Certainly. Here's a polished, professionally written, and smoothly paced version of your scene. I've focused on improving rhythm, clarity, emotional weight, and character dynamics, while keeping your narrative and emotional intent intact:
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Guest chambers, Palace of Wahrheit
Erebus stood alone amid the luxury—walls adorned with delicate murals, lamps cast in golden filigree, couches draped in jade velvet, and fur rugs thick enough to muffle even a general's footsteps. The featherbed gleamed with silk sheets untouched. He wasn't used to comfort. But it wasn't the luxury that disturbed him. It was the silence.
Silence—unfamiliar, unnatural. A man raised in the chorus of war drums, steel upon steel, and the cries of the dying found no solace in stillness.
He shrugged off his coat. The motion revealed tightly wound bandages snaking around his abdomen and up his right arm. The wound in his side burned, but he welcomed it. Pain was a reminder: he was still here.
A mirror on the far wall caught his attention.
He approached slowly, staring at the reflection as if studying a stranger.
Not yet thirty, but his face wore the history of two lifetimes—etched with exhaustion, shadowed by loss. A healing cut traced the corner of his mouth, and his dark eyes, once bright with ambition, now carried the weight of what he'd seen—and what he'd done. His hair, once shoulder-length, was now cut short. A quiet declaration of survival.
This was not the Erebus the court of Wahrheit had known. Not the loyal hound that tore down nations on the Emperor's command. That man had died somewhere between betrayal and exile.
He studied himself in silence.
"They used to whisper my name like a curse," he murmured, jaw tightening. "Now I return with my own army… yet I walk these halls like a ghost."
He let the coat fall to the floor. Beneath, he wore a black tunic, old blood staining the fabric, the scent of soot lingering in its folds. A survivor's garb. A general's second skin.
From an inner pocket, he pulled out a small silver locket—weathered and warm from years near his heart.
Inside, two painted faces stared back at him. On one side, Luciana—her gaze still soft with trust. On the other, his twin sister—lost to war—alongside a delicate lock of hair, pale as snow. Ghosts of his past, sealed in a keepsake.
He ran his thumb along the edge.
"I left the leash behind," he whispered. "But I never stopped looking for you."
Luciana's image holding their child haunted him. A vision etched in memory. Nemesis, joyful, unburdened by the shadows Erebus had walked through.
He set the locket gently on the table and leaned back on the bed.
"I won't falter this time," he said into the stillness. "Even if she never forgives me… I'll protect what's mine. As a man. Not as a hound."
From the corridor beyond, faint laughter filtered in—light and high. A child's laughter.
Nemesis.
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Training Courtyard
When Erebus stepped into the courtyard, he found his son already among the soldiers, training with a wooden gladius almost too long for his small arms. The boy stood focused, brow furrowed, mimicking footwork he'd likely watched a dozen times before.
Erebus paused, watching.
The boy turned, brightened, and ran to him.
"Dade!" he shouted, nearly colliding into him with a hug.
Erebus caught him mid-sprint, lifting him with ease.
"My son's gotten better, I see." He ruffled Nemesis' hair.
"But they still won't let me hold a real sword," the boy grumbled, crossing his arms with exaggerated indignation.
"Why the rush?"
"Because I have to protect Mama and Hades. If you're not here… what'll happen to them?" His small face was firm with resolve.
Erebus chuckled softly, pride warming his voice. "Then let's practice together."
Gasps and curious glances flickered among the soldiers. This wasn't the image they'd known—Erebus the Demon general who rose out of nowhere, the warbeast who listens to no one and drives his way through the treacherous campaigns. To see him like this, gently correcting his son's stance, offering quiet praise—it shook their understanding of the man.
Tiberius, nearby, observed with fascination. Erebus' methods were intense yet tailored. Rigorous, but not cruel.
Even Lucerne, returning from a meeting with Melody, caught sight of the practice and joined in, eager to test new tactics. One by one, the soldiers followed, compelled by curiosity.
Octavius who was walking by saw the scene that was more unusual than fighting Triglav.
What began as a father and son's session turned into a full sparring exercise. But Erebus did not go easy. His training stripped away comforts, mimicking the brutality of real war. Lucerne, to his own surprise, was pulled into the thick of it.
"Dade! I want to hold a real sword!" Nemesis demanded again during a break.
Erebus hesitated. He could already picture Luciana's disapproving glare. With a sigh, he produced a sheathed dagger.
"Here. This will do for now."
Nemesis frowned. "It's so small…"
"That 'small' dagger weighs three kilos. The gladius those soldiers use? At least eight."
But the boy ran off anyway, dragging a full-length sword from the weapon rack. He tried to lift it. It fell with a heavy clank.
Nemesis stared at the weapon, cheeks reddening, lip trembling.
"You see?" Erebus knelt infront of him face to face, resting a hand on his shoulder. "This isn't a toy."
"I'm sorry…" Nemesis sniffed, tears spilling. "I just wanted to be strong like you… so Mama won't worry."
Erebus lifted him into his arms and carried him to a stone bench.
"Dade?"
"Yes?"
"How did you get strong like this?"
Erebus exhaled, memories swirling like old smoke.
"When I was your age… I had nothing. No home. No parents. Just hunger and cold. I trained with broken sticks and stones, swinging them at trees, shadows… anything. I killed a soldier once. With a rock. Took his dagger… tried to steal his sword too, but it was too heavy."
"Did you go back for it later?"
"No." Erebus shook his head. "Because when I grew stronger, I decided to earn my weapon. I made money. Paid for a blacksmith. I forged my own."
Nemesis' eyes widened. "You made your own sword?! That's amazing!"
Before Erebus could respond, a voice intruded—arrogant and cold.
"Well, well. So this is where the famed hound sits—playing father."
Erebus' face tightened. He turned to see Octavius, sword resting on one shoulder, his expression twisted with contempt.
"Two days in our court and already making yourself at home?" he sneered.
Erebus did not rise to the bait.
Octavius' gaze flicked toward the palace, where Luciana disappeared into Helios' chambers.
"Come now, Demon. Let's settle this with a duel. Or has fatherhood made you soft?"
"Dade is way stronger than you!" Nemesis shot back, standing defensively in front of his father.
Erebus grinned.
"You heard the boy."
Octavius flushed. "Hiding behind a child now? How fitting."
Erebus stood, handing Nemesis to the bench.
"Son," he said calmly. "Do you want to see me fight?"
Nemesis nodded eagerly.
"Good. Watch closely. Let this be your first lesson."
Erebus turned, picked up a wooden training sword, and faced Octavius.
"You'll regret insulting me in front of my son."