Matthew felt strong. The warmth of the fire floating above his palm wasn't just heat—it was power. Power that radiated from him for once, not from someone else. Not from Robert's judgmental eyes. Not from the Cavias name. It was his.
The boys clearly thought so too. They stood back, their earlier smugness now buried beneath uncertainty. Wide eyes. Hesitant steps. A silence that screamed respect—or maybe fear.
But her.
The girl.
Max.
She still stood firm. A surprised flicker had crossed her freckled face earlier, sure—but there was no fear. None. If anything, she looked more curious. More amused. Like someone watching a new puppy trying to growl.
Then, she smiled.
It wasn't the kind of smile you gave a friend. It was the kind of smile wolves wore right before they tested how fast you could run.
And she took a step forward.
It wasn't casual. It wasn't hesitant. It was deliberate. Challenging.
Matthew's heart jumped into his throat. His hand instinctively rose, the small ball of fire crackling brighter at his command as he pointed it toward her. He didn't throw it. He didn't want to.
But his voice, sharp and loud, carried his intent. "Don't come any closer! This is real fire!"
The fire pulsed, a soft hum vibrating in the air as the Blue Power fed it.
One of the boys—maybe the oldest of the group—snapped out of his frozen state. "Max!" he said sharply. "Stop it already! He's not bluffing. You saw it. That's Arts! Real Arts!"
His voice cracked toward the end, a mix of fear and awe.
Max tilted her head slightly, eyes not leaving the flickering fireball.
Her lips parted, and she exhaled softly. "I know it's real," she said. But she didn't stop walking.
Matthew took a step back.
His foot bumped against the edge of the bed, and he nearly stumbled, barely keeping the flame steady in his palm. Panic rose in his chest. She wasn't stopping. Who did that? Who walked into fire like it was a gust of wind? She was crazy—or something else entirely.
But Max… she just smiled.
A calm, confident, almost kind smile. One that said she knew she was in control.
She stopped right in front of him, close enough that he could see the scar on her cheek, a pale line that twisted when she spoke.
"The fire's just for show," she said softly, her voice not mocking, but… certain. "Sure, it's scary. Honestly? I'm impressed. You're what—seven? Ten? That's nuts. But…"
Her eyes flicked to the flame, then back to his face. "If you're not willing to burn someone, maybe you shouldn't show off what you can do."
The words hit harder than Matthew expected. Not because they were cruel—but because they were true. He could feel it. Max wasn't trying to humiliate him. She was testing him.
And in that moment, standing there with real power in his hand for the first time… he realized just how dangerous it was to have power, and not be ready to use it.
He didn't know what to do.
She wasn't wrong.
Matthew stared at the flame hovering just above his hand, feeling its warmth lick at his skin—but it wasn't comforting anymore. It was... frustrating. Because she was right. He wasn't going to burn her.
Even with the fear and the anger swirling in his chest, even with how she barged into his room and made his heart race with panic—he couldn't bring himself to hurt her like that.
A punch? Maybe. A slap even, if she really beat him down. But fire?
That was too much. That was crossing a line he wasn't ready to cross.
"Dammit…" he muttered under his breath. Why didn't he know something useful? Something like Gust of Wind, where he could just blast her away and be done with it? No flames, no threat of death or injury, just a solid "back off" kind of move.
But no.
He knew Fireball. An attack art. Something meant to injure, to kill. Who used Fireball to deal with random troublemakers? Who performed Fireball inside a wooden room, like the one he was standing in now? It was almost begging for the whole place to go up in flames.
The irony made his stomach twist.
The boys behind Max were quiet now, but their expressions said it all. Shock. Realization. Respect… but also a bit of shame. She had walked up to the boy who made fire—and won. Not by fighting, but by reading him, calling his bluff.
And Matthew? He had taken a step back.
Max had made him retreat.
And now that the tension was dropping and logic had returned to the room, the boys were realizing what she had: the fire wasn't a real threat. Not unless Matthew was the kind of person willing to use it.
And from what they just saw?
He wasn't.
Slowly, the fire extinguished—its glow dimming until it vanished completely, leaving only the faint scent of heat in the air.
Matthew stood still, his breathing uneven, his eyes lowered in defeat. "You're right…" he muttered, voice almost trembling. "I wasn't going to burn you."
Max chuckled lightly at his honesty. There was something fearless about the way she moved, even now as she raised her hand, forming a fist, ready to strike. Her expression didn't carry hatred—just the confident look of someone about to prove a point.
