Chapter 149| What the Family Owes

Edward’s formal hearing before the WHRIB tribunal took place three weeks after the tournament’s devastating conclusion, and Allen attended despite Myria’s own careful reservations, understanding that whatever complicated resentment still lingered between them, he owed his brother at least the dignity of facing the proceedings rather than simply, quietly abandoning him to their consequences alone.

The tribunal chamber carried none of the stadium’s earlier, considerable grandeur, a modest, functional room where three WHRIB officials reviewed Edward’s case with the same careful, methodical thoroughness Farrow’s investigation had already demonstrated, and Allen watched his brother, seated at the defendant’s table in plain, unadorned clothing rather than his usual golden armor, answer every question with none of his earlier theatrical arrogance.

"You’ve cooperated fully with our investigation," the lead official noted, reviewing Edward’s considerable file. "Provided detailed information regarding the device’s origin, the individual who supplied it, and your own decision-making process leading up to its deployment."

"I have," Edward confirmed, voice steady but carrying visible, considerable weight. "I’ll cooperate with whatever else you need. I understand what my choice cost."

"Given your cooperation, and the considerable evidence suggesting deliberate manipulation by a third party with resources far exceeding your own awareness," the official continued, "this tribunal is prepared to recommend a reduced sentence — supervised community service, mandatory counseling, and permanent revocation of your Hunter registration pending a five-year review period. However, this leniency comes with the expectation of continued, full cooperation with the ongoing investigation."

Edward absorbed the verdict with quiet, visible relief tempered by something considerably heavier, and when the proceedings finally concluded, Allen found himself waiting outside the chamber, uncertain exactly what he intended to say once his brother emerged.

"You didn’t have to come," Edward said, finding him there, his own expression carrying careful, uncertain surprise.

"I know," Allen said. "I wanted to, though."

They stood together in the chamber’s quiet hallway, an uneasy silence stretching between them that carried, for the first time in either of their memories, something closer to genuine reckoning than simple sibling rivalry.

"I don’t expect forgiveness," Edward said finally. "I don’t think I deserve it, honestly. A boy is dead because I wanted to prove something petty about myself. That’s not something five years of supervised service properly accounts for."

"No," Allen agreed. "It isn’t."

"Then why are you here?"

Allen considered the question carefully. "Because I don’t think punishing yourself forever actually honors what Haruki gave," he said. "He believed in second chances. Believed heart could outweigh whatever mistakes came before it. I don’t know if you deserve forgiveness yet, Edward. But I know holding onto this resentment between us isn’t going to bring him back, and I’m tired of losing family to things that could have been different."

Edward’s composure finally, visibly cracked, tears he’d clearly been fighting throughout the entire proceeding spilling free. "I’m sorry," he said. "For all of it. Not just the tournament. Years of making you feel like the family’s permanent disappointment, when the entire time, you were the one actually building something worth being proud of."

"I know," Allen said quietly. "I forgive you, Edward. Not because it erases anything. Because I think we both deserve the chance to become something better than what this family taught us to be."

---

Susan received news of the tribunal’s verdict with none of her usual calculated composure, and Allen, informed by Myria’s own careful monitoring of the family’s continued fallout, found himself, several days later, summoned to her private estate for a conversation he hadn’t anticipated.

"I owe you an apology," Susan said without preamble, once he’d been shown into her study. "Not simply for failing to properly investigate my own suspicions about Reginald. For decades of treating you as a variable to manage rather than a son worth genuinely knowing."

Allen studied her carefully, uncertain how much genuine remorse to credit against her considerable, well-documented capacity for calculated maneuvering. "That’s a considerable shift," he said cautiously.

"It is," Susan agreed. "I’ve spent my entire adult life believing sentiment was a luxury I couldn’t properly afford. Watching what happened to that boy, watching Edward’s own genuine devastation over choices I likely contributed toward through years of comparative cruelty—" She stopped, something uncharacteristically raw crossing her composed features. "I don’t expect you to trust this change immediately. I’m not certain I trust it myself yet. But I intend to earn it, regardless."

William, notably, offered no similar reconciliation, retreating instead into resentful, brittle silence that Allen suspected would take considerably longer to properly address, if it ever resolved at all. Allen caught sight of him only once during his visit, passing through the estate’s outer hallway with barely a glance in his direction, and found himself, watching his older brother’s stiff, dismissive retreat, unsurprised by exactly how little had genuinely shifted in that particular corner of the family.

"He’ll come around eventually," Susan said, following Allen’s gaze. "Or he won’t. I’ve learned, this past month, that I can’t properly control what my sons choose to become, however much I once believed otherwise."

"That’s a considerable admission, coming from you," Allen said.

"It’s an honest one," Susan said simply. "I spent decades believing careful management could substitute for genuine relationship. I watched that philosophy nearly cost me both remaining sons in a single, catastrophic tournament. I’d be a poor student of my own considerable failures if I didn’t finally learn something from that."

Allen absorbed the admission carefully, still uncertain how fully to credit it, though something in her weary, unguarded posture carried more genuine weight than any of her previous, carefully calculated overtures ever had.

But Susan’s own halting, uncertain effort settled into something Allen hadn’t expected to receive from this particular corner of his fractured family — not full trust, not yet, but the genuine possibility of it, patiently, cautiously offered.

"We’ll see," Allen said finally, unwilling to promise more than he genuinely felt. "But I appreciate you saying it."

"That’s fair," Susan said, and let him go without further insistence, watching him leave with an expression that carried, for the first time in Allen’s entire memory, something considerably closer to genuine, unguarded regret.

He found Myria waiting outside once the visit concluded, and let her steady, familiar presence carry some of the conversation’s considerable weight as they made their way back toward their own transport.

"How was it?" she asked.

"Strange," Allen admitted. "Good strange, I think. I don’t fully trust it yet. But it felt like something real, for once, instead of another careful move in whatever game she’s always playing."

"Then we watch, and we wait, and we let her prove it," Myria said. "The same way Hegeville proved to us that trust has to be earned patiently, one honest step at a time."

"I like that comparison," Allen said, managing a tired, genuine smile as they climbed into the waiting transport, the estate’s considerable, fractured legacy shrinking slowly behind them beneath the gathering evening sky.