Chapter 39: A Habit of Watching

"I’m telling you, Your Grace, you really ought to be more wary of Lord Cherion."

Soren stood in the center of the study, his spine as stiff as a frozen pike. He had that particular look of pinched self-righteousness, the kind that usually preceded a lecture on why things were better done in the old ways.

Zarius didn’t even look up from the ledger he was supposedly reviewing. Ten days. It had been exactly ten days since he’d dragged that Antel boy across the threshold of his fortress.

"Wary?" Zarius echoed. "Explain yourself, Soren. What has he done to earn such a dire warning?"

Soren stepped closer. "He got this notebook that he treats it like a holy relic, My Lord. That he brings it everywhere. To the kitchens, to the training grounds, I’ve even seen him tuck it under his pillow. He quickly snaps it shut and puts it away whenever I walk into him with it."

Beside the hearth, Flio and Elios exchanged a glance. They were the shadows in the room, the silent witnesses to Soren’s report on Cherion as a spy. Soren, after all, hadn’t just been assigned as Cherion’s attendant out of the goodness of Zarius’s heart. He was a watchdog. A glorified leash meant to tug at the first sign of a Southern threat.

But Zarius knew. He knew better than Soren ever could.

He knew those pages weren’t filled with maps or troop movements, they were likely covered in frantic, messy scrawls of a man trying to untangle a curse that was currently eating Zarius alive. Cherion wasn’t hiding secrets from the North. He was hiding the Duke’s own rotting reality from the world.

"Is that all?" Zarius asked, finally lifting his gaze. "A notebook? You’re reporting a man for being literate?"

"It’s not just that, My Lord! It’s the... the activities. He started preparing food for the soldiers, these strange, folded things that smell of spices we rarely even use here. And he uses his magic to heal everyone he can find. Why would a high-born noble spend his mana so recklessly on commoners unless he was trying to buy their loyalty?"

"Maybe he’s just... doing his job, Soren."

"In the North? For free?" Soren scoffed. "It isn’t natural. I’m sure he’s up to something."

"He’s healing my men, Soren. He’s feeding them. If that’s a plot to overthrow me, it’s a remarkably polite one." Zarius waved a hand, a sharp, dismissive gesture. "You’re dismissed. Keep your eyes open, by all means, but stop jumping at shadows every time the boy opens a book."

Soren looked like he wanted to argue, the man was nothing if not persistent, but the cold in Zarius’s eyes eventually won out. He bowed stiffly and retreated from the study.

The silence that followed was heavy.

"The man has a point about the food, at least," Elios remarked, breaking the quiet as he leaned against the stone mantle. The commander of the guard looked far too relaxed for a man whose men were being "fed by the enemy."

"I saw the errand boysthis morning. They were practically tripping over themselves to get to the basket Lord Cherion brought out. Apparently, he’s got real skills in the kitchen. It’s quite good, actually."

"Right?" Flio chimed in, grinning. "I managed to snag a bite of some toasted wrap yesterday. It had this... kick to it. It made my eyes water, but I couldn’t stop eating."

Zarius didn’t interrupt them, but his gaze slowly lifted from the ledger and settled on the two men. They looked far too pleased with themselves. A strange irritation crept up Zarius’s spine, sharp and unfamiliar.

So everyone else in his own fortress had apparently been enjoying the boy’s cooking, yet somehow, not a single bite had ever made its way to him. Not once.

Zarius found himself irrationally irritated by this fact and spent the rest of the day mentally swatting away the most ridiculous thought he’d ever had, the unmistakable, deeply undignified feeling of being left out.

Later that night, Zarius found himself standing in the shadows of the upper gallery, looking down into the main hall. Cherion was crossing the floor, heading toward the library. He didn’t look like the vibrant, defiant creature who bravely stood on his ground in front of him a week ago.

He looked... diminished.

His navy robe hung heavily on his narrow shoulders, his frame looking far too fragile for the ruthless Northern cold. The warmth that once softened his features had vanished, replaced by a grey, haunting exhaustion. His skin had turned almost translucent, ghost-pale, while the dark circles beneath his eyes resembled bruises carved by sleepless nights.

Cherion stopped for a moment, leaning his weight against a stone pillar. He let out a long, ragged sigh, his breath blooming in the frigid air like something fading away. He looked tired. Not merely from lack of rest, but the kind of deep, consuming fatigue that came from giving too much of yourself until there was almost nothing left.

For a brief, irritating moment, a thought surfaced that he tried to dismiss immediately.

Is this... my fault?

Zarius watched him from the darkness, his hand tightening on the stone railing until his knuckles turned white. He saw the black notebook clutched tightly in Cherion’s hand, the "suspicious" item that was likely filled with his own death sentence.

Zarius remained in the shadows long after Cherion disappeared into the corridor that led toward the library.

It wasn’t unusual.

In fact, it had quietly become their routine.

Every night, they would end up in the library together and they never stayed for a short while.

He didn’t like it.

He didn’t like the way the boy’s light was being smothered by the cold of this fortress. He didn’t like the way Cherion was working himself into a grave to fix a man who hadn’t even thanked him. Most of all, he didn’t like the way his own heart felt like it was being squeezed by a giant’s hand just by looking at him.