Chapter Text
Chapter 1: A King’s Curse — Echoes of Fate
Content Warning: This chapter contains a brief non-consensual attempt; nothing is fully acted upon, but please read with caution.
— Wayar—
Wayar rode through fire as if born from it.
The screams echoed through stone walls. Fire devoured rooftops. Blood soaked silk carpets. His men—trained, armored, disciplined—moved like a tidal wave. They weren’t bandits. They were soldiers forged in hell. Even the nobles most elite guards fell within minutes. No names worth remembering. Only targets to erase.
Wayar rode at the front, on horseback, clad in black armor that swallowed light. Dark hair half-tied, strands whipping in the wind, framed a face too sharp for mercy. His sleepy eyes, heavy and unreadable. Sword in hand, he slashed through skin and bone.
Wayar’s horse moved steadily through the cracked streets, the acrid scent of blood and burning wood thick in the air. Around them, the distant clash of steel and cries of the dying echoed—a brutal symphony of war.
Archen’s horse fell into step beside him. “My King, Vijaya’s army is finished. Their King shut himself away like a frightened rat.”
Wayar brushed ash from his armor, eyes scanning the horizon. “Good. We’ll deal with that pest tomorrow. Let the men breathe tonight.”
Wayar touched his right arm, noticing blood. “How’d I get this?”
Archen smirked. “Don’t remember?”
“Not a clue.”
“Well, aren’t you the lucky one? Feeling nothing at all?” Archen teased.
“Lucky? More like cursed,” Wayar muttered.
A sudden chill brushed over Wayar’s spine, sharp and unwelcome. His grip on the reins tightened, but his fingers twitched uncontrollably for a moment. A tug he didn’t recognize. He blinked, trying to will it away.
Wayar glanced at Archen, but his words caught somewhere between thought and breath.
“How’s Naravit and Phuwin holding up? Heard anything from the other kingdoms?”
Archen grinned. “Naravit’s got Sukhothai locked down like a fortress, barking orders louder than a wild dog. Phuwin’s busy playing court whisperer in Ayutthaya—breaking up ministerial fights before anyone ends up with a dagger in their back.”
Wayar’s dark eyes flickered with a hint of amusement beneath his half-tied hair. “Sounds like they’re holding the fort.”
Archen chuckled. “The emperor’s not thrilled, of course. Heard whispers—he’s not fond of us rewriting the map under his nose.”
Wayar’s eyes narrowed, a slow, sharp smile tugging at his lips.
“Let him stew in his fury. Maps are meant to be redrawn.”
As Wayar neared the general’s estate—an opulent tower of marble and gold tucked behind bloodied iron gates—something shifted.
His vision blurred.
The sharp clang of steel around him dulled to a hum, distant and muffled. His fingers twitched on the reins as a sudden chill crept up his spine.
“My king?” Archen’s voice cut through the haze, sharp with worry.
Wayar shook his head, trying to clear the fog, but the pain flared again—this time hotter, sharper. His knees wobbled beneath him.
Then fell.
Wayar’s body hit the cold stone courtyard with a harsh crack that swallowed the sounds of battle for a moment. His horse reared in panic, hooves thrashing wildly before breaking free and galloping into the chaos. Dust and blood spiraled up around him, a swirling storm of war.
The clash of steel and cries of men faded to a dull roar, but here, the world stilled.
Archen was already by his side, voice urgent. “Wayar! Hold on!”
Wayar’s hands scraped the rough ground as he struggled to catch his breath. His chest tightened, ribs burning like they were on fire, but there was something deeper—an unfamiliar weight crushing his lungs.
“I… can’t… breathe,” he gasped, voice barely a whisper.
His skin prickled with cold, sweat mixing with the blood on his face. His heart hammered as if trying to break free.
Archen’s fingers moved swiftly, peeling back the cracked black armor, revealing Wayar’s bare chest where the soul stone rested—a jagged, bone-like shard blackened by time.
A faint, pulsing light glowed from the stone, pale but persistent, like a heartbeat in the darkness.
Archen’s eyes widened. “Your stone…”
Wayar’s voice was low, fierce. “This isn’t possible.”
Before he could push himself up, another wave crashed through him—not pain from flesh, but something else. Terror, grief, loneliness—an ache that clawed at his soul, flooding his senses.
His head spun; dizziness threatened to swallow him whole.
There were no wounds to explain this agony, yet inside, he was bleeding out.
