The walk back to the guest chambers was a hollow, echoing ritual. Caelen walked a step behind Ophelia, his eyes fixed on the rhythmic swing of her skirts, his mind a static-filled void.
She didn't ask about the dinner, or the way his jaw had been set so hard he looked ready to crack a tooth.
She didn't ask why he hadn't touched his food.
She simply walked, her own silence a heavy, resigned weight between them.
They entered their shared suite. Rael was already a dead weight in his father's arms, his breathing deep and rhythmic.
Caelen moved to the small adjoining room, lowering the boy onto the bed with a gentleness that felt like a ghost of his former self.
He tucked the thick furs around Rael's shoulders, lingering to press a kiss to the boy's forehead. Here, in the quiet, Rael was still his—untainted by the politics and the rot of the Nevarian court.
