Landon had never trusted quiet halls.
Noise was honest—metal clashing, men shouting, boots against stone. Silence, though… silence was where intent hid.
Vanhart's manor was full of quiet.
The kind that settled into cracks in old stone, that clung to beams and doorframes like dust. Not the peace of a house resting—
The fatigue of a house that had given up on being loud.
Landon moved through that quiet with practiced ease, broad shoulders brushing near tapestries, boots whispering over worn flagstones. He did not try to soften his presence entirely. A little sound was good. Enough that those with reason to fear him would remember someone was walking these corridors.
His hand sometimes brushed the hilt at his side, not to draw—
Just to confirm.
Still there.
Still his.
He had come from the training yard, where the younger Vanhart guards had asked him to "show a northern sword stance"—then paled when he corrected their footing with two simple words and three quick movements.
Now the day bled into evening.
And the dining hall loomed ahead.
He stepped inside just in time to hear silence break itself, then reform.
Kel had entered.
Carrying someone in his arms.
Landon's steps slowed.
Not stopped.
He adjusted his pace, fading instinctively into a position where he could see without being seen first.
Kel's frame cut through the dim hall like a drawn line of ink. The girl in his arms—Lysenne Malloren—looked startled, cheeks flushed, hands clutching tightly at the fabric of his sleeve.
Landon took in the details fast.
Kel's shoulders held steady.
Back straight.
Arms firm.
Good balance.
But—
There was strain, if you knew how to see it.
The faint tightness at his forearm.
The slight drag at his left step, muscles taxed.
He's tired.
Of course.
Five hours of aura-guided treatment… Landon had seen the way Kel left that room. Not stumbling. Kel didn't stumble. But his steps had that small, dangerous precision of someone who could not afford even one misstep.
And now he was carrying someone else.
Landon's jaw flexed.
Of course he is.
Kel lowered Lysenne into her chair without faltering.
He did not shake.
He did not let her feel the cost.
Lysenne's fingers brushed his sleeve for a heartbeat too long before she withdrew. Her face remained red, eyes down, lashes trembling.
Emotional reaction.
Understandable.
New center of her world had just walked in holding her like something worth risking a life for.
Landon's grip over the chair back tightened.
Not in displeasure.
In understanding.
Kel stepped away.
Took his own seat at the table.
Landon's gaze followed him the whole time.
At first glance, Kel looked normal.
Expression calm.
Movements clean.
No outward sign of exhaustion.
But Landon had fought beside him long enough to know what to measure.
He watched how Kel's fingers wrapped around his cup.
Not too tight.
But slower.
He watched the minute delay between lifting the cup and taking the first sip.
Conserving.
He watched the rhythm of Kel's breath.
Steady.
Yet slightly deeper than usual—drawing energy from somewhere beneath fatigue.
Landon took it all in.
Filed it.
Then lowered himself into his own seat further down the table, every motion controlled, his body falling into its familiar role:
Wall.
Guard.
Unmoving.
Count Vanhart started a light conversation, the kind nobility used to cover tension. Sera responded with measured tones, her voice steady, though Landon caught the way her eyes dragged again and again to the end of the table where Lysenne sat.
Reina ate with clean efficiency, spear absent but posture still that of a spear—straight, sharp, ready. Her gaze moved from Kel to Lysenne to Sera, weighing more than what words said.
Landon said nothing.
He rarely did.
Words were for those who needed them.
He needed the room to stay intact.
He watched Sera first.
Her expression carried layers that reminded him of weather: guilt like grey clouds, relief like weak light, something complicated and bitter where her eyes narrowed on Lysenne and Kel.
She didn't speak of it.
But body language told more.
Her shoulders tensed when Lysenne smiled faintly at some quiet assurance from Kel. Her hand gripped the table edge once, so tight the wood creaked, before she released it.
Sera sees the cost.
Not of the treatment.
Of the attention.
Of the fact that something once caused by her is now being rewritten by him.
Landon understood that too.
He shifted his gaze to Reina.
She was better at hiding it.
Her face was composed, her movements smooth, but her eyes—
Her eyes lingered on Kel's back just a moment too long when he reached for the bread. On his wrist, veins faintly visible under skin. On the slight lag in his second movement.
Jealousy?
No.
Landon knew jealousy.
He'd seen it at play among knights vying for rank, among heirs competing for approval. Jealousy was sharp, hungry, and ugly.
This was not that.
This was something more like an ache.
A soldier watching a commander take a spear wound while carrying someone else—and knowing they could not shout at him to drop the weight.
Landon tore bread slowly, chewing without tasting.
He looked at Viscount Malloren.
