After he fought the twins, Elarion left without looking back.
He wanted to go and wash up.
"Why are you still following?"
"Why can't I? Sir Elarion" Herua said in dramatically respectful way while bowing 90 degree.
" Stop" Elarion replied annoyed.
" I am going to take bath, you wanna take it with me"
Herua looked up and opened his mouth enthusiastically with wide eyes
" Ye.."
" Leave!" Elarion cutted him mid sentence and left Herua whining behind.
----
The hallway was still.
Light bled softly through tall glass panes, silvering the clean stone with a quiet that felt heavier than footsteps. The air was scented faintly with oil, leather, and firewood. Nothing out of place. Not here.
When the maid entered, she bowed low. Not out of fear—but because her discipline left no space for clumsiness.
"Sir Marcus," she said gently. "The young heir is waiting."
He looked up from his notes.
Not war documents today—something else. Thin parchment filled with tight script. A report on Elarion's training hours. Mistakes made. Corrections logged. Injuries recorded with surgical precision, followed by a mark: He did not complain.
He stood without a sound.
---
The room he entered was different from the rest of the estate—no coldness here. It was small, with a high bookshelf no child could reach and a low-burning hearth. The curtains were drawn, filtering the sun into a soft red glow. A boy sat curled into a corner chair, holding a wooden practice knife.
His name was Daniel. He looked up the moment Marcus entered, expression unreadable.
"You held it wrong," Marcus said, nodding toward the knife.
Daniel lowered his gaze. "I thought it was like a pen."
Marcus said nothing. He knelt.
Not to hug. Not to scold. Just to adjust the boy's fingers, one by one, until the grip looked right. Not perfect—but passable.
"Again."
The boy mimicked the hold.
Marcus let silence settle again. It wasn't awkward. Just sharp.
"Why did you call me today?" Daniel asked.
"You haven't seen your brother in weeks," Marcus replied.
Daniel's eyes widened faintly. "You mean—?"
"He's in the inner ring now," Marcus said simply. "If you wait, he'll pass through this wing. You have four minutes."
Daniel stood, almost stumbling in eagerness. But Marcus raised a hand. "Don't run. You'll waste breath."
The boy nodded, heart thudding.
---
Elarion came shortly after. His boots were bloodstained, his knuckles raw. But his face remained calm—mask-like, almost too calm for a boy that age.
He stopped at the doorway and blinked at Marcus.
"Four minutes," Marcus said.
No smile. No warning. Just space.
Elarion entered.
Daniel didn't know what to say. So he just stepped close and touched Elarion's hand—gently, as if asking permission.
Elarion didn't move. Didn't speak. But he didn't pull away either.
A strange quiet wrapped around them. Not fragile. Just... balanced.
"I... missed you," Daniel whispered.
Elarion's voice came slower. "I know."
Their hands remained loosely joined, one wrapped in bandages, the other in softness.
From across the room, Marcus watched.
He didn't interrupt. He didn't smile. He simply observed the silence as if it were a lesson—one the boys needed to learn on their own.
When time was up, Marcus stood. "Just one last day at dorms then, Training resumes."
Daniel stepped back. Elarion's hand fell to his side like a sword returning to its sheath.
They didn't speak again.
But that was enough.
---
Later that night, Marcus wrote something into the parchment beneath the injury log:
> Pain without understanding becomes cruelty.
Pain understood becomes control.
He paused.
Then beneath that, in ink thinner than shadow:
> He didn't smile. But he stayed.
-----