After breakfast, a maid stepped into the dining room, announcing Celine’s arrival. Eiran excused himself to his study, leaving the three men in the hall.
As the child left, he appeared just as he always did, innocent and pure as before.
The conversation from earlier, where he spoke of hurting others, seemed like a fragment of his imagination—or perhaps it had really happened. Lately, he had been haunted by nightmares of his past, keeping him awake several nights in a row. He barely slept two hours last night.
"Shall we go?" Ren finally asked, forcing his voice low and steady.
Zayden nodded, rising from his seat with a low thud.
As he headed toward the stables, Ren tilted his head. It was a path he had only taken when the servants used to bully him. The stables were the least-used area of the mansion.
"Why are you going to the stables, My Lord?" James asked, voicing the question that had been on Ren’s mind.
"To give you horses," Zayden replied simply, his voice steady and sharp, leaving no room for argument.
Ren and James exchanged a glance, perplexed.
Once they arrived, Zayden spoke briefly with the stableman. The stables had sheltered stalls for each horse, a resting area, and a little further on stood a large building. Through a small window, dried grass was visible inside.
Zayden returned shortly, and the stableman handed a horse to James and one to Ren.
The general’s action seemed like a silent apology for his past behavior—his coldness, the harshness he had never explained.
At least first, he was simply offended that he was called a demon, a word he didn’t want people to call him by Ren. Yet, he couldn’t hurt a man who already ran away, eyes filled with fear.
Instead, he wanted to tease him for a while and stop when the man would be exhausted. After all, no one ever put up with him for too long. But over time, it became a habit—a routine he forgot to fix.
Perhaps he had expected the servant to demand a horse long ago, but Ren’s patience stretched further than most men’s. He wasn’t the type to complain. He oddly took everything, anything thrown his way.
Ren, however, was not pleased. He would rather endure Zayden’s indifference than accept this sudden warmth.
Kindness unsettled him. It pressed on the guilt buried in his chest, a guilt he couldn’t name aloud.
This man was once his enemy. If Zayden ever uncovered the truth of who he truly was, there would be no hesitation. The general would behead him as easily as he had slaughtered beasts—or men.
James watched quietly as the two men rode their horses in front of him.
The sun broke through the trees in fragments, scattering light on the path. Hooves struck the ground in a steady rhythm, and for a moment, it looked almost natural—the general and the servant riding side by side.
After his return, he noticed that something had shifted in the General. A few months should not have changed him, and yet they had. Perhaps it was because of his son. But more than that—it was because of Ren. The servant his son called father. Too easily, too naturally.
James’s jaw tightened.
Was he truly not related to Eiran? A child would not call just anyone "father." Not without a reason.
When they arrived at the training grounds, he looked at the large oak tree. He stepped closer, under its shade, and tied his horse to it.
It was the place where he would meet Cael, talk to him, and spend some free time together. In the Duke’s mansion, couples weren’t allowed—they had hidden their relationship for years. However, the Duke knew they both harboured feelings for each other and used it to his advantage.
His nails dug into the tree trunk, one snapping. He didn’t groan, but tears rolled down his cheeks. It wasn’t from the bleeding nail, but from the pain of his loss—the emptiness left behind by Cael.
"Are you alright?" a soft voice asked.
James quickly turned, coming face-to-face with a dark-violet-haired young man. His hair reached near his waist, loosely braided over his left shoulder, and his short figure was wrapped in a servant’s uniform.
"Yeah—" James wiped his eyes with his sleeves, feeling heat creep up his cheeks.
Just then, a dark handkerchief was extended toward him. James hesitated for a moment before taking it.
"There are still tears on your cheeks," Yusha said gently.
"O-Oh," James muttered, cheeks flushing a light red. He couldn’t believe he’d shown such a weak side. He dabbed at his eyes with the handkerchief, careful not to make it obvious.
"You are?" he asked, curiosity softening his tone.
"Oh, right! We haven’t talked before, have we?" Yusha glanced down for a second, then back at him. "I... I am actually new... I mean, I was..." he inhaled. Nothing he said seemed to make sense. "Actually, I wanted to ask... You’re close with Ren, aren’t you?"
James tilted his head, an eyebrow raised. He studied the young man carefully. Thin, pale skin, well dressed for a servant...
"I am a friend of his!" Yusha added quickly, panic flickering in his eyes. "I just don’t want you to get the wrong idea."
James relaxed slightly. "Yeah, I do know him. But why do you ask?"
"Well... I’ve been looking for him. I haven’t gotten a chance to see him for a while because I was sick," Yusha said, forcing a small smile, though a shadow of pain lingered behind it.
James nodded, shrugging.
"Then go meet him. He is here."
"Is he?" Yusha’s voice was hesitant. "I’ve searched the building, the training field... but I can’t find him."
James narrowed his eyes, a frown forming.
"What do you mean? We came together."
The two froze, looking at each other, eyes wide. Something wasn’t right.
A chill ran through James’s stomach.
Could he be in trouble?
He looked at the forest, its depths teeming with countless beasts, waiting for a human to dare enter so they could devour him.
Without another word, they began searching the area, moving as quickly as they could and asking the other servants and soldiers. Finally, one mentioned seeing Ren heading behind the building.
With hurried steps, the two men rushed there. Their eyes widened at the sight—Ren held the hilt of a sword as if he had been born to wield it.
"Ren?" Their voices were low, barely more than whispers, dumbstruck.