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I see the lines of his body, the way his shoulders slump like the weight of the moment is finally allowed to rest on him. The time spell took more than he meant to give, and he was already flirting with collapse before he tried to shoulder Orin’s hunger.

But Orin hasn’t moved.

His hand still rests on Elias’s shoulder, steady and deliberate, fingers curled just slightly—as if he’s trying not to hold on, just hover close enough that Elias can feel it. There’s nothing violent in the gesture. No posturing. No challenge. Just Orin, calm and ancient, giving back what Elias spent.

And Elias… hefeelsit. I see it in the twitch of his fingers, the subtle rise of his chest. His mouth parts, and the start of a thank-you dies behind his teeth.

Because Orin isn’t supposed to be kind.

But heis.

Quietly. Carefully. Just enough.

Elias’s cheeks go pink, the color creeping up his throat like he’s embarrassed to be seen receiving something real. He shifts under the weight of Orin’s hand, blinking fast, as if trying to disguise it with sarcasm. “You uh… you trying to cop a feel? Because, full disclosure, I’m into that, but I usually prefer dinner first.”

Orin doesn’t dignify it with a response. Not with words. Just a look—a single, slanted glance that flicks over Elias’s face with the tired kind of fondness only the very old can afford. And then he does something subtle, something so easy to miss if you weren’t watching him as closely as I always do.

He casts a glance sideways.

Toward Branwen.

She’s distracted. Her gaze is pinned to Lucien and Riven, watching the blood-slick dance unfolding in front of her with the hungry focus of a god craving a finale. Her lips are curled in the faintest smile, her fingers relaxed at her sides. She’s not paying attention to Orin.

And Orin uses it.

He lets his palm flatten against Elias’s chest, just over his heart.

And gives.

I feel it. The shift. The warmth that bleeds from Orin into Elias—not energy, not magic.Life. It moves like breath, slow and careful and ancient. The kind of magic that was once used to bless temples, not win wars. Orin’s eyes don’t change. He doesn’t glow. Doesn’t announce what he’s doing. But Elias jerks like someone dropped a charge down his spine, like the weight in his limbs has been lifted, peeled away by the same hands that could’ve ruined him moments ago.

It’s sweet. Unspeakably so. The kind of softness Orin buries deep beneath cold logic and grim prophecy. But here, in theheartbeat Branwen isn’t watching, he gives a piece of himself away.

And I see what it costs him.

Orin’s back goes rigid.

Not in fear. In effort.

His spine straightens like a blade being forced upright. His hand wavers, just a fraction, and a thin line of blood slips from his nose, stark against the hollow of his skin. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t acknowledge it. Just keeps his palm steady, pressing Elias upright with invisible strength, pouring more of himself into the boy at his feet than I’ve ever seen him give anyone.

It’s not dramatic.

It’sintimate.

A moment Elias doesn’t know how to deserve.

But Orin doesn’t do it for gratitude.

He does it because hecan. Because he wants to. Because somewhere beneath the endless layers of knowledge and age and sorrow, Orin ValelovesElias Dain.

And then she notices.

Branwen’s head turns—not fast, not sharp, but with that slow precision that makes my stomach twist. Her eyes catch the thread of energy between them. The blood at Orin’s lip. The way Elias is no longer wilting, no longer fragile.

Her lips part.

A whisper. A pull.