Something—someone—was reaching out through the stone.
Not with words.
Not with touch.
But with a presence that shattered his defenses.
With a roar born from primal fury, Wayar bellowed, “STOP!”
His voice cracked like thunder, commanding silence.
The soldiers halted mid-strike, blades dripping with blood frozen in the air.
Fear wove through their ranks—a fear never before heard in their king’s tone.
Archen’s breath hitched. “My King…”
Wayar forced himself up onto one knee, voice steady but trembling. “Bring everyone out. Every servant, every noble, every child. No one moves without my order.”
The eerie glow of the soul stone pulsed beneath his chestplate, casting long shadows.
Alone amidst the burning city, bloodied and trembling…
Wayar stood.
For the first time in his life…
He felt everything.
Wayar staggered, chest burning like wildfire, before finally sinking to his knees. His vision blurred, breaths ragged and shallow. The weight inside him twisted and clenched like a living thing—cold, sharp, and impossible to ignore.
Natachai and the medics hurried over, steadying him gently.
“My King, you need to rest,” Natachai said firmly, guiding Wayar toward the estate’s inner chambers.
Wayar barely nodded, too drained to argue. The bitter taste of something toxic lingered on his tongue. He needed answers. Fast.
Archen had gathered the estate’s survivors. He brought them out one by one, checking their soul stones.
Some glowed. Others stayed dull.
None matched.
Wayar examined them all. His soul stone — cracked and bone-like — barely glowed at all. Maybe he’d imagined it. Maybe this wasn’t real.
Natachai crossed his arms as Wayar staggered slightly.
“My King?” he asked.
“I think I’ve been poisoned,” Wayar muttered. “Something’s wrong.”
Natachai stepped forward and unbuttoned his coat. The soul stone — that ugly, rust-colored shard — pulsed softly in his chest.
He raised an eyebrow.
“Heaven has its own ways of knotting destinies,” he said quietly.
Wayar said nothing. His face was pale. Eyes distant.
Natachai glanced at him — then grinned.
“Well shit,” he’d muttered, arms crossed. “Looks like you’re not a ghost after all.”
Wayar had scowled. “This isn’t a joke.”
“No, it’s worse,” Natachai said.
Then he smirked. “Guess you won’t be stomping through kingdoms like a lone wolf anymore. Time to start writing love poetry and wearing flower crowns.”
Wayar gave him a look that promised murder.
Natachai raised both hands. “Hey, I don’t make the rules. Fate does.”
Only Natachai, Joong, Pond, and Phuwin could joke like that. They’d all grown up in the gutter together. Earned their freedom together. Bled for it.
They were the only ones who remembered him before the crown.
Then: a voice.
“Help! Help, please! My brother — please—!”
Natachai turned. A little girl stood in the courtyard, tears pouring down her cheeks. Her clothes were ragged. Her feet bloody. Her hair, braided neatly by someone who still cared.
One of the guards drew his sword.
Too close. All unknowns were threats.
“Stop!” Natachai barked, running forward.
He knelt, lifting her gently into his arms.
“She’s a child. For god’s sake.”
“Shhh… no one will hurt you now,” he whispered, wiping her tears. “We’ll find your brother, alright? Maybe he’s in the yard, and you just missed him.”
But the girl shook her head violently.
“No! A creepy man in black clothes dragged him to a room near the kitchen! He hit him! He’s bleeding! He’s gonna cough blood and leave like Mama—!”
She broke into sobs.
Wayar stood instantly.
“I ordered you to bring everyone!” he roared.
The guards dropped to their knees. Even Natachai didn’t speak.
“I swear, Your Majesty—” one stammered.
“Follow me,” Wayar snapped.
— Gawin —
Gawin woke early that morning, the pale light of dawn spilling across the cracked shutters.
Talla was already awake, perched at the small wooden table with her knees tucked up, gnawing at a piece of grilled fish.
“Did you like the book I read you yesterday?” Gawin asked, settling across from her.
“Talla loves the books,” she said between bites, “but not the food.”
He smiled faintly, breaking off a piece for himself. Cold rice and leftover fish—nothing fancy, but warm enough to start the day if you ignored the hunger still gnawing after.
“Alright then,” he said, brushing a stray hair from her face, “tell me what you do want to eat. Your big brother will work until his bones ache to buy it for you.”
Talla chewed slowly, her eyes darting away. “I won’t tell you.”
He set his spoon down. “And why not?”
