Dawn had barely bled across the sky when the Ironclad found him.
Caelan had been careless. One wrong step on the return path, one moment where the ache in his side made him pause too long beneath a cluster of ironwood trees. The patrol had been waiting like wolves scenting blood.
They came fast. Too fast.
Steel gauntlets clamped around his wrists before he could summon shadow. A knee drove into his back, forcing him to the mossy ground. Cold iron manacles snapped shut, biting into skin. Someone yanked the hood from his head, exposing tousled dark hair and those too-bright emerald eyes.
He didn't fight. Not yet. Fighting now would only get him killed faster.
They dragged him through the forest in silence, boots crunching leaves, breath fogging the chill morning air. The outpost loomed ahead, its iron-banded gates yawning open like a hungry mouth.
Inside the walls, they marched him straight to the central keep. Soldiers watched from the ramparts, faces hard, hands on weapons. Whispers followed him like smoke.
Thief.
Shade.
The one who cut the captain's cloak.
They shoved him into a windowless chamber deep within the stone. A single torch burned in a wall sconce. The only furniture: a heavy wooden chair bolted to the floor and chains dangling from the ceiling like forgotten promises.
They chained his wrists above his head, just high enough that his toes barely brushed the stone. Then they left.
The door thudded shut.
Silence pressed in, thick and waiting.
Caelan let his head fall forward, breathing slow. The wound at his side had reopened during the march; fresh blood soaked through the bandage, warm against his ribs. He could feel it dripping, slow and steady, marking time.
Minutes passed. Or hours. In the dark, time became slippery.
Then the door opened again.
Thorne Ironfist stepped inside alone.
The torchlight loved him. It caught the auburn in his short-cropped hair, gilded the edges of his scarred armor, turned his blue eyes into something almost luminous. He carried no sword this time, only a quiet, coiled tension that filled the room like smoke.
He stopped three paces away and studied Caelan the way a man studies a wound he knows will scar.
"You're bleeding," Thorne said. His voice was low, rough-edged, the same voice that had called him thief in the corridor last night.
Caelan lifted his head slowly. He managed a crooked, blood-tinged smile. "Observant."
Thorne's jaw tightened. He took one step closer. Then another. Close enough that Caelan could smell leather, steel, and the faint clean scent of pine soap clinging to the man's skin.
"You're either very brave or very stupid," Thorne said.
"Both," Caelan answered. "Usually at the same time."
Thorne's gaze dropped to the blood seeping through Caelan's tunic. Something flickered in those blue eyes, something that wasn't anger. Not entirely.
He reached out.
Caelan tensed.
But Thorne only hooked two fingers beneath the torn edge of the cloth and pulled it aside, exposing the ragged bandage. His touch was careful. Clinical. Yet the brush of knuckles against skin sent heat racing up Caelan's spine in a way that had nothing to do with pain.
Thorne made a low sound in his throat. "This is my mark."
"Congratulations," Caelan said dryly. "You've officially ruined my day."
Thorne didn't smile. He didn't step back either.
Instead he pressed the heel of his palm against the wound, hard enough to make Caelan hiss through his teeth.
"Stay still," Thorne ordered.
Caelan laughed, short and breathless. "You're enjoying this."
Thorne's eyes snapped to his. "I don't enjoy watching men bleed."
"Then why aren't you letting them finish the job outside?"
Thorne didn't answer immediately. He kept pressure on the wound, steady, unyielding. Minutes passed in that strange, charged quiet. The only sounds: the crackle of the torch, the slow drip of blood hitting stone, the ragged rhythm of Caelan's breathing.
Finally Thorne spoke, voice quieter than before. "I want answers."
"You'll get them," Caelan said. "Eventually."
Thorne's gaze searched his face. "You're not afraid."
"I'm terrified," Caelan admitted, surprising himself. "But fear and I are old friends."
Something shifted in Thorne's expression. The hard lines softened, just a fraction. "Who sent you?"
Caelan tilted his head. "You already know."
"The Veil Thieves."
"Gold star."
Thorne exhaled through his nose. "The Heartstone."
"Two for two."
"Why?"
Caelan met those blue eyes without flinching. "Because someone has to stop Vaelthar before he wakes the deep things. And your precious Order is too busy polishing honor to see the real threat."
Thorne's hand stilled against the wound. "You think we're blind?"
"I think you're proud," Caelan said softly. "And pride is a slow poison."
Silence again.
Thorne finally stepped back, leaving Caelan's skin cold where his palm had been. He wiped the blood from his hand on the edge of his crimson cloak, then turned toward the door.
"Where are you going?" Caelan asked.
"To decide what happens next."
"You could just kill me," Caelan said. The words tasted bitter. "Would be cleaner."
Thorne paused at the threshold. His shoulders were rigid, every line of him screaming restraint.
"I don't kill men who haven't had a chance to speak," he said quietly. "Even thieves."
The door closed behind him with a soft, final click.
Caelan hung there in the torchlight, wrists burning, side throbbing, heart racing in a rhythm that had nothing to do with pain.
Eros appeared in the corner of the room, perched on a chain link, wings folded.
"Well," the spirit said, voice hushed with something like awe. "That was… intimate."
Caelan closed his eyes. "Shut up."
"No," Eros whispered, almost reverent. "I won't. Because that, right there? That was the first real crack in his armor. And yours."
Caelan didn't answer.
He couldn't.
Because the memory of Thorne's palm pressed to his wound, steady and warm and impossibly gentle, refused to fade.
And somewhere in the quiet spaces between heartbeats, the first true warmth began to bloom.
Not Love Points.
Not yet.
But something close.
Something dangerous.
Something that felt suspiciously like hope.