Callan watched Thorne walk away, his gaze lingering on the figure that so closely resembled Celia. The resemblance was uncanny: those piercing blue eyes, nose and facial features. Thorne carried the kind of beauty that Callan had long associated with Celia, but that was where the similarities ended.
Where Celia had always been gentle and warm, Thorne was a storm of anger and pain, a smoldering fury simmering beneath the surface. It was a rage Callan didn't entirely understand but couldn't really blame him for. A pang of guilt twisted in his chest, feeling partly at fault. During their teenage years, Celia had devoted herself to caring for him, pampering and doting on a version of Callan who had been moody, ungrateful, and difficult. All the while, her own son had been sent to the battlefield, facing the horror of war, risking his life day after day.