“Because if you ask the masters for more, they’ll hit your back.” She said it innocently, like she was reciting the weather.
Gawin’s chest tightened. “That’s not your worry.”
She swallowed, then looked at him with all the fierce seriousness of a child too used to cruelty. “When I grow up, I’ll protect you from them.”
The promise hit deeper than any lash. His throat clenched, and for a moment, he had to turn away—not because he doubted her, but because the ache inside was too sharp.
Later, they split at the door. Talla vanished into the kitchen’s chaos—women bustling and shouting, steam rising like a thin veil. Gawin stepped toward the stables. The smell of hay and dirt was a strange kind of comfort, rough and honest against the sting of his aching arms from scrubbing and brushing horses until his skin burned.
The sun climbed, baking sweat into the cracked earth beneath his nails. He wasn’t one of the noble children—wrapped in silks and laughter, their lives a soft glow he’d never touch. He was the shadow they whispered about—the bastard born of a general’s shame, with a mother who died coughing blood into his small, trembling hands.
The bitter taste of iron still lingered in his mouth whenever he remembered her last breath—the silence after the cough, the coldness settling like a stone on his chest.
Beatings came in the dark, when no one was watching. Blame fell like rain for crimes he never committed.
His father, Once, he sent coin and care. Once, he remembered them. Now, nothing but silence. Rumors came instead—of a general who had gone mad, forgotten all but fire and conquest. Whether he still ruled them, no one could say.
By afternoon, dirt-caked and exhausted, he trudged toward the well, bucket swinging heavy at his side.
And that’s when he saw it.
Smoke—thick, black pillars clawing skyward, suffocating the dawn.
Then the screams—sharp, raw, ripping through the air like shattered glass.
Everywhere.
His chest seized tight. No need to ask. He knew.
The war was here.
They’d heard whispers for months—kingdom after kingdom falling like dominos. The shadow army, led by Wayar—the Dark Crown—ripped through lands with ruthless precision.
Now it was their turn.
His mind went numb. One thought burned fierce:
Talla.
“Gawin, what the hell are you doing?!” Est hissed, a fellow slave clutching a basket.
“Talla,” Gawin growled, dropping his load.
“Don’t you hear the screams? You’ll be dead before you get close!” Est grabbed his arm.
“I heard their king doesn’t harm slaves who don’t fight. We hide, surrender later,” korapat pleaded, eyes darting nervously.
“I’m not leaving her behind.”
He tore toward the stables, heart pounding like a war drum, chest burning with every breath.
Snatching up a rusted sword and a dull kitchen knife, he ignored the polished shields and bows on the walls. No time.
Then—he saw them.
Two soldiers, hauling two boys near Talla’s age, ripping at their clothes and laughing like monsters.
“Hey! You!” Gawin shouted, voice cracking but fierce.
The soldiers spun—caught off guard.
Without thinking, Gawin grabbed a handful of dirt, flung it into their faces.
They cursed, blinded—
“Fucking cowards, going after kids.” Two swift swings later, both were down.
Blood splattered across Gawin’s arms and chest. He gasped for air, heart hammering.
“Lego! Did you see Talla? Where are your parents?” He knelt, voice gentle but urgent.
One boy choked back tears. “Talla’s in the kitchen… Shelling nuts… for the masters.”
“Our mama and papa…” the other sobbed, pointing at the soldiers he’d just killed.
“Alright. Big brother’s got you.” Gawin lifted them carefully. “Go hide at the stables. Uncle Est and korapat will protect you.”
The boys nodded, fear etched deep, and fled toward safety.
Gawin ran.
But the estate yard stopped him cold.
Bodies.
His siblings—sprawled, silk robes soaked crimson, throats slit like cattle.
Servants—beheaded, limbs torn.
Children frozen in terror, eyes wide as nightmares.
The cobblestones painted red.
Death’s stench thick in the air.
He knew these faces. Hated some. Loved others.
None deserved this.
Tears stung—not fear, but the brutal weight of cruelty.
He stormed into the kitchen, heart hammering, and froze at the sight of Talla trembling beneath the table, clinging to an older woman.
Before he could kneel, she bolted from her hiding spot, running straight into his arms. “Big brother! I’m… I’m scared!” she cried, burying her face against his chest.
Gawin’s arms wrapped around her tightly, holding her as if he could shield her from every danger in the world. “Shh… I know, I know,” he murmured, voice low and steady. “It’s okay. You’re safe now. I’ve got you. I promise, I won’t let anything happen to you.”
