Guys we would be going a bit into the past. I hope u don't mind!!
The courtyard was quiet that morning, sunlight spilling across the polished stones and painting long shadows. Young Typhon stood near the edge, shoulders hunched, his small hands twisting nervously. He watched from afar as the others played, their laughter clear and bright, carrying across the yard like music.
Dalia ran toward him, a soft smile lighting her face. "Typhon! Come join us!" she said gently, her voice warm, inviting. "Don't just stand there, you'll miss the fun!"
Typhon looked down, his stomach tight. Words always stumbled in his mouth; his stutter made him feel small, weak. He didn't want them to see him falter. He stayed frozen, pretending to examine a loose stone at his feet.
Isis, older and sharper, stepped forward with a commanding glare. "Hurry up, Typhon. If you're going to stand there, at least do it properly." His tone carried the edge of impatience, though beneath it there was a flicker of protectiveness toward his sister.
Even Kael, small and dutiful, offered a shy smile from his place near the fountain, carrying out small errands for Isis. He wasn't of noble blood, but he moved with quiet cleverness, always careful not to draw attention to himself.
Typhon swallowed hard, fighting the rising shame. He wanted to join, to laugh with Dalia, even to impress Isis, but he couldn't. So he stayed at the edge, watching, storing every smile, every glance, every gesture, as though preserving pieces of a world he didn't yet feel part of.
Then, the great doors of the hall opened. His father emerged, tall and strong, and the tension in Typhon's chest melted in an instant.
"Typhon!" his father called warmly. His face lit up as he strode toward him. Typhon ran, stumbling slightly, and his father caught him in a hug. For a moment, the world outside the embrace, the laughter, the teasing, the sharp voices, disappeared.
"Did… did you make any friends today?" his father asked, a gentle smile in his eyes.
Typhon's small voice trembled. "N… no, Father."
"Why not?"
"I… I… no one wants a stutter as a friend," he whispered, sadness lacing each word.
His father's hand ruffled his hair, soft and reassuring. "A friend will want you, Typhon. Just as you are."
That warmth filled him in a way nothing else could. In that moment, he felt seen, safe, and loved.
His mind drifted, unbidden, to memories of his younger self: a shy, timid boy who had hidden in the courtyard's shadows. Now, he was different. Life had forced him to change. The timid boy had been replaced by a man who took what he wanted, who commanded attention rather than shrinking from it. Yet, for all his power and composure, a shadow of longing remained, for the bonds, and the innocence he had once known.
"Milord."
The familiar voice of Eugene cut through his reverie. Typhon's fingers tightened slightly around the goblet as he blinked, returning to the present.
"The seamstress is here," Eugene continued, his tone calm but firm.
Typhon frowned, suddenly aware of the passing hours. He had clearly forgotten about his outfit for the ball, an event just a week away. A small crease formed between his brows. He set the goblet down with care, the memory of its weight and the taste of blood still lingering, and took a measured breath.
"Yes, Eugene. Show her in," he said, voice steady. But inside, a storm of thoughts swirled.
The door opened quietly, and the seamstress stepped in, carrying a bundle of finely folded garments. She gave a small, professional nod.
"Lord Typhon, I have prepared your attire for the ball," she said, her tone polite but confident.
Typhon's gaze swept over the fabrics, dark silks, embroidered with precision, each piece radiating elegance and authority. He was no longer the timid boy who had once hesitated in the courtyard. Life had forced him to change. He set down the silver goblet he had been holding, letting his fingers linger on its cool surface for a moment before straightening.
"Place them here," he said, voice calm and measured.
The seamstress laid out the garments carefully, then stepped closer, taking out her measuring tape. She moved with precision, measuring his shoulders, chest, and arms, noting the lines of his form. Typhon remained still, his posture perfect, every movement controlled, the man he had become in contrast to the shy boy he once was.
"Excellent," she murmured, making subtle adjustments, "everything should fit perfectly."
The seamstress had just finished gathering her pins when Eugene's voice broke the quite.
"Milord," he said evenly, "Lord Damien is here."
Typhon did not turn at once. His gaze remained on the garments laid out before him, dark and severe. Then, calmly, he said, "Send him in."