The man held himself carefully, balancing between authority and something more fragile.
Every time his gaze fell on his daughter's legs, his fingers twitched.
Every time he looked at Kel, his jaw clenched.
Fear and gratitude sat together in his throat, choking him.
If Kel succeeded—
He would owe a debt he wasn't sure how to handle.
If Kel failed—
He would kill the only person who had tried this hard.
Landon thought:
Only Kel would step into that kind of blade, then offer his neck.
He glanced at Lysenne.
She avoided Kel's eyes now, only looking up when he spoke mildly or when someone else addressed him.
Her hands, hidden under the table, tensed when she shifted her legs.
Pain.
It wasn't all gone yet.
But something had changed.
Landon could see the subtle difference in how she sat. There was life in her lower frame now, a small current of awareness.
She wasn't sitting as if her legs were just attachments anymore.
She was sitting as if they were present.
Kel ate quietly, oblivious—or pretending to be oblivious—to the storm of eyes, expectations, undercurrents around him.
Landon knew better.
Kel saw everything.
He just chose his responses.
Like moves on a board.
Moves that all rewrote a game only he had played before.
Later, after dinner, when everyone began to leave the hall, Landon walked behind Kel. Not close enough to intrude.
Close enough to catch him if his knees buckled.
They didn't.
Kel walked at a steady pace, cloak hanging loose, hands relaxed at his sides. No one would notice how his fingers curled and uncurled once every few steps.
Landon did.
At the corridor's end, when Kel turned toward his room, Landon spoke.
His voice was low, gravelly from lack of unnecessary use.
"Kel."
Kel paused.
Looked over his shoulder.
"Yes?"
Landon studied his face.
The pallor at the edges. The faint shadow beneath the eyes.
"Your body," Landon said simply. "How far did you push it?"
Kel's lips twitched faintly.
"Your way of asking if I'm about to collapse is always so poetic," he replied dryly.
Landon didn't smile.
He waited.
Kel sighed softly.
"Below my limit," he answered. "Above my comfort."
"Pain?"
"Manageable."
"Residual backlash?"
"Tomorrow," Kel said. "Tonight, just fatigue."
Landon's brow furrowed.
"You can't afford to fail," he said. No judgment. Just a fact.
Kel's eyes cooled.
"Yes."
There was a pause.
Landon shifted his weight slightly.
"If you fall," he said, "I take her and run."
Kel blinked.
"Run where?"
"Away," Landon replied. "Until we can keep you breathing."
Kel regarded him for a heartbeat.
Then a small, genuine curve touched his mouth.
"As expected," he murmured.
He turned.
"Rest, Landon."
"Train less," Landon replied.
Kel snorted softly and walked away.
For him, that was promise enough.
Landon leaned one shoulder against the cold stone for a moment after he left.
He breathed out.
Slow.
Measured.
He did not like this gamble.
Not because he doubted Kel.
Because of how much the board would change if Kel failed—and how much would awaken if he succeeded.
Landon's thoughts slipped backward.
To the barbarian camp.
Kel standing in the firelight, cold wind pushing his coat back, laughing like a villain while arrows pierced monster throats.
To the lake.
Kel, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion, still upright in the mist, bargaining with ancient water like an equal.
Landon had made his choice long ago.
Not to follow Kel because he was a noble.
Not because Kel was strong.
Because Kel walked straight into every storm as if it were negotiation rather than doom—and still remembered to make sure others were covered.
Today he watched that same stubbornness turn into something else.
Not just survival.
Not just strategy.
Restoration.
Dangerous.
The kind of thing that builds legends.
And enemies.
If Lysenne stood—
Houses would shift.
Allies realign.
Rumors explode.
Landon would have to expand his vision. Guarding Kel's back wouldn't be enough. He'd have to guard his name.
He pushed off from the wall.
Walked toward the outer grounds.
Night air bit his face.
He welcomed it.
He drew his sword—not fully. Just halfway from the scabbard. The steel whispered in the dark.
He checked its edge.
Clean.
Ready.
"Seven days," he muttered, echoing Kel's words.
Seven days of treatment.
Seven days of risk.
Seven days of potential.
Landon sheathed his blade.
Looked up at the storm-streaked sky.
"You bet your life again," he said under his breath, speaking to the absent silhouette of his young master. "Fine."
He exhaled, watching his breath mist.
"Then I'll bet my sword."
The stars above Vanhart watched silently.
Unmoving.
Landon turned and re-entered the manor, feet steady, mind clear.
Others could carry hearts, pasts, curses, fragile hopes.
He would carry steel.
And if the world decided to punish Kel for saving someone worth saving—
it would have to go through him first.