Her small body shook, but the warmth of his embrace was a lifeline. Gawin pressed his cheek to the top of her head, inhaling the scent of her hair, grounding himself even as the chaos of the palace pressed in.
“Stay here, Talla,” he whispered firmly, lifting his head to meet her wide, terrified eyes. “No matter what happens, you stay. Don’t move. Don’t make a sound. Do you understand?”
She nodded, clutching him tighter. “I understand… Big brother, I promise.”
Gawin gave her a soft squeeze, holding her a moment longer before setting her down gently.
Then—footsteps. Heavy. Relentless. Soldiers. Gawin’s fingers trembled around his sword. He had always imagined dying beneath the stars, or at least with a sliver of dignity. Not like this. Starving. Bleeding. Alone.
The door burst open. He threw boiling oil at the first man’s face. He screamed, clutching his head.
Another soldier charged. Gawin swung wildly, but everything felt… distant.
His veins burned, his chest constricted, and a foreign, suffocating presence slammed into him. Agony unlike anything he had ever known tore through his bones. He collapsed to his knees, gasping, vision swimming. It wasn’t his pain—it was something else. A torrent of raw emotion, fury, and sorrow that clawed at him from the inside.
For a heartbeat, he was paralyzed, swallowed by the intensity. He could feel a tether pulling, dragging him somewhere he couldn’t name. The world tilted, edges shimmering with heat and shadow.
“Get back!” he shouted, but his swings faltered, leaving gaps. The soldier seized the moment, driving a blade into Gawin’s side. Pain exploded, sharp and real, yanking him back.
Gawin gasped, gritted his teeth, and fought again—desperate, ragged, bleeding, muscles screaming. His vision swam, dizziness from the bond still gnawed at him, but he struck with everything he had.
A final shove pinned him against the floor. Exhausted, wounded, heart hammering, he froze as steel hovered over his throat.
Then—
A voice. Rough. Commanding.
“Stop.”
Then louder, sharper—
“EVERYONE STOP! Don’t touch or kill anyone in this house!”
The blade froze in place.
Before Gawin could react, the soldier above him removed his helmet—tall, strong, with thick brows and eyes burning with annoyance.
One of the subordinates rushed in, breathless. “A message—from the king.”
The man frowned, clearly irritated.
Then, out of nowhere, he grabbed Gawin by the collar.
“I get to choose my trophies,” he hissed. “The king chooses his muse—so do I.”
Gawin’s eyes widened, confusion mixing with terror. “Muse?”
The soldier began dragging him across the bloodied floor.
While the others argued and Podd assessed the chaos, a small figure slipped silently through the back door. She darted past the soldiers, low to the ground, clutching her skirts, heart pounding.
Gawin’s gaze caught her for a fleeting moment. Relief and guilt collided—she was safe, for now, but out of reach. His chest tightened.
“Podd, are you insane?!” another soldier shouted. “The king said bring everyone to him—alive!”
Without a word, Podd threw a knife straight into the man’s eye. The body dropped.
Podd turned to the rest of them, calm as still water. “You’re all welcome to share your opinions.”
Silence. No one spoke.
Gawin’s vision lingered on the shadows where Talla had vanished, heart aching at the thought of her running alone, and then Podd shoved him into a storage room, throwing him to the floor, climbing on top.
“You’ll do just fine,” Podd muttered, his weight pressing down on Gawin.
Before Gawin could move, Podd’s hands were on him—grabbing, pushing, fingers brushing dangerously over his chest, tracing the line of his ribs. He forced Gawin’s legs apart, leaning closer, teeth grazing at the soft skin of his neck.
“S--Stop... Stay away from me!” Gawin spat, trembling but fierce, trying to wrench himself free.
Podd’s lips curled into a grin, sharp as a knife. “Do you think anyone will hear you scream?” he whispered, his breath hot on Gawin’s neck. “No one will ever find you here.”
Gawin’s stomach lurched. Panic and fury collided, hammering through his veins. He shoved with all his might, clawing at Podd’s arms. “Get off! Get—off—me!” His voice cracked but refused to break.
Podd’s grin widened, sharp and terrifying. “Such fire,” he hissed. “I like that. Makes the ending more… enjoyable.”
Every nerve in Gawin’s body screamed. His hands found anything, scraping at leather, chain, anything to push the man back. His vision blurred with sweat and tears.
