Alaric’s jaw tightened, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous vibration. "Escaped?"

He looked toward Sir Kaelen, who immediately straightened his posture. The knight looked as though he had aged ten years in a single night, trapped between a runaway boy and a Duke who looked ready to level the city.

Castor’s gaze shifted toward Alaric. The boy’s eyes traveled over the man’s towering frame, his black attire, and the deep, dark tone of his skin that matched Lucius’s so perfectly. So this is Lucius’s father, Castor thought. He watched the way Alaric held Julian—not like a guard holding a prisoner, but like a man holding his entire world. A flicker of realization crossed Castor’s face, and his grin widened.

"I was worried about Julian," Castor chirped, taking a bold step closer. "The whole Spire is acting like the sky is falling. I had to see for myself."

Alaric didn’t let him get within arm’s reach. With a subtle, fluid movement, he evaded the boy’s approach and walked directly to the bed. He didn’t need an introduction to know who this was. In Julian’s letters, there had been constant mentions of a chestnut-haired boy who grinned too much and hated the Church’s ways.

Alaric had read about him so often he’d grown weary of the name—and a silent, sharp jealousy had taken root. To him, Castor was just another male making his Julian smile while he was miles away.

"You must be Castor," Alaric said, his back still turned as he carefully lowered Julian onto the soft silks.

Castor blinked, his cheeky expression faltering into genuine surprise. "Ah? You’ve heard of me? Am I that popular?"

"Popular isn’t the word I would use," Alaric growled. He adjusted the furs around Julian with a tenderness that contradicted the steel in his voice.

Julian let out a faint, tired huff that might have been a laugh if he had the energy. He watched the two of them through half-lidded eyes—the silent, protective fury of the North meeting the chaotic energy of the Holy Empire’s Castor.

"He’s... a friend, Lucien," Julian whispered, his hand weakly catching Alaric’s sleeve. "A good one. Don’t frighten him too much."

Alaric’s hand covered Julian’s, his thumb tracing Julian’s knuckles.

"He is someone who broke out of a cell. I can only imagine what trouble he caused for him to have been locked up," Alaric said, his voice a low rumble of disapproval.

Julian shook his head weakly against the pillow, his eyes half-closed. "It’s not like that. He got locked up because he was throwing a riot about the Church taking me to the front lines. Like I said, he’s a good kid, and he means no harm."

Alaric’s brow furrowed, and he glanced back at the boy. Castor stood there with a soot-stained face and a defiant, easy-going slouch that suggested he wasn’t afraid of anything—not even a High Duke of the North.

Eighteen, right? Alaric thought, his eyes narrowing as he measured the boy’s height and the sharp, observant look in his gaze.

In the Viremount Empire, eighteen was the age at which a man led a vanguard or took a wife. This wasn’t a ’child’ as Julian called him; he was an adult. And looking at the way Castor’s eyes remained fixed on Julian—full of a protective, lingering worry—Alaric felt a fresh surge of that cold, possessive jealousy. There was no way of knowing what this ’child’ was truly thinking, or what kind of devotion lay behind that cheeky grin.

"A riot," Alaric muttered, his hand tightening slightly on the bedsheet. "Is that what passes for ’good’ in this place? Starting fires because you’re upset?"

"I didn’t start a fire!" Castor defended, though he didn’t move from his spot. "I just... rearranged some of the Church’s furniture. Loudly. And I’d do it again if they tried to ship him off to die at another pass."

Alaric didn’t respond to the boy. He turned his attention back to Julian, his expression softening as he saw the scholar’s breathing even out. He reached out, his dark hand looking stark against Julian’s pale skin as he tucked the blanket higher.

"Rest, Julian," Alaric whispered. "We can discuss the boy’s future when you aren’t swaying on your feet."

"It’s hot," Julian suddenly whispered, his band trembling. He was still drenched in cold sweat, making him uncomfortable, and the blanket was not doing any good.

He needed to get out of his soaked clothes and feel clean.

"I want to wash up, but I don’t have the strength, Lucien."

Alaric nodded, his expression turning serious. He glanced toward the others in the room.

"Everyone out," he commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument.

Castor didn’t want to, and he planted his feet firmly. He was just about to protest when Sir Kaelen moved towards him, placing a firm hand on the boy’s shoulder to lead him toward the door.

"Hey, get your hands off me. I barely made it out to see Julian. You can’t just kick me out already." He complained.

Sensing the tension, Lucius reached up and took Castor’s hand. Castor looked down at him and saw Lucius shake his head before guiding the older boy out so as not to disturb his father and his master. Castor was disgruntled, but he imagined that if even the son was going outside, he shouldn’t be there. Still, what were they going to do that they wanted him out anyway?

Lucius seemed to understand the gravity of the moment, as it was one he had experienced a lot of time, moving quietly toward the exit. He had never seen what his father and his master did behind closed doors, but he imagined they played a nice game because they were both happy afterwards. And sometimes, his master was tired from playing too much, so he slept in as well.

In any case, he wanted his master and his father to be happy, so everyone had to leave them alone to play their games.