Eugene stepped aside.
A firm knock followed, deliberate, restrained. The door opened, and Lord Damien entered without waiting for further invitation. He did not bow. He did not smile. He simply crossed the room and took the chair opposite Typhon, settling into it with a brooding stillness that spoke of long-held thoughts and unspoken weight.
The seamstress dipped her head quickly and withdrew, sensing the shift in the air.
Silence stretched.
Damien's hands rested on the arms of the chair, his jaw tight, eyes fixed somewhere beyond Typhon as though the walls themselves held grievances. He said nothing.
Eugene moved with quiet efficiency. He poured blood tea into a porcelain cup, the steam rising faintly, and placed it on the table beside Damien with respectful care.
"Milord," Eugene murmured.
Damien acknowledged it with a slight nod but did not reach for the cup.
Typhon finally faced him fully, posture composed, expression unreadable. Whatever history stood between them lingered in the quiet, heavy, unresolved, and waiting.
Neither spoke.
Some conversations did not begin with words.
As Damien's eyes catching on the dark silks arranged with deliberate care across the table, his eyes traced the cut of the coat, the weight of the embroidery. He nodded once, approving.
"It will serve its purpose," Typhon said evenly. "Appearances still matter. Especially when people pretend they don't."
Damien allowed a faint, knowing curve of his mouth. He reached for his slate.
You chose well.
Typhon inclined his head, then moved toward the desk. He did not sit. Instead, he rested his palm against the polished surface, grounding himself before turning back.
"How are you dealing with it?" Typhon asked.
The question was simple, but it carried shared understanding. Not sympathy. Responsibility. He meant the secret smuggling and the underground human trafficking.
Only then did Damien write.
"Quietly. Too many eyes. Too much movement."
"The same in revenue," Typhon replied. "Accounts balancing when they shouldn't. Tariffs waived without record. Goods rerouted through channels that exist only on paper."
Damien's expression sharpened.
"Humans have been going missing along those routes," Typhon continued, voice low, controlled. "Not disappearing entirely. They return. Cold. Drained. Whatever is happening is structured. Funded."
Damien's quill stilled.
Typhon added, carefully, "This isn't opportunistic. Someone is sponsoring it."
Damien looked up at once.
"Someone among us," Typhon said. "A traitor, I suppose. No merchant could afford this scale alone. No border captain could look away for this long without compensation."
Damien wrote slowly now, the weight of the words deliberate.
"You believe it reaches the court."
"I believe it feeds from it," Typhon replied. "Which is why I can't move openly. Freezing funds will only send them underground. I need names. Proof. Before the ball."
Damien nodded once. He understood the timing. A gathering of allies was also a gathering of masks.
"I can move without banners, he wrote. Routine inspections. Knights, not armies."
"That's why I came to you," Typhon said. "Not for force. For discretion."
Damien studied him for a moment longer than before, then wrote again.
"You see things clearly now."
Typhon's expression did not change. "Clarity comes at a cost."
Damien closed the slate and rose. At the door, he paused, then wrote one final line and turned it so Typhon could read.
"When this ends, say thanks."
Typhon frowned slightly. "For what?"
Damien met his gaze and wrote, unhurried:
"To The Human."
Typhon held that look for a long moment, then nodded once. "I will."
Damien inclined his head and left the study, silence closing behind him.
Typhon remained standing, eyes drifting back to the garments prepared for the ball. Silk and steel. Ceremony and knives.
And somewhere among them, a traitor was waiting.
***
The market square was still alive with noise, even as the sun dipped lower. Coins clinked, merchants argued, guards shifted their weight. Sapphire had been on her feet since morning, collecting dues with the same calm precision she always wore like armor.
Only the faint headache betrayed her.
She pressed her seal into another ledger, handed it back, and turned just as a familiar presence slipped into step beside her. Quiet. Controlled. Unannounced.
Raphael.
She didn't look at him immediately. "Nice of you to come," she said at last, voice light, edged with dry sarcasm. "I was beginning to think you'd vanished again."
Raphael did not answer right away. He didn't need to. He was already listening to what she couldn't hear herself.