He twisted violently, toppling Podd’s chest. “I’ll make you regret this!” Gawin snarled, every muscle trembling with anger. In one smooth, desperate motion, he drew the hidden blade from his boot and drove it hard into Podd’s side.
Podd hissed, sharp and furious. He struck Gawin’s stomach with a punch that knocked the air from him. Once. Twice. Blood rushed into Gawin’s throat, choking him. He coughed, gagged.
“Fucking bastard! You dare stab me?” Podd roared, swinging his fists again, rain of blows hammering into Gawin’s ribs and gut.
Gawin couldn’t breathe. Pain wrapped tight around his chest like chains. His vision blurred; eyes barely cracked open through the swelling.
Then—the door flew off its hinges with a deafening crash.
The room seemed to hold its breath. Dust hung heavy in the stale air. Even the distant screams outside faded into silence.
Someone stood in the doorway.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Black armor stained with fresh blood. His hair was tied half-up in a warrior’s knot, the rest falling in waves over his shoulders. His skin was honey-toned, his expression unreadable.
But his eyes—dark, sleepy, cold—carried a weight that pressed down like a stone.
For a long heartbeat, no one moved or spoke.
Then—
“What is this?”
The room stilled. Even Podd froze.
Wayar’s gaze fixed on Podd.
“Did I give you permission to touch anyone?”
“I—he—he had a weapon!”
Podd dropped to his knees instantly.
“M-My King! This lowly servant wasn’t doing anything wrong—I swear! I just wanted a taste!” He pressed his forehead to the blood-soaked floor. “Mercy, my King! Spare my life—”
Wayar laughed—not kindly, not amused. A cold, sharp sound.
“Mercy?” He tilted his head. “You dare beg for mercy when you defied my orders?”
Podd trembled.
Wayar stepped past him, eyes narrowing on the boy crumpled on the ground—bloodied, gasping, growling like a cornered animal.
He knelt beside Gawin.
The burning ache flared again in his chest—raw, fierce, impossible to ignore.
And then—a flash of silver.
Gawin raised the bloody knife, hand shaking.
“Stay the fuck away from me,” he rasped.
“Touch me... and I’ll gut you like a fucking pig.”
His voice cracked, but his eyes did not waver.
Wayar’s expression did not change.
He stepped closer.
Gawin pressed the knife against Wayar’s armor—right between two plates.
“Stay back,” he warned. “I swear—”
A sudden flicker coursed through Gawin’s chest—a sharp tug, cold and demanding, as if invisible chains tightened for a brief moment.
His vision blurred again. He blinked through the haze.
“You’re the one who did this,” he rasped. “You brought hell to my home.”
“I brought justice,” Wayar answered.
Gawin let out a bitter laugh that turned into a harsh cough, then raised his head.
Their eyes met.
Everything stopped.
The screaming. The flames. The soldiers.
Gone.
Only the two of them remained in the silence—and something ancient moved between them.
A strange, aching stillness.
A sense of safety.
Like two men lost in the desert who suddenly found water.
Like they’d known each other across a thousand lifetimes.
Gawin didn’t understand what was happening.
He dropped the blade.
“Talla,” he whispered. “My sister… please. Don’t hurt her.”
“She’s already safe,” Wayar answered, voice softer now.
A faint smile tugged at Gawin’s bruised lips. He closed his eyes.
If she was safe, that was enough.
He expected death.
But the blade never came.
Instead, strong arms lifted him off the ground.
He was cradled against a broad chest, warmth radiating through layers of fabric and armor.
Instinctively—like a child falling—he reached up and gripped Wayar’s robe with trembling fingers.
“Earth,” Wayar barked, his voice sharp again.
“Yes, my king,” Earth replied, dropping to one knee.
“Podd and his entire unit are to be skinned and executed at dawn. Publicly. Before we enter the king’s castle.”
He paused, then added coldly, “A nation may survive its fools, and even the ambitious. But it cannot survive treason from within.”
Wayar walked out carrying Gawin.
Podd and his followers broke down screaming.
Earth gave the order.
Soldiers dragged them off to await their execution.
No one showed pity.
In this army, there were few rules.
Wayar gave them gold, women, men—anything they asked for.
But if they betrayed him? If they touched what was forbidden?
They died.
— Wayar—
That night, Wayar and his closest generals stayed in the estate.
He brought Gawin straight to Natachai — the polymath of the kingdom. A man who knew everything, from battlefield tactics to medicine to the kingdom’s finances.
