The war room was suffocating, the heat from the great brazier at odds with the cold creeping in through the stone walls. Caidren barely noticed. He stood at the head of the long table, hands braced against the rough wood, staring down at the spread of maps and reports before him. His generals spoke in low voices, debating strategies, discussing supplies, arguing over the best course of action.
But Caidren wasn't listening.
Not really.
A quiet unease had settled in his chest, slow and insidious, an itch beneath his skin that he couldn't name. He was a man who relied on instinct, who had survived countless battles by trusting the quiet warnings his mind gave him before disaster struck.
And right now, that instinct was telling him something was wrong.
It made no sense.
The war was unfolding as expected. The enemy had not moved in days, biding their time beyond the ridge. His army was prepared, his men restless but waiting. The stronghold stood firm, supplies were steady, and there were no reports of treachery within his ranks.
Yet the unease would not leave him.
Something was missing.
Something he had overlooked.
Caidren exhaled slowly through his nose, forcing his focus back onto the table. Across from him, Dain was watching him, his usual smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"You seem distracted, my lord," Dain said, voice smooth.
Caidren didn't acknowledge the comment. Not at first. It was dangerous to show hesitation before men who had spent their entire lives waging war.
But he couldn't ignore the way his mind kept circling back—
Not to the battlefield.
Not to the enemy.
To something much smaller.
Much more fragile.
A name flickered in his mind, unbidden.
Elias.
His grip on the table tightened.
It had been weeks since he had last thought of the boy. He had left him behind, abandoned him to the restless soldiers who needed an outlet for their frustration. Elias was nothing—just another weak thing left to be crushed beneath the weight of men stronger than him.
So why did the thought of him settle like a stone in Caidren's chest?
Why did it feel like this was the thing he had overlooked?
Dain's voice cut through his thoughts. "If you're wondering about the boy, he's still breathing."
Caidren's fingers twitched. Barely.
Dain, of course, noticed.
A flicker of amusement crossed his face. "You left him to the men," he continued, voice light. "They've kept themselves entertained."
Caidren clenched his jaw.
He shouldn't care.
He didn't care.
He had made peace with his decision the moment he walked away. Elias was not important. He was not a piece in this war, not a factor in the battles to come. His existence—his survival—meant nothing.
And yet—
The unease only grew stronger.
It wasn't guilt. Caidren did not feel guilt. He had killed too many men, burned too many villages, torn apart too many lives to carry such a useless thing.
This was something else.
Something colder.
Something he did not want to name.
Caidren straightened, pushing himself away from the table. "Enough," he said, voice sharp. "We have more important things to focus on."
The generals murmured their agreements, shifting back into discussions of war and strategy. But even as Caidren forced himself to listen, the unease did not fade.
If anything, it settled deeper.
Because he knew what this feeling was.
It was the same feeling he had buried long ago—the same quiet warning he had ignored before.
The warning that told him: Do not get attached. Do not hold anything too close. Because when it is taken from you, it will hurt.
And everything was always taken from him in the end.
It was inevitable.
It was the way of things.
He had learned that lesson long ago.
He could not afford to learn it again.
Not now.
Not over something as insignificant as a boy who should not have mattered.
So Caidren shoved the thought from his mind.
He forced himself to believe it.
Elias does not matter.
Because if he let himself care, even for a second—
Then losing him would become a possibility.
And loss was not something Caidren allowed himself to feel.