The war room was alive with movement.
Maps were spread across the long table, marked with ink and strategy. Messengers came and went, delivering reports from scouts stationed near the border. Weapons were being sharpened, supplies counted, soldiers drilled.
Caidren stood at the head of it all, giving orders with sharp precision, his mind focused—or so he told himself.
Dain watched him from across the room.
The bastard had always been perceptive, always too quick to notice the things Caidren would rather leave unspoken. And now, he leaned lazily against the wall, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at his lips as he observed in silence.
Caidren ignored him.
He had no time for whatever game Dain wished to play today.
And yet, the silence stretched until—
"You've been brooding," Dain said at last, casual, but pointed.
Caidren did not look up from the map. "I don't brood."
Dain hummed, unconvinced. "No? Then what do you call this?" He gestured vaguely toward Caidren. "Storming through the stronghold like a man looking for something he refuses to name."
Caidren's jaw tightened. "You are imagining things."
"Am I?"
Dain's smirk widened, and Caidren knew, without a doubt, that he was about to say something insufferable.
"You haven't checked on the boy," Dain mused. "Not once."
The words struck like a blade hidden beneath silk.
Caidren did not react. Did not let the hit land where Dain wanted it to.
"I told you, he is not my concern."
"Right. And yet—" Dain tilted his head, watching him too closely. "You're unsettled."
Caidren's gaze was sharp as steel when he finally met Dain's eyes. "Careful."
Dain only grinned. "Oh, I am always careful, my lord."
The tension between them stretched thin.
Caidren wanted to deny it. Wanted to dismiss the conversation entirely.
But he couldn't.
Because Dain was right.
There was a restlessness in his chest, an irritation beneath his skin that had not faded since he last saw Elias.
He had expected relief when the stronghold forgot the boy.
Instead, there was only this unwelcome, gnawing thing—a thought he refused to name, a feeling he refused to acknowledge.
It was not guilt.
It was not concern.
It was simply unfinished business.
Nothing more.
He would check on the boy. Not because he cared—but because it was a loose end.
And Caidren did not tolerate loose ends.
A Forgotten Ghost
The hallway was silent when he arrived.
No guards. No curious soldiers.
Just a door that had not been opened in days.
Caidren hesitated only for a breath before pushing it open.
The room was dim, the fire barely more than embers. The air was stale, the scent of untouched food thick in the cold air.
And in the center of it all, curled beneath furs, was Elias.
He had not moved.
For a moment, Caidren thought he might be dead.
Then, a slow breath.
Shallow. Weak. But still there.
Caidren frowned.
He stepped inside, his boots barely making a sound against the stone floor. His eyes scanned the untouched food, the empty water pitcher.
Fool.
The boy had been left to rot, and he had done nothing to help himself.
Caidren did not know why that irritated him so much.
He stepped closer.
Elias did not stir.
Caidren crouched beside the bed, watching him in the dim light.
He should not be here.
He should not be doing this.
And yet—
His hand moved before he could stop himself.
Fingers brushed against Elias's wrist, searching.
A pulse.
Too faint.
Caidren exhaled sharply.
He did not care.
This was simply responsibility.
That was all.
Nothing more.