But before she could move an inch further, Matthew's voice rang out.
"The Cavias Family is protecting me!"
That stopped her cold.
Max froze, fist hovering mid-air, eyes narrowing with sudden interest. "What did you just say?"
Matthew looked up, gaze steady now despite the tremble still clinging to his spine. "The heir of the Cavias Family… he promised to protect me," he said. "And the Fierce Lion did too."
The name hit like a thunderclap.
Even Max—bold, smug, unshaken Max—took an involuntary step back. Not out of fear exactly, but definite shock. Her brows furrowed as her mind raced to process what she'd just heard.
The boys behind her? They didn't need a second more.
"Wha—THE Fierce Lion?" one of them gasped, already inching toward the door. "No way—"
"Is he serious?"
"We shouldn't be here—"
Everyone knew the name. Everyone in Coupitia City, at least.
The Fierce Lion—a legend among living men. It was said that during the Monster War, he once stood at the front lines of a hopeless battlefield, facing down a battalion of Half-Animal Soldiers. Not with fire. Not with fury.
With words.
And a gaze.
The story went that he never lifted a weapon. He simply walked to the edge of the field, looked them in the eyes… and spoke. No one ever recorded what he said. But the army turned back that day. Marched away in silence, like shamed beasts.
It was that moment that gave him his title.
The Fierce Lion.
And now… this kid?
He said that man was protecting him?
Even Max seemed unsure of what to say next.
Matthew's lips curled into a half-smile as he caught Max hesitating for the first time. He took that opening, leaning into it, pressing forward while he had her attention.
"Did you see Mister Robert introducing me to the other kids earlier? Telling them not to bully me?" he asked quickly.
The boys exchanged glances and nodded, still jittery from the Fierce Lion reveal. One of them—maybe the youngest—spoke up with a gulp, his voice laced with awe. "Y-Yeah… now it makes sense. The noble carriage… how Mister Robert was so polite with you… and your own room…" He trailed off, too nervous to finish the sentence. But the weight hung in the air.
Because he's backed by a legend.
Max didn't move, her eyes still locked on Matthew, still unreadable. Then, after a moment, she chuckled. Not a mocking sound this time. A low, genuine chuckle. "So the Cavias heir told Robert to make sure you weren't hurt, huh?" she asked casually.
Matthew nodded.
Something odd flickered in her expression. She clicked her tongue, then lowered her fist.
And laughed.
It wasn't cold or mean—it was real laughter. Free and light. Her shoulders even relaxed a little, like she'd been holding something tense for far too long. The boys around her seemed to mirror her change. They let out long sighs of relief, visibly relaxing, even smiling a bit.
Matthew's confusion only deepened.
Weren't they just about to beat him up? They'd broken into his room like a gang, stared him down, mocked him, threatened him. And now they were… happy? Why? Because Robert would make sure he wouldn't be hurt?
It didn't make any sense.
Max especially. Why did she look so satisfied?
She didn't even call him Mister Robert like the others did. Just Robert. Matthew tucked that away in his mind. There was something there. Something he didn't yet understand.
But he would.
Max let out a quiet sigh as she sat down on the edge of his bed, like all the weight she'd been carrying had finally been set down for a moment. She gestured with a tilt of her head and a pat on the ground, and after a second of hesitation, Matthew walked over and sat beside her. The room still smelled faintly of the fire he'd made earlier, but the atmosphere had completely changed.
Then she did something he didn't expect at all.
She apologized.
"I'm sorry for scaring you," Max said, voice steady but softer now. "And… for almost beating you up."
Matthew swallowed. Hard.
'Almost? So they really were going to beat me up…' he thought, eyes flicking toward the boy who had spoken earlier. The boy was smiling now. Not just a little. There was something warm in it—almost… brotherly?
'What is going on here?'
He didn't say anything. But he didn't need to. His face said it all.
Max noticed.
"This place…" she began, glancing toward the window, her tone darkening. "It's not good."
She didn't explain more than that. But she didn't need to. The way her eyes lingered on the door, the way her voice dipped just enough—Matthew knew. She wasn't talking about the kids.
She meant the adults.
The people running this place.
She looked back at him then. Smiled, but it was a sad kind of smile. "I came here to… give you a taste. So you wouldn't break when stuff happened."
