Calen D'Arvis was finally back in his room.
He exhaled, letting the tension in his body relax.
Calen was born the youngest of three brothers in a rural barony ravaged by border wars. While his brothers died defending their land, Calen was taken in by the Myrvale family as a ward—a political gesture meant to preserve what remained of his lineage.
And by the age of 20, he had already risen to the role of knight captain of Myrvale. Only taking a little less than two years to climb to this rank, while it would have took most over a decade.
So when for the first time in his life, his sword had faltered in front of someone, it felt like being stabbed in the heart.
His stared at his palms, eye's trembling.
What the hell was that....
The faint memory of the boy's—no, the young master's—face flashed before him. The way those eyes had met his; uncertain, frightened, and yet strangely bright.
That was the first time he had met the famously reclusive young master of Myrvale.
He clenched his fists.
It hadn't been fear that stopped him. It wasn't mercy either. Something had simply… frozen him. The air around that boy had shifted, just for a moment, like heat shimmering off metal—beautiful and suffocating at once.
Calen drew a shaky breath and sank into the chair beside his desk.
He'd fought monsters. He'd stood face-to-face with men who could kill with a whisper. But nothing—nothing—had ever made his pulse stumble the way that boy's voice had.
A quiet knock echoed from the door.
"Sir Calen?"
He blinked, startled, and straightened his posture. "Enter."
A young squire peeked inside, bowing quickly. "You… called for the reports, sir?"
Calen nodded, regaining his composure with practiced ease. "Leave them there."
The boy hurriedly set a stack of papers on the desk and left, closing the door behind him. Silence returned—heavy and uncomfortably intimate.
Calen's gaze dropped to his reflection in the darkened window.
A soldier's face stared back. Hard lines, cold eyes, he looked 10 years more older than he was. Still, the kind of man who never faltered.
But tonight, his reflection looked uncertain, almost shaken.
He leaned back and muttered to himself, "Get a grip."
The words rang hollow.
Because even now, beneath the armour of reason and discipline, he could still feel it—that strange warmth lingering where his guard had broken.
He heaved another long sigh, then immersed himself in his reports, completely losing the track of time.
When he was finished, it was already well past midnight.
He stared out his window, into the darkness, still unable to shake off the thoughts about the young master of Myrvale.
Get a grip, that's your boss.
He shook his head, disappointed in himself for showing such a moment of weakness, even while being alone.
His life was one of hardships and power, there was no time to waste lingering on some unknown feeling.
He steeled his resolve, and then promptly headed to bed.
Only...
"Argh!!" He screamed into his pillow, throwing at across the room all the way to his study desk.
The stupid boy wouldn't leave his mind no matter how hard he tried!
Calen groaned, sitting up in bed, hair disheveled and half of his pillow now on the floor.
"Ridiculous…" he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. "Absolutely ridiculous."
He'd trained his mind to endure sleepless nights, pain, blood, and battle—yet somehow, this was what broke him?
A boy with soft eyes and a trembling voice.
He leaned back against the headboard, staring blankly at the ceiling. The flickering candle on his bedside table threw shifting shadows across the room, each movement catching his eye like an unwanted thought refusing to fade.
It wasn't attraction.
Of course not.
That would be absurd.
He was simply… confused, disoriented.
The strange aura that had rippled through the air when their eyes met—that had been magic, surely. A spell. A curse. Something unnatural.
Yes. That was the logical explanation.
Then why, he thought bitterly, did his heartbeat sound like this?
He let out another groan, pressing his hands against his face. "You're losing it, Calen."
He could still see it clearly—the way the boy had stumbled backward, startled and helpless, yet somehow luminous in that torchlight. The faint shine on his lips, the softness of his voice, the way it lingered in Calen's head even now.
"Damn it."
He grabbed the nearest object on his nightstand — a small leather-bound book — and hurled it across the room. It hit the wall with a dull thud and fell somewhere behind his chair.
Silence followed.
And in that silence, his thoughts whispered treacherously.
He looked frightened.
He looked… human.
When was the last time I saw someone look like that?
Calen buried his face in his hands again and laughed once, bitterly. "I'm cursed."
The words sounded half like a joke, half like a confession.
Eventually, exhaustion crept in. His body ached, his eyes burned, and his head was heavy with thoughts he didn't want to name. He blew out the candle, letting the room sink into darkness.
Sleep didn't come easily. And when it did, it brought no rest—only fragments of dreams.
***
The same night, painted utterly black by the lack of a moon, inside the vast Myrvale mansion. In a dimly room, its air thick with the scent of old parchment, the sound of a low chuckle could be heard.
Armand leaned back in his chair, staring at the glass orb that was in front of him, its insides swirling with thick white mist.
"Interesting..."