Torchlight flickered across the stone walls of the private council chamber, casting long, warping silhouettes over two men who sat in silence.
It was late—deep into the second night since Kel von Rosenfeld began Lysenne's treatment.
The estate had gone still.
Even the cold wind outside seemed reluctant to intrude.
Count Elaine Vanhart sat behind a heavy oak desk, hands clasped before his mouth. His gaze was distant, buried in shadows only he could see. He looked older under the weight of firelight—hair more silver than iron, posture heavy in a way age alone could not explain.
Across from him sat Viscount Malloren.
A man carved from fatigue and bitterness.
He hadn't touched the tea placed before him. The cup lay untouched, steam having long since faded. Malloren's fingers pressed tightly into his knees, knuckles white.
The silence stretched.
Not like an awkward pause.
Like an old wound reopening.
Count Vanhart finally broke it—his voice low, deep with restrained emotion.
"You witnessed it today."
Malloren's head lifted slightly. His tone was raw, as if pulled from somewhere shards still lived.
"I witnessed something I did not dare believe again."
He inhaled.
Long.
Shaky.
"I witnessed… my daughter feel."
His voice faltered.
Count Vanhart closed his eyes, not out of sympathy—but because he remembered something.
A hallway.
Sera—ten years old—running, pain and fear hidden behind eyes far too hardened.
"I know what it is," the count said quietly, "to watch a child leave beyond reach."
Malloren's jaw clenched.
"You watched your daughter walk away," he replied bitterly. "I watched mine sit in the same chair, unable to walk at all."
Vanhart did not flinch.
Pain has many forms.
He simply spoke.
"Kel has begun to give her something neither of us could return—motion."
Malloren's head tilted back.
For a moment, he looked like a man drowning.
"I do not understand him."
The words were empty of malice.
Only filled with truth.
"How can someone so young speak of life as something already spent? How can he wager his life as casually as asking for tea?"
Vanhart exhaled slowly.
Wind rattled faintly against the window.
"I have known Duke Arcturus a long time," he said. "I've seen his cold mind on the battlefield. His eye for power. And yet…" He looked toward the dark hallway outside, as if glimpsing a figure who had long passed.
"…I have never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at his firstborn."
Malloren frowned.
"With fear?"
"No."
Vanhart's fingers shifted.
"With grief."
Malloren leaned forward.
"You believe the boy was truly cursed? That he lived knowing he would die early?"
Vanhart's eyes lowered.
"I believe," he murmured, "that Kel von Rosenfeld already died once."
Malloren stared.
"…and yet walks."
"He walks," Vanhart confirmed, voice deep, "like someone who has returned not to live—but to choose who else gets to."
That silence that followed was heavier.
More than resignation.
Weight of realization.
Malloren looked down at his hands.
"How did we come to this?"
Vanhart looked at him.
"What do you mean?"
Malloren gave a hollow smile.
"A duke's son mending the daughter I failed to protect. Guiding the child yours failed to hold. Correcting mistakes of men twice his age."
Vanhart did not deny it.
Malloren's hand slowly reached for the tea, hesitated, then took it. He held the cup, warmth seeping slowly into his fingers.
His voice, when he spoke again, was quieter.
"…When he carried her tonight. Into the hall." His breath caught. "She did not look frightened. For the first time… in years… she looked… steady."
His fingers tightened around the cup.
"I never had the strength to hold her like that. Not after the incident. I tried to treat her delicately. I tried to protect her. And in doing so…"
"…you sealed her in that chair," Vanhart finished.
Malloren's eyes trembled.
Vanhart looked at the wall—where maps of Vanhart territory lay scattered, marked for recovery.
"So," the count murmured, "did I with Sera."
Malloren looked up sharply.
Vanhart's voice went hollow.
"Do you think I did not try to run after her? When she fled that day?" He inhaled, eyes darkening. "But all I had raised her to be was strong. Not soft enough to catch sadness. Not gentle enough to return. And so she ran, and I—allowed it."
Malloren looked at him for a long while.
Then lowered his gaze.
"We are men who failed our children."
"Yes," Vanhart said quietly. "But Kel… Kel acts as though failure is a condition, not conclusion."
He looked at Malloren.
"Do you know what it is to stand before a child who breaks and not ask why—but how to carry?"
Malloren swallowed.
"…Yes."
"And Kel?" Vanhart continued. "He doesn't just carry. He walks into their pain, and says—'Place it here.'"
His voice did not rise.
It did not crack.
But it resonated.
Malloren stared into the tea.
"…Alone?"
Vanhart shook his head.
"No," he said. "Not anymore."
He turned toward the door.
"Reina watches his back. Sera watches his steps. Landon watches the field. And now—" his eyes lingered, "my daughter watches his hands."
Malloren looked up.
"And us?"
Vanhart exhaled.
"We watch what he holds."
Silence.
Then—
Malloren's fingers curled into a fist.
"…What happens if he succeeds?"
Vanhart leaned back.
"If she walks," he said simply, "the political effect will be catastrophic."
"House Malloren and Vanhart regain face," Malloren murmured.
"Rosenfeld's heir gains untouchable reputation," Vanhart added.
"Healer of curses."
"Defier of fates."
"A boy who made the broken walk."
"Some will call it miracle."
"Some," Vanhart said, voice lowering, "will call it threat."
Malloren looked at him.
"And if he fails?" he whispered.
Vanhart closed his eyes.
"…then his life ends by his own oath."
The fire cracked.
Ice shifted outside.
And Malloren—viscount of a crumbling line, father of a fading hope—felt the world tilt.
Not toward loss.
Toward cost.
He looked to Vanhart.
"What would you do, if it comes to that?"
Vanhart's hand gently lifted the teapot.
He poured into Malloren's cup.
Then his own.
He set the pot down slowly.
Met Malloren's gaze.
And in his eyes—
there was steel.
"Then we," Vanhart said, "will stand between him and the consequences."
Malloren stared.
Then—
Very slowly—
he nodded.
Firelight caught the edge of his cup.
He lifted it.
"So," he murmured, voice softer, "let us pray he wins."
Vanhart took a breath.
"No," he whispered, the slightest hint of a smile at the corner of his tired eyes.
"Let us prepare for when he does."
The two men drank their tea.
Firelight flickered.
Night thickened.
And somewhere above, in cold corridors, a boy who once carried death walked without fear.