Before he could react, she reached up and ruffled his hair.
He didn't exactly like that.
But he let her.
"There's no need to worry anymore," she added, sitting back with a smirk. "You've got the Fierce Lion behind you. No one's gonna dare touch you now."
The others nodded in agreement, the tension from earlier completely gone, as if they'd forgotten they ever tried to threaten him.
Matthew sat there quietly, his mind racing to keep up. It felt like he'd just stepped into a story midway through, like everyone knew a script he hadn't read yet.
But at the very least… he was safe.
For now.
Matthew looked at Max, brows furrowed, and asked quietly, "Do you beat up all the new kids?"
Max didn't hesitate. She gave a small, almost reluctant nod.
"Yeah," she admitted. "I was the one who came up with the idea. You were actually supposed to be the fifth person."
Matthew blinked in disbelief. She continued before he could respond.
"I got here about four months ago," she said, voice steady but laced with something heavier—like anger she'd learned to bottle. "Figured out real quick how horrible this place is. The adults here… they're not just bad. They're monsters, some of them. So I figured… if the kids already knew how bad things could get—if they were already shaken up from getting beat—then maybe the rest wouldn't hit as hard. Maybe they wouldn't break as easily."
Matthew stared, trying to process it. "So… I was supposed to be the fifth?"
Max nodded again. "Yup. But no need anymore. You've got a name backing you now. That changes everything."
He didn't know what to say to that. There was something deeply wrong about the logic, but at the same time… it wasn't entirely senseless. Not here. Not in a place where fireballs were safer than adults.
So instead, he asked, "Did it work?"
Max smirked. "Yup. I'm good friends with the other four. Took time. They were pissed at first, of course. But later… they all thanked me. In their own ways."
She leaned back, resting her weight on her hands, her voice calm but serious now.
"It's hard here. Real hard. So we stick together. We have to. Because the real enemy in this place?"
She glanced toward the door again, her eyes narrowing.
"It's the adults."
Matthew was silent. For once, he didn't feel like he was in a story anymore.
He felt like he'd just stepped into a war zone.
The boys entered the room in a cluster of fast-moving feet and excited voices, their expressions shifting between curiosity and concern. They rushed up to Matthew without hesitation, bombarding him with overlapping questions.
"Where are you from?"
"What happened?"
"Are you okay?"
"Do you want a hug?"
One of them even reached out like he was genuinely about to wrap Matthew in an embrace, but before contact could be made, Max stood and waved her hand sharply.
"Back off," she snapped, shooing them like a mother cat protecting a dazed kitten. "Give him some space, he's still shocked."
The boys stepped back reluctantly, some mumbling apologies, others nodding in understanding. Matthew looked up at them, his expression softening just a little. He smiled—just a faint curve of his lips—still unsure of how to feel about any of this, but thankful for the sudden warmth around him.
Then—
Footsteps.
Heavy, deliberate ones echoing through the hallway.
Max's head whipped toward the door instantly, her eyes narrowing. She turned to glare at the group. "Which one of you was the lookout?"
Guilt flashed on one boy's face—the smallest of the bunch. His eyes widened in horror, and he opened his mouth to speak—
But it was too late.
A figure stepped into the doorway.
Robert.
And he looked angry. Real angry.
His usual cold authority had hardened into something more vicious, more personal. His eyes scanned the room like a wolf cornering its prey.
The warmth drained out of the space in an instant.
Matthew's faint smile vanished the instant his eyes locked onto Robert.
This wasn't the man who welcomed him, who walked him through the orphanage like a guide, who had spoken softly and let him soak in a warm bath like he mattered. No, this man standing in the doorway now—eyes sharp, jaw clenched, his presence thundercloud-heavy—was someone else entirely.
Anger.
It poured off Robert in waves, choking the air in the room.
Matthew gulped, feeling that familiar cold of fear creeping up his spine. He stayed silent. The others did too. Not a breath. Not a shuffle.
Then Robert pointed a rigid finger at Max. "You were told not to bother the new kid!" he roared, voice cracking against the walls.
He took a single step into the room, his hand lifting—raised high and fast like it had done this countless times before. But it froze.
Robert's eyes slid to Matthew. He seemed to remember who else was in the room. Who was watching.
His raised hand lowered, awkwardly. He cleared his throat. His expression—like a mask being swapped—suddenly softened into something gentler. Forced. Kind.