Natachai wore a single garment: a long robe of white silk. His long brown hair was braided and tossed over one shoulder. His eyes were dark, his skin pale. He was so beautiful, even women whispered envy behind his back.
“Put him on the bed,” Natachai ordered. A team of medics readied themselves.
Wayar laid Gawin down carefully.
If the boy died—so did they all.
The air was thick with the metallic scent of blood, bitter medicine, and the faint, uneasy warmth from torches flickering against cold stone walls.
Wayar sank into a corner, a servant pressing a small cup of bitter-smelling liquid into his hand.
“I’m fine. No need,” Wayar waved it off, but his fingers trembled ever so slightly.
“Drink it,” Natachai said calmly. “It’ll dull the pain.”
Natachai added, eyes sharp with that scholar’s focus of his.
“It’s a new compound I developed for bond-induced backlash. The closer your stones pull toward each other, the more your nerves misfire. This should settle the worst of it.”
Wayar understood. It wasn’t his pain that haunted him—it was his.
He swallowed it in one harsh gulp, then poured himself wine, the sharp burn grounding him.
Natachai did the same for Gawin. “Bite this,” he said, slipping a white cloth between the boy’s teeth.
Then the stitches began.
“AHHHHH—AHHGHGH!” Gawin’s screams shredded the silence like a blade. Whimpers and gasps filled the room like smoke curling around stone. Sweat slicked his temples, blood dripped steadily onto the floor.
Wayar gripped the table edge, every cry stabbing at him, raw and foreign. Pain—his pain—washed over him like a flood, colder and sharper than anything he’d known. A dark pulse stirring beneath his skin, impossible to ignore.
The man lying across from him was like an open wound.
Suddenly, the screams stopped.
“Is he dead?” Wayar’s voice was rough, almost brittle.
“When he dies, you’ll be the first to know,” Natachai teased, but his eyes betrayed a fierce hope. “He’ll survive. Weak body—malnourishment, overwork—but stronger than he looks.”
They cleaned the wounds, changed the shredded clothes, pressed cold cloths to his fevered skin.
When Gawin stabilized, Natachai dismissed the medics.
“Where’s the girl?” Wayar asked, voice low, almost reluctant.
“Talla?” Natachai smiled softly. “She’s playing with Archen and the twins. They bonded instantly.”
Wayar nodded, gaze drifting toward the doorway where faint laughter echoed.
Something softened in his eyes — but only for a breath.
“Kids… they adapt fast,” he murmured.
Natachai tilted his head, sensing the shift.
Wayar’s voice fell even lower, almost swallowed by the quiet.
“When I was born, they said I was dead,” he added, as if the memory had slipped out on its own.
“Soulless. Even my stone looked broken.”
Natachai’s eyes darkened with meaning. “Heaven has its ways. Naravit and Phuwin’s stones didn’t shine at first, either—not until… that incident.”
“Having a soulmate is a blessing, Wayar,” Natachai promised, voice firm but gentle.
Wayar’s laugh was bitter, hollow. “A blessing? Maybe. Or maybe it’s a cruel joke fate plays on broken souls.”
“Cracks let the light in,” Natachai said softly.
“You of all people should know that. You crawled out of darkness and rebuilt kingdoms.”
Wayar didn’t answer.
But something flickered across his face — a shadow shifting, a wall trembling — before he forced his expression flat again.
Natachai’s gaze softened.
“This man’s stone didn’t glow wrong, Wayar. It glowed for you. That’s not a joke. That’s the bond written above us.”
After a few drinks, Natachai placed a steady hand on his shoulder.
No bow.
No title.
Just a friend reminding a king he was still human.
Then he left to find his husband and their children, laughter echoing behind him — a sound Wayar watched like a man staring at a life he wasn’t sure he deserved.
Wayar shed his armor with slow precision.
He walked back to Gawin’s side, eyes tracing the bruises, the split lip, the long lashes resting on pale cheeks.
Even bloodied… he looked beautiful.
Wayar pressed the hilt of his sword to his own shoulder, then lowered himself to sit on the floor beside the bed. Back against the cold wall.
He didn’t know why.
But he had to stay close.
To guard the boy.
To guard himself.
He’d always slept this way.
Wide beds meant nothing to a man raised without space.
A faint chill skittered down his spine—a whispered promise, or a warning—from something unseen, something binding them tighter than blood.
Wayar closed his eyes, the weight of that cold shadow settling over them both.