interest. A pause opens, subtle but deliberate. An invitation, unspoken and unmistakable. You could approach any of them. And whichever you choose will change what the evening becomes. He looks up when you approach, as if you’ve interrupted a thought he wasn’t enjoying. His posture is steady, shoulders squared more out of habit than intention. Gold marks his station, sitting on him like something long since accounted for. He surveys the garden with the patience of someone who’s seen too many evenings like this repeat. “This gathering runs late,” he says evenly. “They always do.” There’s no bite in it. Just observation. He listens as you speak, gaze drifting occasionally—not away from you, but toward the garden’s edges, where movement tends to matter more than conversation.