He didn’t knock. The doors to the king’s study were left ajar—an invitation for those bold enough to ignore etiquette. Kaelion stepped through them without hesitation. His sandals whispered against ancient stone, and the firelight caught in the pale threads of his tunic as he crossed the threshold. Marble swallowed the sound of his approach. The air inside was heavy. Incense from the priest’s earlier rites still clung to the chamber like ghosts too polite to be expelled. At the far end, King Peleon looked up. He did not startle. A man forged in the quiet between wars, he had long since taught himself the power of stillness. The priest beside him didn’t speak, but his shoulders stiffened, fingers curling tighter around his ceremonial sash as though to retrieve the words Kaelion had interrupted. The prince offered them nothing. Not a bow. Not a word. Only the echo of his presence—and the boy who followed behind him like a second shadow. The exile stood just inside the doorway, gaze fixed somewhere near the floor. Not out of fear. Not exactly. It was something else—something slower. Like someone unsure they were meant to be seen at all. Kaelion's eyes flicked to him. He could feel the way the boy’s shoulders pinched inward, the way his breath stilled without quite vanishing. Not shame. Not guilt. Just grief, calcified. "I brought him," Kaelion said quietly. It was not an announcement. Not a plea. The priest’s brow furrowed. "The exile?" Kaelion nodded. "He hasn’t been skipping drills. He’s been with me." There was a beat of silence before the priest launched into protest—something about schedules, the hierarchy of training, discipline for the sake of legacy—but Kaelion didn’t listen. He walked forward instead, slow, deliberate. Until he stood in the firelight’s path. "He’s mine." The words came like gravity, subtle but impossible to ignore. The priest’s voice faltered. Peleon’s head tilted slightly, the way a wolf might scent the wind before deciding what part of the body to bite. "Yours," the king said. "For what purpose.""My therapon," Kaelion answered. No tremor. No pause. The priest made a noise—half-choke, half-sigh. The kind men make when ancient rules are broken with too much grace to punish. "You’ve refused every companion offered to you," Peleon said slowly. "Sons of nobles. Heirs to legacies. You would not have them.""None of them were him." The king’s eyes shifted to the exile, who stood very still now. Too still. Like a boy listening for the verdict he’s already expecting. "He has no name that matters here. No house behind him. His hands are already bloodied.""He doesn’t hide his hands," Kaelion said. "And I trust the honest ruin of a man more than a polished lie." A quiet tension passed between them, as sharp as drawn steel. "The court will talk," Peleon warned. "They already do.""What will you say to them?""I won’t," Kaelion said simply. "It’s not theirs to understand." The priest turned slightly, as if to offer some final caution—but Peleon raised a hand, silencing him. His gaze lingered a moment longer on Kaelion, and then drifted back to the exile. "So be it." That was all. But it was enough. Kaelion turned without a bow. His steps were calm, steady. As he passed the exile, he let his arm brush against him—light, deliberate, like the first note of a chord not yet resolved. Not to jolt. To anchor. A declaration had been made. And Kaelion never said things twice.