My Grim Reaper Class: I can kill anything.

Chapter 79: The Portrait and the Sword (I)

Liaraen cried for a long time.

Nathan held her without saying anything. When the tears began to space out, when her breathing started to normalize, when the small body against his shoulder began to settle, Nathan knew the acute moment had passed.

She still didn’t separate from him.

She stayed leaning against his shoulder, her breathing recovering its rhythm.

Nathan glanced at her.

And with his usual cynical voice, but softened to the tone he’d developed for her over the past few weeks:

"Sprout."

"Yes?"

"I honestly think I ruined the shirt."

Liaraen was still for a second.

"Your shirt?"

"Yes. Apparently you had quite a few tears stored up. And apparently they all decided to concentrate on my right shoulder area."

Silence.

Then Liaraen laughed.

Small. A contained laugh that barely came out. But a laugh.

Nathan continued.

"And honestly, considering this shirt is elven, custom-made by Vaelith house tailors, and probably cost more than my entire wardrobe from my first twenty years of life combined, ruining it on the first night of use is going to be an achievement your aunt will comment on for decades."

Liaraen laughed again. A little wider.

"Nathan."

"Yes?"

"I didn’t ruin it. Elven fabric repels liquids by design."

"Really?"

"Really."

"So you cried on a surface designed not to absorb tears."

"Fool."

"That’s inefficient."

"It’s a design flaw."

Nathan smiled.

"Sprout."

"Yes?"

"You forgot to cry on normal fabric. That’s a basic grief logistics mistake. Next time choose your clothes better before breaking down emotionally—I was planning to use this outfit as my formal uniform."

Liaraen separated slightly from his shoulder.

She looked up.

And with her face still stained with old tears but her eyes slightly softer:

"Nathan."

"Yes?"

"You’re insufferable."

"I know."

"It’s one of the reasons I don’t hate you right now for following me here without permission."

"I appreciate the clarification."

"Nathan."

"Yes?"

"Thank you."

Nathan looked at her.

With the calm he’d developed for moments he considered truly important.

"It’s nothing, Sprout."

"Yes, it is."

"Alright. Yes, it is."

"Nathan."

"Yes?"

"I’m going to miss you when you leave."

Nathan sat processing that for a moment.

Then he spoke with the same calm.

"I’m going to miss you too, Sprout."

"It’s not the same. You return to your city. To your Mira. To your life as a Hunter. I stay here. With the house to restore. With my sister to find. With all the weight of a major elven house on a sixteen-year-old second daughter with no living primary heir."

"Understood."

"And I’m not going to be able to see you for a long time."

"Understood as well."

Silence.

Nathan looked at the circular window at the back of the room. Dawn was filtering through the frameless opening. Golden light partially illuminated the dust suspended in the air.

"Sprout," Nathan said.

"Yes?"

"When you restore this house, I’m going to genuinely be eager to see how it turns out."

"Understood."

"And I’m going to come back to see it when I can. Without formal escorts. As a visit. With a free schedule."

"Acceptable."

"Acceptable."

Pause.

Nathan added, in his softest tone:

"And honestly, Sprout. I would have liked to meet your parents. To tell them they raised a very stubborn sprout."

Liaraen looked at him.

Her eyes moistened again. But this time in a different way. Without the painful weight of the previous hours. With something closer to gratitude.

"They would have liked you too."

"What were they like?"

Liaraen sat up a little straighter. She wiped the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand.

"Come," she said. "Let’s go to the main hall. I’ll show you."

Nathan looked at her for a moment.

Then he stood up with her.

---

The main hall was two levels above the room.

They climbed the spiral staircase in silence. Liaraen knew the path from memory. The dust was thicker on the upper levels. Cobwebs hung from the corners. And in some places, vegetation had begun to grow between the floorboards.

They reached the fourth level.

A circular hallway with larger doors than the second level’s. Liaraen approached the central door. She pushed it.

It opened.

And inside, Nathan saw the hall.

A spacious room approximately twenty meters by twenty. With a vaulted ceiling carved from the tree’s own wood. With large circular windows on three of the four walls, letting in the dawn light in golden columns. Old overturned furniture. A large rug in the center covered in dust but still recognizable. And on the wall opposite the door, hung with elven ceremonial precision, a family portrait.

Large.

Approximately three meters high by two meters wide.

And surprisingly intact.

Nathan looked at it from the doorway. He approached slowly. Liaraen walked beside him.

The portrait showed four people.