"Matthew," he said, stepping forward slightly, voice calm now, too calm. "Are you alright?"
The sudden shift was jarring, and everyone felt it.
The boys glanced at one another, understanding dawning across their faces. Matthew hadn't lied.
Robert really was afraid. Not of them. But of what stood behind Matthew. The name that protected him. The Fierce Lion.
Matthew hesitated, then gave a small nod. "N-No, nothing happened. They just… asked if we could be friends."
He looked up at Robert, eyes innocent but trembling. "Would Mister Robert… hurt them?"
Robert flinched. He laughed—dry and far too quick. "Hurt them? No, not at all! I just… I was just worried something bad might've happened. But if nothing happened, then—" He held up his hands in peace. "I'll leave you kids to it."
He turned, his coat brushing the air as he strode toward the door.
But just before stepping out, he paused.
His eyes slid sideways, back toward Max and the boys.
The kind smile was gone.
What he gave them was a glare. Cold. Silent. Full of unspoken warnings.
Then he left.
Max let out a loud sigh—the kind that echoed deep, like she'd been holding her breath for far too long. It shattered the tension lingering in the room like broken glass. One of the boys even dropped to the ground, arms sprawled, overwhelmed with relief that he hadn't just been beaten bloody.
The others turned toward Matthew again, but not like before. Their eyes were different now—less suspicious, more... respectful. It wasn't that they hadn't believed him earlier, but seeing Robert's sudden shift, his attempt to act kind in front of Matthew, that proved it.
Matthew wasn't just some new kid. He was protected. Watched over. Untouchable.
Max, though, tilted her head and gave him a curious look. "Why'd you lie?" she asked, voice soft but sharp. "We came here to beat you up, you know. Sure, we didn't... but we did try."
Matthew looked away, a little sheepish. "I didn't want to see you all hurt. Not for no reason."
That answer caught her off guard. Her lips curled into a small, thoughtful smile. She reached out and ruffled his hair again. "Thanks," she said simply.
"Yeah, thanks," a few of the boys echoed, nodding at him with new appreciation.
Matthew frowned, brushing her hand off with a huff. "Stop that. I'm seven, and you're only barely older! Don't treat me like a kid."
Max blinked.
Then she laughed. A full-blown, throw-your-head-back kind of laugh. "Barely?! I'm twelve, genius. That's five years older. You're basically a toddler to me."
That... hit something in Matthew.
He scowled. "I'm not a toddler!"
The room burst into laughter.
Some of the boys immediately took sides, jokingly. "C'mon, Max, leave the kid alone," one said, putting an arm around Matthew's shoulder.
"Yeah, he's suffered enough from your hair-ruffling tyranny!" another added dramatically.
Max snorted. "You all deserve it, you're basically kids to me, huh! Don't pretend otherwise."
Laughter rang out again, this time lighter, real. For the first time since Matthew had entered this awful place, the air didn't feel like it was pressing down on his chest.
And for the first time, just a little—he felt like maybe, just maybe—he wasn't alone.
Time passed as Matthew sat surrounded by the boys and Max, their earlier tension fading into something warmer, something more familiar. He asked curiously, "Do you guys play tag?"
One of the boys, a lanky kid with a chipped front tooth, nodded eagerly. "Yeah! Tod's the best, though."
"Only 'cause he's fourteen," another boy chimed in, crossing his arms with a pout. "We're all younger, so of course he wins!"
Tod, leaning against the wall with a proud smirk, scoffed. "I beat fifteen-year-olds too, just so you know."
Matthew blinked. "Fifteen?"
"Yeah," Max answered, sitting beside him with her legs crossed. "Once you hit sixteen, you're considered an adult in Decartium. That's when they ship you off—if you can't find a job in a year, you're destined to work as a soldier."
Matthew frowned. "That sounds... scary."
Max shrugged. "It is. But most of us just try not to think about it till it happens."
Before the conversation could go deeper, the door creaked open again. Robert returned, his eyes scanning the group. His gaze lingered longer than necessary on Max and the boys, disapproving but silent.
"Dinner is ready," he announced, voice stiff.
He looked directly at Max, then at the others. "You. Escort Matthew to the dining hall. Make sure he gets there safely."
With that, he turned and walked away, the sound of his polished shoes echoing down the hall.
Max clicked her tongue, clearly annoyed. "Tch. You'd think he was the king or something."
