Dorian had already called his men. “Oi—stand guard. Don’t underestimate the corners of this city. I’m in the dining room if you need anything.” His order was short, firm—the voice of someone long practiced in leading soldiers. His followers saluted and melted into their duties.

  In the dining room, the scent of soup and hot bread greeted them. Plates were laid out, servants moved with trained efficiency. Thalion sat with wide eyes; he held his breath when the first dish was set before him—the smell of spices warm against his nose.

  While eating, Thalion whispered to Kaelus, his voice small and full of curiosity. “Why were there guards in the yard, at the gate, and on the road earlier? And… why does he call you Gate?”

  Kaelus glanced over, hand on his waist. “A General’s house is always guarded,” he answered softly, choosing words a child Thalion’s age could understand. “Not because we fear shadows, but because this place is like a current junction. Many eyes pass here. If it isn’t watched, a small current can turn into a storm.”

  Thalion nodded slowly, then pointed toward the iron gate visible through the window. “Then… why did the gate seem closed to ordinary people before?”

  Dorian smiled, then leaned in slightly, lowering his voice as if telling a bedtime—or pre-nightmare—story. “Because that gate has a story,” he said. “Before you were born, someone tried to enter without permission. Some say the spirit of the old gatekeeper still wanders its threshold.”

  Thalion’s eyes widened. “A spirit?”

  “Hm.” Dorian nodded slowly, intentionally letting the pause hang. “If a naughty child comes too late at night, they say that spirit will pull his leg.”

  Thalion reflexively pulled his legs up under the chair.

  Kaelus shot Dorian a sharp look. “Don’t scare him.”

  Dorian shrugged lightly. “A little respect for the gate never hurt anyone.” Then, returning to a calmer tone, he continued, “That nickname—Gate—came because one day we actually busted through a gate that should’ve been closed.”

  Thalion leaned forward. “Broke the gate? For what?”

  Dorian smiled, this time genuinely, no shadow behind it. “To see a princess from Brightwater.” He glanced at Kaelus, then back at Thalion. “And believe me—worth it.”

  “Princess from Brightwater?” Thalion frowned, then his eyes lit up as a memory suddenly fell into place. “I… I know a Lady from there. Lady Eveline.”

  Dorian chuckled softly. “You know her, then. Yes. Lady Eveline.”

  Thalion’s face filled with awe. “She’s so beautiful… She—she and Master Kaelus saved me.”

  Kaelus cleared his throat roughly. “Enough.” His tone was flat, but a blush of embarrassment did not hide completely. “Old stories. Not important.”

  Dorian raised both hands, surrendering. “Alright. We’ll stop the current here.”

  Soft footsteps interrupted from the doorway. Lady Adalyn entered with noble calm, her smile widening when she saw them. “Seems I arrived at the right time,” she said gently. “Old stories always find ears that are too young.” She signaled a servant. “Add more bread. And some wine.”

  Conversation quieted, but did not end. Around that table, in the daylight slipping through the tall window, unspoken words settled—like an undertow that had not yet decided which way to pull a ship.

  Thalion devoured the noble meal without hesitation. His hands moved fast, his eyes bright, as if afraid the world would snatch the food back if he paused for a moment. He squeezed the warm bread, drank the soup until the bowl was clean. Servants moved deftly around the table—replacing plates, adding small bowls, rearranging cutlery with a barely audible rhythm.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  Across the table, contrast was clear. Lady Adalyn ate with grace—her movements calm, measured, as if every bite were part of an unwritten etiquette. Her gaze dropped to Thalion from time to time, not judging but with warm, considered attention.

  “You’re very hungry,” she said softly.

  Thalion paused a moment, suddenly aware of his own speed. He swallowed and nodded. “Yes, Lady.”

  Adalyn gave a faint, nonjudgmental smile. “Eat until you’re full. In this house, there’s nothing you need to snatch.”

  When the last dish was taken away, Thalion leaned back. He exhaled a long, relieved breath. The fullness brought more than a sated stomach—for a moment, the bitter life he knew receded. Kaelus caught that moment from the corner of his eye. There was quiet satisfaction there: the boy could still feel safe, still forget the world for a little while.