Her pulse was wrong.
Too fast. Uneven. A stutter beneath the skin of her wrist as she reached for another pouch of coin. Her scent was off too, faint, sharp, touched with fever. Sweat cooled too quickly on her temples.
"You should stop," he said quietly.
Sapphire finally turned to him. Her face was pale now, color drained beneath the afternoon light, her hands damp despite the breeze. She straightened anyway, lifting her chin.
"I'm fine," she replied. "The day isn't done."
Raphael stepped closer, not touching her, but near enough that his shadow cut across her path. "Your heart disagrees."
That made her pause.
She laughed softly, dismissive. "Since when do you comment on my heart?"
"Since it stopped keeping a steady rhythm," he said.
His eyes flicked briefly to the crowd, too many people, too many variables, then back to her. Focused. Guarding.
"You've been pushing yourself," he continued. "Your pulse spikes when you stand still. That headache is not minor."
Sapphire's fingers tightened around the ledger. For a moment, the square tilted, just slightly. She steadied herself on pride alone.
"You're observant today," she said. "I'll mark it down as improvement."
Raphael ignored the remark. "You are unwell."
"I don't have the luxury of being unwell."
She said, brushing past Raphael with practiced composure. "You're imagining things."
Raphael's steps slowed, his attention fixed on her in a way that made his silence heavier than words. He had noticed it the moment he drew near, the way her pulse raced beneath her skin, then stumbled, the faint sheen of sweat at her temples despite the cool air. She moved like someone balancing on the edge of a blade.
"This is not imagination," he said carefully. "You should sit."
She laughed, a little breathless. " I don't—"
Her sentence broke apart.
The square lurched violently. Sapphire's vision dimmed, sound collapsing into a distant roar. She reached out instinctively, fingers grazing empty air as her knees gave way.
Raphael caught her just in time.
Her weight sagged against him, limp and frighteningly still. The ledger slipped from her grasp, coins scattering across the stones. A murmur rippled through the crowd.
"She's unwell," Raphael said evenly, his voice carrying without rising. "Make room."
Something in his tone cut through the noise. People stepped back without question.
Sapphire lay unconscious in his arms, her face pale, lips parted as she struggled for breath. Raphael adjusted his hold, careful, restrained, as though even now he feared holding her too tightly.
"Stubborn," he muttered under his breath, not unkindly.
He glanced once around the square, already calculating the quickest route away from the crowd. Whatever this was, it was not something to be handled under open eyes and curious whispers.
Without another word, Raphael turned, carrying her from the market as the life of the square closed in behind them, unaware that something far more dangerous than a simple headache had just revealed itself.
Raphael did not bother with restraint. His pace was fast. Too fast for comfort. By the time the manor gates came into view, Raphael was nearly running.
The guards barely had time to react before he was past them, boots striking stone in hard, urgent rhythm. Doors were thrown open. Servants scattered at the sight of him, of her limp form, of the bloodless pallor on her face.
"Lord Typhon," Raphael called out, voice sharp now. "Now."
Typhon was there in an instant.
The moment his eyes landed on Sapphire, something dark and furious crossed his face. "What happened?"
"She collapsed," Raphael replied. "Her heart is irregular. She hid it badly."
That was all Typhon needed to hear.
"Bring her here," he ordered, already moving. "Carefully."
Raphael followed, laying Sapphire down where Typhon indicated, stepping back immediately, hands curling into fists at his sides. His duty was done. The rest belonged to another man.
Typhon knelt beside her, fingers brushing her wrist, her temple, his expression tight with controlled alarm. He called for water, for cloth, for the physician, but even as orders flew, his attention never left her face.
"Sapphire," he said quietly, firmly. "Stay with me."
Her lashes fluttered faintly, but she did not wake.
Typhon's jaw clenched. He adjusted her position himself, gentle in a way few ever saw, shielding her from the cold, grounding her presence as if will alone could keep her tethered.
Raphael watched from the doorway.
This was not his place.
He lowered his head slightly, acknowledging it, then turned away to stand guard outside the room.
He had brought her home like a madman.
Now, he trusted her life to the one man who would never let it slip from his hands.