She found him curled in the firelight like a forgotten relic—cloak dragged across cold stone, sword in hand, as if guarding a dream. And he was only three.
It had been nearly a month since the incident.
Since Arion saw men die like flies—bright eyes dimming mid-sentence, lives ending with the casual cruelty of falling leaves. Only then did he understand: this world could offer wonders, yes. But it could also unravel into horrors that had no name.
Now he lay alone in the west wing library, surrounded by military scrolls and ancient treatises—texts far beyond a child's reach or reason. The fire flickered against maps of old wars and doctrines of strategy, casting shadows across his sleeping face. His features, drawn tight in slumber, looked older than his years. Not a child. Not truly.
Lady Ariana stood at the threshold, unmoving.
She had come searching—half in worry, half in ritual. He disappeared more often now. Not out of mischief, but purpose. Grim purpose. The kind that made her heart ache in places she no longer dared examine.
Her eyes found the child he once was: the boy who once chased butterflies in the orchard and sang lullabies to his shadow. Now buried beneath scrolls of siegecraft and theories on sacrifice. His cloak had slipped from one shoulder, revealing a smear of ink across his collarbone. He had been studying. Or trying to.
And the sword in his hand—blunt wood, yet gripped as if it might save him.
She stepped inside, careful not to wake him. Not yet.
She knelt beside him and studied his face in the firelight. Pale. Worn. As though sleep itself had become another battlefield. Her fingers hovered over his brow but didn't touch. Not yet. Not while the illusion of peace still lingered.
"You should be dreaming of clouds," she whispered. "Not of blood."
But she had seen the change begin. Not just after the feast—though that night had split the world clean in two—but slowly, quietly. In the way he no longer blinked at pain. In how he listened more than he spoke. In the way he asked questions meant for old men, not children.
She touched his hand. He didn't stir.
Something inside her broke.
"I would trade anything, everything," she murmured, voice catching, "if it meant you could be small a little longer."
A sound escaped her then. Not quite a sob. Not yet.
But grief had long fingers. It reached down her throat and sat heavy in her chest, wrapped in the shape of a mother who'd made too many bargains with gods she no longer trusted.
Arion stirred.
His hand twitched, fingers brushing her wrist. His eyes opened slowly, heavy with half-dreams. And for one fragile second, the illusion returned.
"Mother?"
She straightened. Composed herself.
"You shouldn't be sleeping on stone," she said gently, brushing back his hair. "It's cold."
"I dreamed the sky cracked again," he said.
The words were quiet. Uneven.
Her hands froze.
He didn't seem to notice. Or perhaps he did and chose silence, as he often did these days.
"I wasn't scared," he added, but didn't meet her eyes. "Just… watching."
She wanted to lie. To tell him the sky wouldn't break again. That the world was safe now.
But she'd made that mistake once.
Instead, she rose slowly, gathered the scrolls with trembling hands, and tucked them under one arm.
"Come," she said. "Let's get you to bed."
He stood, sleep-heavy and small once more. But as he reached for her hand, she noticed how calloused his palms had grown. Tiny blisters along his fingers. From training. From holding on too tightly to things no child should carry.
They walked in silence.
Halfway down the corridor, his voice broke through the hush.
"You don't have to be afraid."
Ariana paused.
"I'm not," she said, too quickly.
But the lie clung to her tongue like ash.
He looked up at her then—not as a boy, not entirely. But as someone who saw more than he should. Too much.
And for the first time, she wondered:Was he still hers?Or had the gods taken him the moment they answered her prayer?