  Adalyn folded her napkin with a neat motion. “Kaelus,” she said, her voice soft yet direct, “you look like you’ve carried a long day. What do you want to report? If needed, I can deliver it to my husband.”

  Kaelus shook his head slowly. “Thank you, Lady Adalyn. But I must give this report myself. I’ll go to the palace afterward.”

  Dorian, who had observed more than spoken, crossed his arms. His gaze fell to Thalion—calm, assessing, like a sailor reading currents. “Then,” he said slowly, “before you go to the palace, leave the child at my place. Lori is there. He’ll be safe.”

  Kaelus nodded once—short, without hesitation. “Alright. That makes the most sense.”

  Thalion turned to ask, but Kaelus had already placed a hand on his shoulder. The light pressure was enough—not commanding, only steadying.

  “You hear me?” Kaelus said softly. “We’ll stop by briefly. Then I must leave.”

  Thalion nodded. “Yes, Master.”

  Adalyn rose, her gown whispering as she moved. “May your business at the palace go smoothly, Kaelus.”

  “Hopefully the tide won’t turn against us,” Dorian replied tersely, tone flat but loaded.

  They saluted each other—no excess ceremony, no extra words.

  Kaelus took his leave, then turned and left the courtyard with Thalion. The midday sun reflected a pale light on the stones of Kaelithar’s upper district; the bridge’s shadow lengthened beneath their steps. Behind them, the house returned to calm. Ahead, much larger matters awaited at the palace.

  Kaelus and Thalion dismounted in front of a low-fenced house; its small yard shaded by neatly trimmed plants—the leaves glistened with water vapour like foliage after rain. A woman stood there, watering the soil around rosemary and thyme pots, her movements calm as someone assigning breaths so something might live.

  “Loriane,” Kaelus greeted, his voice short as he stepped onto the ground.

  The woman did not turn immediately; her voice answered from behind the leaves, as if recognizing the rhythm of footsteps. “Dorian isn’t home, Kaelus.” Her right hand continued pouring water, as if each drop had a place to reach.

  “I know,” Kaelus replied. “We met at General Dunwald’s house.” He looked at Loriane for a moment; their eyes exchanged a quiet understanding—not words, but an old acquaintance.

  Kaelus helped Thalion down. When the boy’s feet touched the earth, there was a small exhale—held breath released—that made Loriane stop and turn. Her eyebrow lifted, not from surprise but from reading a human habit left on the body.

  Kaelus stepped closer, placing a hand on Thalion’s shoulder. “This is Thalion. My adopted son. I must go to the palace. Will you watch him for a while?”

  Thalion bowed politely. “I am Thalion, Ma’am.”

  Loriane nodded, her smile warm though her caution did not melt. Before Kaelus could move, she set the watering jar down and took the edge of Kaelus’s cloak with a light motion.

  “Where will you go?” her voice was calm; her words asked the waves for an explanation. “Don’t come bringing a child and then leave just like that. Explain—come in, sit; say what needs to be said.” She released the cloth and gave Kaelus room to explain.

  Kaelus exhaled shortly—not reluctance, but respect. They went inside.

  In the modest sitting room, the smells of salt, warm bread, and ink met—a blend that marked Loriane’s home. In a corner, a small shelf held neatly arranged paper boats; on the table lay a length of thread, its end tied in a small knot. Loriane set a kettle on the stove, lifted a porcelain cup, then sat before them.

  Kaelus spoke briefly but fully; he recounted the journey, the meeting with Lady Eveline, the strange flash of light, and how amidst rubble and blood they found Thalion—alone. The words had not become a memorized script in his body; they still halted at the edge of his lips.

  Loriane listened without interruption. Her eyes closed for a moment as she smelled something—not merely scent, but a fragment of memory attached to the boy’s body: smoke, hot iron, metal mingled with blood. She needed no words to understand the truth behind Kaelus’s story.

  When Kaelus finished, Loriane rose slowly. “Go,” she said, firm without harshness. “Let Thalion stay here. I’ll look after him.” A small nod of her eyes showed the knot at the end of her sleeve—the sign that a small promise had been tied.

  If you'd like to light one little light for me:

  ??https://ko-fi.com/barunamarch

  But simply reading and enjoying this tale is more than enough—I am already deeply grateful.