The routine was a cage in itself, it was always about Kaelen bringing trays with food, the unusual silence, and the false window in her room. Kaelen’s visits were like a study in restrained concern. He spoke of the pack’s instability with a furrowed brow, lamented Silas’s downward spiral with a sigh that seemed to carry genuine regret. It was a performance, but one of such steady, low-grade decency that Elara’s hatred began to blur at the edges, replaced with pity.Then, the performance deepened, to something more of a masterpiece. One evening, he entered not as the caretaker, but as a ghost of himself. His shoulders were slumped, the usual sharpness in his eyes dissolved into a hollow, wounded weariness. He didn’t speak of politics. He stood just inside the door, his gaze lost on the stone floor.“He used to carry me on his back,” Kaelen said, his voice soft, frayed. “When the training was too much, when I’d skinned my knees… Silas.” He uttered the name not with venom, but with the a
最終更新日 : 2026-04-30 続きを読む