That made the boys laugh. One of them nudged Matthew with an elbow. "Guess we'll be pulling you around on our backs from now on, Your Highness! Since there's no carriages here."
Matthew laughed too, a real one this time. It bubbled out unexpectedly, surprising even him. The others smiled at the sound, and the air felt lighter again.
"Let's go then, my loyal guards," he said playfully, standing up.
With that, the little group began making their way toward the dining hall, laughter and teasing echoing down the corridor like it had always belonged there.
...
Dinner was normal. Just soup and bread. But the broth was hot, the bread only slightly stale, and together they made a meal far better than what Matthew had expected from an orphanage with such a grim reputation.
Around him, Max and the other boys ate in silence. No one said a word about the food. When Matthew, curious, leaned over and asked, the blonde girl across from him gave a small, almost secretive smile.
"I'll tell you later," she said softly. "For now... just eat."
So he did.
The spoon felt heavy in his hand, the soup warming his throat, his chest. But even as the food settled in his stomach, something about the room unsettled him.
The dining hall stretched wide, longer than he'd imagined, lined with long wooden tables and chairs that scraped the floor with every shift.
The lights above flickered slightly, casting soft halos against the dull yellow paint that peeled at the corners. The air buzzed—not with noise, but with presence. Children were everywhere. Packed tightly in rows, shoulder to shoulder, their heads bent over bowls. The low murmur of dozens of conversations created a hum that felt almost alive.
He saw them all—from tiny kids barely tall enough to climb onto the benches, to older teens with sharp eyes and quiet stares. Tod sat near the back, watching over everything like a sentry.
It was overwhelming at first. The crowd, the clatter, the way so many eyes seemed to glance his way and then away again. So many lives all moving in rhythm, and Matthew felt like an outsider, a piece that didn't quite fit.
But Max nudged him with an elbow. One of the boys cracked a joke under his breath, and the others chuckled. Even the blonde girl gave him a reassuring nod.
Little by little, the tension in Matthew's shoulders eased.
He didn't feel at home—not exactly. But there was something in their presence, in the easy way they made space for him without making a fuss. It was strange. Unfamiliar. But it wasn't bad.
It was... warm.
Warm in the way sunlight might feel after a long winter.
The boys were easy to hang out with. They joked, teased each other, and somehow made the heavy air of the orphanage feel a little lighter. Max was strange—offbeat in a way Matthew hadn't expected—but it was the good kind of weird. The kind that made you laugh even when you didn't want to.
Dinner with them was... pleasant. No other kids came near. A few sent glances his way—some quick, some lingering—but none dared to interrupt. He remembered what Robert had said earlier, the warning he'd given about bullying. The message had landed.
Still, not every glance was sharp with fear or dull with resentment. Some carried jealousy, yes—but others held something softer. Curiosity. Even kindness. A little girl, no older than six, kept looking at him from across the room. Her eyes, wide and solemn, never left him. She clutched her spoon like a lifeline, her dinner untouched, as if she saw something in him—something distant, familiar. But she never came closer. Never stepped near their table.
It was clear now. Max, and the small gang of boys around her, weren't just popular—they were feared. Even the older teens gave them space. They'd glance over, weigh the risks, and quietly choose to steer clear. It wasn't Max's size or her volume—she was quiet, nearly aloof—but there was something about her. A weight. A presence. And the boys followed her lead with the kind of loyalty that came from more than just friendship. It was survival.
But beyond that layer of silent territory and unspoken rules, Matthew noticed something else.
The way the children changed when the adults were near.
Every time an adult passed through the dining hall, conversations dipped, and eyes dropped. Like a tide being pulled back. Kids stared at their bowls, at their hands, at the floor. Anywhere but up. Only a few dared to meet the adults' eyes—and Max was one of them. She didn't flinch. She stared back.
And for that, she earned cold, hard glares. Not words. Not open scolding. Just eyes like knives, daring her to keep looking.
She did.
And suddenly, Matthew understood something he hadn't before.
This place didn't run on rules. It ran on fear. And Max? Max didn't play by either.
Still—no screaming, no shouting. No loud scoldings, no sharp words thrown across the room. The quiet wasn't natural, but intentional. Controlled. Like everyone was performing a careful act, as if they'd all been told to behave just for tonight.
For him.
It wasn't just the silence. It was the way voices lowered just enough to sound polite but not quite warm, the way footsteps softened on the tile, and how even the usual clatter of plates and cutlery felt subdued, restrained. The whole orphanage seemed to be holding its breath.
