Typhon stood in Lord Waydell's solar, arms folded as he stared out the arched window, watching rain gather on the stone sill. The study was dim, lit only by the flicker of a low-burning lamp and the ever-present scent of ink and burnt parchment. He hadn't intended to come here, but Sapphire's question haunted him more than he cared to admit.
He scowled at the memory. Her voice. The bruising. Her eyes, questioning.curious.
The door groaned open behind him.
"Damien," he said without turning.
The soft shuffle of boots answered. Lord Waydell emerged, shirt rumpled, his dark hair wild with sleep, as if he'd barely escaped the clutches of some tavern dream. His eyes were heavy-lidded but keen, always watching. He flopped into his seat behind the chaotic desk like it was a throne he barely tolerated.
Damien never spoke, not since the separation between him and his wife but he never needed to. He dipped his quill in ink and scribbled a note with the precision of a dagger.
"Heard you've taken a blood bag. Should I be jealous?"
Typhon's jaw tightened. Damien was his oldest friend, and always infuriatingly blunt.
"Leave the human out of this," Typhon snapped.
Damien's smirk deepened as he scratched another line.
"You're not denying it. Interesting."
Typhon turned away, staring into the hearth.
"She's under my protection. That's all."
"You're talking too much for it to be just that."
Typhon ripped the parchment in half and dropped it on the floor.
Damien only raised an eyebrow and calmly dipped his pen again.
"You used to be better at lying, Ty."
Typhon turned, voice low.
"And you used to be less irritating."
Damien chuckled—soundless, but deeply felt. Then another note slid forward.
"Watch yourself. You blur the lines, you burn. Don't forget what happened the last time you felt something."
Typhon's face darkened, but he said nothing. He didn't need to.
Silence lingered between them like smoke.
Damien finally scribbled,
"You always were a fool for fragile things."
Typhon scoffed, eyes narrowing as he picked up the torn half of Damien's note and let it crumple in his fist.
"That's rich, coming from you," he muttered, turning back toward the hearth. "You lost your voice chasing after a woman who never loved you."
Damien froze, pen halted mid-stroke. For a moment, the air in the solar grew colder. The silence between them was no longer casual, it was sharp, barbed with memory.
The pen scratched again.
"You always know where to pinch, Ty."
Damien's quill scraped furiously across the parchment, each stroke deliberate and sharp. He shoved the note across the table toward Typhon, whose arms crossed in defiance
"Isis must be mad. A ball? In these times?"
Typhon didn't move.
"He's not mad. He's strategic."
Damien let out a soundless scoff, grabbing another parchment. His brows furrowed as he scribbled with quick, angry strokes.
"Strategic? There's unrest in the land. our alliance are withdrawing support, and the alchemists, gods, Typhon—still have no cure."
Typhon turned, gaze cool. "It's not the ball. It's the message it sends. Power doesn't cower. The nobles need to see a steady hand, not trembling fingers."
Damien's jaw tightened as he scribbled again.
"You trust Isis too much, his vision will bury us?"
Just then, the heavy door creaked open, and a young voice cut through the thick silence.
"Father!"
Young Fletcher burst into the solar, cheeks flushed from the cold, a wide grin stretching his face. His chest rose and fell quickly, still breathless from running.
"I was praised today!" he announced proudly, holding up his wooden practice sword like a trophy. "Master Orel said I've got the footwork of a proper knight!"
Typhon turned slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching in the ghost of a smile. Damien, still scowling, relaxed just a little as his son rushed to his side.
Fletcher noticed the parchment-filled table, the tension in the air, but he didn't shrink from it.
"Am I interrupting?"
Typhon glanced at Fletcher with a faint smirk, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Your victories are always welcome," he said, voice low but amused.
Fletcher's face lit up like the morning sun. "Really?" he beamed, bouncing slightly on his feet. "You should've seen him—twice my size! But I outmaneuvered him. Quick footwork. He didn't see it coming!"
His words poured out in a stream of excitement, hands gesturing animatedly, until a loud bang echoed through the chamber.
Fletcher flinched.
The smile vanished from his face as both he and Typhon looked at Damien, who had slammed his fist onto the table, eyes sharp and unreadable. The air grew tense.
Then, with a slow, pointed motion, Damien nodded toward the door.
Fletcher's lips parted as if to speak, but closed again. He nodded stiffly, voice barely a whisper,
"I'll train harder." And with that, he turned and rushed out, blinking fast, tears brimming, but none falling.
Tears had no place in his world.
Ever since his mother left, his father had barely acknowledged him. And still, he tried.
Typhon sighed, gaze lingering on the now-closed door before shifting to Damien.
"He's growing into something sharp."
Damien's fingers moved quickly across the parchment, eyes narrowed.
"Steel must be tempered, not flattered. Pride will get him killed"
"You'll break him at this rate."
Damien's eyes flickered. "No," he said quietly. "I'll make him strong."
His expression darkened, lips twitching at the corners as he scribbled again, this time slower. The look in his eyes bordered on grim satisfaction.
We'll see.