Back in the infirmary, the silence that followed the heavy thud of the infirmary door seemed to press against the walls. Soren let out a sharp, jagged breath, his hands still trembling from his confrontation with Rowan. He turned back to the bed, ready to finish his task, when a soft, stuttering sound broke the stillness.
It was a wet, hitching noise—the sound of a lung finally pulling in air with intention.
Soren froze. He looked down, and his heart hammered against his ribs. Elian’s eyelashes, which had remained deathly still for seven moons, were fluttering against his pale, sunken cheeks.
"Elian?" Soren whispered, his voice cracking.
He dropped the cloth back into the bowl and leaned over him, his hands hovering, afraid to touch him and break the fragile moment.
Elian’s chest rose and fell, a shallow, labored movement. His eyelids fought to stay open, sliding halfway up to reveal cloudy, disoriented blue irises. He groaned, a sound of pure, unadulterated agony as he tried to shift his weight.
"Don’t move," Soren commanded, his voice trembling with relief. He quickly grabbed a small cup of water from the bedside table, lifting Elian’s head with practiced, gentle precision. "Slowly... just small sips."
Elian’s throat worked, his pale lips parted, and he took a shaky, desperate swallow. The water seemed to shock his system, his eyes clearing just enough to focus on the face looming over him. He blinked, the fog in his mind seemingly thick and suffocating.
"Soren?" Elian rasped, his voice sounding like dry leaves skittering over stone. He looked around the room, his eyes scanning the space behind Soren with a strange, searching desperation. When he found no one else, the light in his eyes dulled significantly.
Soren noticed the look, and his heart curdled with a mix of pity and cold triumph. "He isn’t here, Elian. He hasn’t been here."
Elian let his head sink back into the pillow, his jaw tightening. A tear—thin and colorless—leaked from the corner of his eye, carving a path through the grime and medicinal herbs on his face. He looked broken, not by the physical wounds that had nearly claimed him, but by the absence of the one person he had clearly been looking for.
"I..." Elian started, his voice barely a breath. "I thought... he would have..."
"He wouldn’t," Soren said, his voice hard, lacking its usual professional detachment. He smoothed Elian’s hair back, his touch lingering far longer than necessary. "He didn’t come, Elian. He stayed in his study, buried in work, while you were on the edge of the grave. You need to accept that his heart isn’t capable of what you want from it."
Elian closed his eyes, his breathing growing shallow again as the weight of the realization crushed the little strength he had managed to muster. "He doesn’t care," he whispered, a final, defeated admission.
Soren leaned in, his expression softening into something intensely possessive. He reached for a bottle of healing oil on the tray, his fingers brushing Elian’s cheek.
"Stop looking for him. He’s a Valemont, Elian. They don’t know how to love anything but their own shadows. You are awake now, and that is all that matters. You’re going to be fine, because I am going to make sure you are."
Elian didn’t answer. He just lay there, staring at the ceiling, looking like a man who had survived a battle only to realize he had lost the war. Outside the room, the night was dark and silent, and miles away, a carriage was already being prepped for a departure that would leave Elian completely alone in the infirmary, with only Soren to watch over his recovery.
The door creaked open, the sound cutting through the thick, suffocating air of the infirmary. Mrs. Morel stepped in, her posture rigid, her face a mask of grief and hardened resolve. She didn’t look at the medical supplies or the charts; her eyes went straight to her son, who lay broken and hollow-eyed against the pillows.
Soren, sensing the gravity of the shift, bowed his head slightly. He didn’t offer a polite word or a sterile medical update. Instead, he simply picked up his tray, his grey eyes lingering on Elian with a strange, protective intensity before he cast a final glance at the mother.
"I will be in the adjacent room," Soren said, his voice clipped but respectful. "He needs quiet, but he needs fluids. Press this cloth to him brow if the fever returns."
He stepped out, the heavy door clicking shut behind him, leaving them in the fragile sanctuary of the infirmary.
Mrs. Morel rushed to the bedside, falling to her knees beside the bed. She reached out, her fingers hovering inches from Elian’s face, terrified that if she touched him, he might shatter into a thousand pieces.