A tall man in the center, with the formal aristocratic posture Nathan had only seen in Lord Erenn Vaelith. Dark green hair, darker than Liaraen’s. Green eyes almost identical to hers. With a ceremonial sword visible at his side.

A woman to his right. Spring-green hair, the exact color Liaraen had inherited. With the specific contained smile of aristocratic elven women. With her hands clasped over a small silver pendant Nathan recognized as likely a family symbol.

A young woman to the man’s left. Approximately twenty in elven appearance. Green hair with golden streaks. Intense green eyes, more vivid than Liaraen’s. With the posture of an heir. With her chin slightly raised. With the confidence of someone who’d known from childhood that she would inherit everything.

And a girl in front.

Approximately twelve in elven appearance. With the simple side braid Liaraen still wore during the journey. With pale green eyes, almost translucent. With a slightly rigid posture suggesting she’d been specifically instructed for the portrait but hadn’t yet developed full aristocratic elegance.

Nathan looked at her.

Then at Liaraen beside him.

Then at the portrait again.

"Sprout."

"Yes?"

"You were very different a few years ago."

"Yes."

"Less aristocratic."

"Apparently yes."

"And even smaller."

"Nathan."

"Yes?"

"Elves don’t grow much until the major transition. We already discussed this."

"Understood."

"So it’s only a matter of time before I’m as beautiful as them."

Nathan stared at the portrait for a full moment.

Then he said, in a different voice:

"Tell me about them."

Liaraen approached the portrait.

She raised her left hand. Pointed at the man in the center.

"My father. Lord Aeren Sael’thoryn. Twelfth bearer of the primary Yeva Seal in the direct line. Head of the house from age one hundred forty-seven. He was..." Pause. "He was specifically serious. Formal. Precise. But not cold. Never cold. With his daughters, he was patient. With guests, he was firm. With servants, he was fair. He learned my name within six days of my birth and always called me by it from then on. Apparently that was important to him. He never called me ’my lady’ or ’second’ or any of the formal variants other houses use for younger daughters. Just Liaraen."

Nathan nodded.

Liaraen moved her hand.

"My mother. Lady Vessarel Sael’thoryn. Ceremonial botanist. Bearer of a secondary Yeva Seal that only activated with specific species. She had a very broad laugh for an aristocratic woman. She used to laugh at me sometimes when I tried to imitate her ceremonial seriousness. She told me that seriousness wasn’t a posture but a decision one made when the occasion required it. And that the occasion almost never required it."

"She sounded wise."

"She was specifically wise."

"Understood."

"Yes."

Liaraen moved her hand again.

"My sister. Aelinne. Seventy-six years older than me. An absolute prodigy. Primary Yeva Seal reinforced with a secondary channel that activated when she concentrated. Major botanical barrier at age eight. Root manipulation at ten. Apparently she was going to be the strongest bearer of our line in the last two generations."

"And she was also specifically beautiful," Nathan said, with his usual cynical tone but carefully calibrated. "When she returns, maybe you can introduce me."

Liaraen stopped.

She turned to Nathan.

And gave him a small punch on the shoulder with her closed fist.

"Nathan."

"Yes?"

"You’re the worst."

"Apparently."

"My sister is not available for introductions."

"Obviously she isn’t now because she’s missing."

"And even if she were, I wouldn’t introduce you."

"Why?"

"Because no."

"Why no?"

"Because no."

Liaraen puffed out her cheeks with the expression of a sixteen-year-old girl who’d been teased—and with clear jealousy.

Nathan smiled.

*She’s better.*

*Apparently the portrait is working.*

"Sprout," Nathan said, with a softened voice.

"Yes?"

"And you?"

"What about me?"

"What were you like?"

Liaraen turned back to the portrait.

She looked at the girl in front.

And with a calm voice, after a few seconds:

"I was very anxious. I wanted to live up to my sister. Apparently for years I tried to imitate everything she did. Her way of speaking. Her posture. Her gestures. None of it worked the way it worked for her. And apparently my tutor Elreth told me, when I was thirteen, that the only way to stop living in my sister’s shadow was to find my own way of being. Not a replica. My own version."

"And did you find it?"

"I’m in the process."

"And when you find it?"

"I’m still finding it, but I suppose I’ll feel more free."

Nathan looked at her.

Then he said, in a soft tone:

"Sprout. You already found it. You just apparently haven’t given anyone permission to see it."

Liaraen sat processing that for a moment.

Then, quietly:

"I’ve given someone permission."

Silence.