All for Matthew.
As if the walls themselves had been told not to startle him. As if one wrong word might unravel something fragile inside him they weren't ready to deal with. It was in the glances, in the posture, in the stiff way people carried themselves around him.
They didn't want to trigger him. Not in any way, shape, or form.
He felt it. And he couldn't help it—he drew in a long, quiet breath, let it settle deep in his chest, grounding himself in the weight of the moment.
In his mind, he heard Asvin's voice again—stern, low, unmistakable. The warning he'd given Robert echoed like a memory half-whispered in the back of his thoughts.
A warning wrapped in care.
...
Time slipped by, and soon dinner was done. The echo of chairs scraping against tile and the soft murmur of footsteps fading down the hall marked the end of the meal. One by one, the boys said their goodnights and drifted off to their rooms, leaving Max and Matthew behind.
As Matthew stepped back into his room, the air cooler and quieter now, Max followed a few steps behind. She lingered in the doorway, arms crossed, a teasing smile on her face.
"I told the royal court I'd personally escort His Highness the King back to his quarters," she said dryly, giving a slight grin. "Wouldn't want him getting lost in the grand halls of our palace."
Matthew rolled his eyes, but a small smile tugged at his lips.
"Sleep well," Max added after a pause. "Let's talk more tomorrow."
Matthew nodded, hesitating for a moment before speaking. "Thank you… It… it was nice of you to stay with me."
Max looked away at that, just a little, brushing some hair behind her ear. "It was nothing," she said quickly, a little embarrassed, her voice softer than usual.
But Matthew didn't let it go.
"No, no—thank you," he said, more firmly this time. "I was… I was really scared of everyone. But you showed me they're not scary. That it's not like I thought it would be."
She let out a sigh, somewhere between amused and reluctant. "Alright, alright," Max said, waving him off. "If you really insist on being grateful… then I do have a favor to ask."
"Oh?" Matthew tilted his head, puzzled. "What is it?"
He was confused—genuinely. What could she possibly need from him? He had money, more than he knew what to do with. He had authority, too—technically. But here, in this place, those things felt like distant tools. Could he even use them?
Still, he waited, curious.
"Umm… Can you… Ugh… How to say this…" Max fumbled with her words.
For the first time since Matthew had met her—just a few hours ago—she actually hesitated. The same Max who'd walked into the dining hall like she owned it. The same Max who barely flinched when he'd conjured flame into his hand, who had faced down older kids with nothing but a glance.
Now, she was… unsure.
It felt strange. Almost out of character. Like watching a crack appear in something solid.
"Can you teach me how to see the One Power?" she asked at last, barely above a whisper. She didn't look at him—just turned her face slightly to the side, suddenly shy.
It was weird. Weird, but also… kind of funny.
"Oh… You… You also wanna become an Arts User?" Matthew asked, surprised.
She shook her head quickly. "Not really. I just wanna learn a few Arts on the side. Maybe start using the One Power to reinforce my body..." She glanced back at him briefly. "I wanna be a Fighter."
Matthew nodded slowly. "Got it. Alright then—sure. I can help you. How about we start tomorrow?"
Her lips curled into a genuine smile, small but bright. "Sure. Yeah."
With that, she didn't linger. She turned to leave, tossing one last grin over her shoulder.
"Goodnight, Your Majesty."
He laughed, a warm, tired sound. "Goodnight, Max."
And then she was gone, the soft sound of her footsteps fading down the hall.
Matthew stood alone in the quiet of his room, the door slowly clicking shut behind her.
He lay back on the bed, the mattress creaking softly beneath his weight, and stared up at the ceiling.
Night had settled over the orphanage. The world outside his window was cloaked in shadows, save for the pale rays of moonlight that slipped through the cracked curtain and stretched across the floor in quiet, silver streaks.
His mind wandered. Flashes of yesterday surged up—brief, sharp images that pressed against the walls of his thoughts. But Matthew shook them away, jaw tightening, breath catching for a moment.
Not tonight.
He didn't want to remember. Not now. He just wanted rest.
He needed rest.
It had been a long, confusing, heavy day. And after all, he was only seven.
So, he closed his eyes.
And, fortunately for him, sleep came just a few minutes later—gentle and deep, wrapping around him like a blanket far warmer than any he'd been given.
—End of Chapter.