Caidren did not sleep that night.
He should have. His body ached from the strain of war preparations, his mind heavy with the weight of strategy, of blood yet to be spilled. And yet, sleep evaded him.
He sat in his chambers, the fire burning low, the air thick with the scent of charred wood and melted tallow. A goblet of wine sat untouched on the table beside him, the deep red liquid reflecting the flickering firelight.
He should not be thinking about the boy.
But his thoughts refused to obey.
Caidren had faced countless battles. Had seen men torn apart on the fields, heard their dying screams as steel met flesh. He had burned villages, shattered defenses, conquered lands. And never—not once—had he hesitated.
Not once had he felt this… irritation.
This distraction.
Elias should not have mattered.
And yet—
Caidren's fingers drummed against the arm of his chair, his jaw tightening.
Dain's words still echoed in his mind.
"You don't protect something unless it matters."
He scoffed under his breath. Foolish. Dain saw sentiment where there was none.
This was not about Elias.
It was about control.
His men had forgotten their place. He had reminded them. That was all.
And yet, when his thoughts wandered, they did not drift toward battle strategies or enemy movements.
They drifted to the boy lying behind that locked door.
To his too-thin frame, his bruised skin, the way he had shivered even under the heavy furs.
Caidren exhaled sharply and stood.
This was ridiculous.
He was not some concerned caretaker. He was a warlord.
But still, his feet carried him toward the door.
Checking—Nothing More
The hallway was silent as he approached Elias's chambers. The guards posted nearby straightened at his approach, exchanging a glance before bowing their heads.
He ignored them.
His hand hesitated on the door handle.
Ridiculous.
He pushed the door open.
Inside, the fire still burned, though dimly. The room was warm, but not stifling. The tray of food remained untouched.
Caidren's gaze settled on the bed.
Elias was still asleep, his breathing steady but shallow. His face was half-hidden in the furs, dark lashes resting against pale cheeks.
He looked… small.
Caidren frowned. Weakness was something he had never tolerated. And yet, looking at Elias now, he did not feel the usual disgust that weakness inspired.
He told himself it was simply because Elias had survived—had endured without breaking.
But the thought was a poor shield against the unease curling in his chest.
Caidren stepped further into the room. He picked up the untouched food and set it aside with a quiet sigh. Stubborn fool. The boy needed to eat.
He did not care.
But Elias had been left in his stronghold, under his command. His well-being—his usefulness—was Caidren's responsibility.
That was all.
He reached for the fur blanket, adjusting it slightly over Elias's shoulders.
Then he stopped.
Because Elias stirred.
A small sound, barely audible. A shift of his body, a slow flutter of eyelashes.
Caidren stepped back.
He would not be caught here when the boy woke.
Before Elias's eyes could open, before he could see anything, Caidren turned sharply on his heel and strode from the room.
By the time Elias stirred fully, blinking blearily into the dim light, the only sign that anyone had been there—
Was the carefully adjusted blanket.