Rowan
Elias stood in the archway like he’d been carved out of sleeplessness.
The west balcony overlooked the training yard, where the last drills had gone quiet. Frost clung to the railing. The air smelled of cold stone and iron.
Rowan had learned to read Elias in pieces: the way his shoulders held tension even when he tried to stand still, the way his gaze tracked movement below as if the yard might suddenly prove something to him, the way he always looked like a man about to apologize for taking up space.
Tonight, he didn’t look apologetic.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Elias said evenly.
“You’re not,” Rowan replied.
Taren’s posture stayed guarded, arms folded across his chest, but his eyes sharpened on Elias’s face. Taren didn’t waste warmth on anyone who didn’t earn it. He also