"Elian," she whispered, a choked sound halfway between a sob and a prayer.
Elian turned his head slowly, his cloudy blue eyes focusing on his mother’s tear-streaked face. A weak, broken smile tugged at his cracked lips. "Mother..."
She finally touched him then—her trembling hand cupping his hollow cheek, thumb brushing away the tear that had escaped earlier. Fresh sobs wracked her body as she pressed her forehead against the edge of the mattress, clutching his hand like a lifeline.
"You’re alive," she breathed. "My boy... you came back to me. After everything that monster put you through."
Elian swallowed painfully, his voice a fragile rasp. "I’m here... I’m okay."
But Mrs. Morel’s expression hardened, grief twisting into something sharper, darker. She lifted her head, eyes blazing with a mother’s fury even as tears continued to fall.
"No. You are not okay," she hissed, voice low but trembling with rage. "Look at you—skin and bones, broken in this cursed place because of him. He made us suffer so much, Elian. Your father burned because of that devil. I rotted in his dungeons. And you... my sweet boy, you nearly died because of his obsession, his cruelty."
She squeezed his hand tighter, leaning closer, her voice dropping to a fierce whisper.
"Kill him, Elian. You must kill the Duke."
Elian’s breath hitched, eyes widening slightly despite his exhaustion. "Mother..."
"He doesn’t deserve to breathe the same air as you," she continued, the words pouring out like poison she could no longer contain. "He has taken everything from us—our home, our dignity, our lives. He plays with you like a toy, uses you, then discards you when it suits him. I saw the way he looked at you before... that hunger. It is not love, it is possession. He will destroy you completely if you let him."
Her free hand moved to Elian’s chest, pressing over his heart as if she could strengthen it through sheer will. "You have the power. Your gift... use it. Find his weakness. Drive a blade through his black heart while he sleeps. End this nightmare. Avenge your father. Free us both."
Elian stared at her, chest aching with a storm of conflicting emotions. The memories of the cabin flooded back unbidden—Lucien’s gentle hands, his soft whispers, the way he had held him like something precious during the storm. The slow lovemaking. The raw need. The "just us."
Yet here was his mother, the woman who had suffered most, begging for the death of the man who had both ruined and awakened something dangerous inside him.
"I... I can’t," Elian whispered hoarsely, tears slipping down his temples. His voice cracked. "Not yet."
Mrs. Morel’s face crumpled with fresh pain, but her eyes remained fierce. "He has poisoned your mind. That devil has made you doubt. Remember who you are, my son. Remember what he has taken. Kill Lucien Stonewall... before he kills whatever is left of you."
The infirmary fell into heavy silence, broken only by the distant crackle of a hearth and the pounding of Elian’s conflicted heart. Outside, the night deepened, while miles away Lucien remained unaware that the one he obsessed over had finally woken—and that the woman who hated him most was now arming her son with deadly purpose.
Rowan arrived early the next morning, just as the first weak rays of sunlight filtered through the narrow infirmary windows. The air still carried the sharp scent of medicinal herbs and stale blood. Soren had stepped out briefly to fetch fresh supplies, leaving Elian alone with his thoughts and the heavy weight of his mother’s words echoing in his skull.
*Kill him.*
The door opened softly. Rowan stepped in, his usual easy smile faltering the moment his eyes landed on Elian. The nobleman looked impeccably dressed in a deep green tunic, but his face was etched with genuine worry. He carried a small basket of fresh fruits and a flask of what smelled like spiced broth.
"Elian," Rowan breathed, crossing the room in quick strides and dropping into the chair beside the bed. "Gods, you’re awake. I came as soon as Soren sent word last night."
Elian managed a weak nod, his body still aching from the long coma and the violent fever that had nearly claimed him. He looked frail—cheeks hollow, lips pale, dark circles under his striking blue eyes. "Rowan... you don’t have to care–"
"Nonsense." Rowan reached out, hesitating only a moment before gently taking Elian’s hand. His touch was warm, careful, nothing like Lucien’s possessive grip.
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