Caidren strode through the halls of the stronghold, his footsteps echoing off the cold stone. The tension from the war room clung to him like a second skin, tightening around his throat with every step.
Dain had set a trap.
And Caidren had walked right into it.
He could still hear the challenge in the bastard's voice, still feel the weight of every gaze that had lingered on him, waiting for a response he hadn't been able to give.
Cast him out.
It should have been simple.
Elias was nothing.
Nothing.
Just another burden. Just another weak thing left in his care.
He had spent his entire life ensuring he never grew attached, never cared too much for anything that could be taken from him. It was a lesson burned into him by war, by loss, by a life that had taught him that attachment was just another form of weakness.
And yet—
Caidren's hands curled into fists.
His feet carried him toward the one place he shouldn't go.
The lower chambers.
Where he had left Elias in the care of his most trusted soldier.
It was only to ensure that his orders had been followed. Only to confirm that Elias hadn't done something foolish, like try to slip away in the aftermath of battle.
It wasn't concern.
It wasn't attachment.
It was responsibility.
Nothing more.
A Fragile Thing
When he entered the chamber, the first thing he noticed was the dim glow of a brazier, its flames flickering weakly in the corner.
The second was Elias.
He was still asleep, his body wrapped in layers of blankets, his breathing slow and steady.
Caidren's most trusted guard, Aedric, stood nearby, arms crossed, his watchful gaze flickering toward his Alpha.
"He hasn't woken yet," Aedric murmured.
Caidren stepped closer, eyes scanning the boy's face. His skin was still too pale, his lips dry from dehydration. But he was alive. Healing.
A part of Caidren loosened at the sight.
Good.
Then he caught himself.
Not good. It doesn't matter.
He exhaled sharply, straightening. "Has he spoken?"
Aedric shook his head. "Not a word. He barely stirs." He hesitated. "He's weak."
Caidren already knew that.
Elias had always been weak.
But that had never stopped him before.
Even when he had been bullied, beaten, cast aside, he had never broken the way they had wanted him to.
And Caidren hated that he noticed.
That he admired it.
His gaze lingered on the boy for a fraction too long before he turned away. "Keep watching him," he ordered. "Make sure he eats when he wakes."
Aedric's brow furrowed slightly. "You're not staying?"
Caidren stiffened.
His pride bristled at the very idea.
Staying would imply that he cared. That there was a reason for him to be here beyond duty, beyond obligation.
And he would not let Dain—or anyone else—be proven right.
He turned sharply, heading for the door.
"If he causes trouble," he said, "tell me."
Then he was gone.
And if his steps were a little too quick, if the tension in his chest lingered a little too long—
Well.
No one needed to know.
The Stronghold Moves On
By the next morning, the stronghold had returned to its usual order.
The halls bustled with soldiers, the armory filled with the steady rhythm of sharpening blades. The smell of fresh bread wafted from the kitchens, and the sounds of training drills echoed from the courtyards.
The battle had been won.
The world had moved on.
And Elias?
Elias might as well have never existed.
No one spoke of him. No one asked about him.
The same soldiers who had tormented him, who had mocked his silence, now acted as if he were nothing more than a forgotten ghost.
Caidren should have felt relief.
Instead, that same unease from before settled deep into his chest.
Because while the stronghold had moved on—
He had not.
And he had no idea why.