The Grand Cathedral during High Mass was a symphony of devotion. Sunlight streamed through stained glass, painting the ancient stones in jewel tones. The choir's voices soared, pure and ethereal, weaving through the scent of incense and polished wood. Cardinals in crimson robes processed with solemn dignity, the rhythmic thud of the ceremonial staff echoing in the vast nave. Elias Vance moved among them, a figure of serene composure, his silver-blonde hair catching the light like a halo. His clear blue eyes were downcast, fixed on the intricate patterns of the marble floor as he walked, hands clasped loosely before him in an attitude of perfect piety.
He felt Theron Blackwood's presence before he saw him. It was a physical pressure, a gravitational pull emanating from the front of the congregation where the Holy Knights stood at rigid attention, a wall of black and silver. Elias kept his gaze lowered, his focus resolutely inward. He sensed rather than saw Theron take his position at the head of his knights, the subtle shift in the air, the collective intake of breath from those nearby as the imposing Commander settled into place. Elias's own breath hitched, a tiny, betraying stutter he quickly smoothed. He maintained the downward angle of his head, the picture of humble contemplation, refusing to let his eyes stray even a fraction towards the source of that magnetic intensity. Mind your own sanctified business. Keep your distance.
The homily began. Elias forced himself to listen, to absorb the Archbishop's words about faith and resilience. Yet, his awareness remained hyper-focused on the space where Theron stood. He felt the weight of scrutiny, heavy and unsettling, like sunlight focused through a lens. He could almost trace the path of Theron's gaze – sweeping over the knights, the altar, the congregation… and inevitably, landing on him. Elias kept his profile impassive, his expression serene, a mask carved from ice over a churning sea. He didn't flinch. He didn't acknowledge. He simply… wasn't there for Theron's regard.
Later, crossing the sun-drenched cloister courtyard, Elias saw the unmistakable silhouette ahead – broad shoulders, sharp profile, the dark fall of hair. Theron stood near the fountain, deep in conversation with Lieutenant Kain, pointing towards the western battlements. Elias's steps faltered for a heartbeat, a primal instinct urging him to alter his course, to seek the shelter of the colonnade. But that would be too obvious. Too much like fleeing. Instead, he drew a quiet breath, squared his shoulders beneath his grey robes, and continued on his original path, his gaze fixed on a point several yards beyond Theron's shoulder. He walked with measured, unhurried steps, projecting an aura of preoccupied contemplation. As he neared the fountain, the low rumble of Theron's voice reached him, discussing patrol rotations. Elias kept walking, his eyes forward, his expression politely distant, as if Theron were merely another statue in the courtyard. He passed within arm's length, close enough to catch the familiar scent of leather and steel and the faint, warm undertone that was uniquely Theron. He felt the conversation pause, sensed the shift in Theron's posture, the brief cessation of his voice. The weight of Theron's gaze landed on him, sharp and questioning. Elias didn't turn. Didn't slow. He offered no nod, no murmured 'Commander'. He walked past as if Theron Blackwood were invisible air. Keep your head down. Make yourself scarce.
The deliberate ignorance was a blade twisting in his own chest, but he wielded it with precision. He heard Kain clear his throat awkwardly before resuming his report. Elias didn't look back.
The strategy extended beyond avoidance. When Brother Anselm, the aging infirmarian, shuffled into the scriptorium later that day, his brow furrowed with concern, Elias braced himself.
"Your Eminence," Anselm began, wringing his hands slightly. "It's Commander Blackwood. He sent word… complains of that old Mawfiend injury flaring again. A deep ache, he says. Requests… well, he usually requests your specific attention." Anselm looked troubled. "But given the Commander's… recent demeanor… and the whispers… perhaps it would be prudent if I attended him this time? My skills, while humble, are sufficient for such—"
Elias didn't let him finish. He looked up from the illuminated manuscript he was ostensibly studying, his expression one of mild, detached concern. "Ah, the Commander. A persistent ailment, it seems." His voice was calm, devoid of any personal inflection. "You are more than capable, Brother Anselm. My schedule is heavily burdened with preparations for the Pontifical envoy's arrival. Please, attend to the Commander with my blessing. Ensure he receives whatever comfort the Light, through your hands, can provide." He offered Anselm a small, impersonal smile, then returned his gaze to the manuscript, a clear dismissal. "Report back only if you encounter anything beyond your expertise."
Anselm blinked, surprised but also visibly relieved. "Of course, Your Eminence. Thank you, Your Eminence." He bowed and shuffled out, leaving Elias alone with the vibrant colors of the manuscript that suddenly seemed flat and meaningless.
Elias stared at the intricate border of vines and mythical beasts, unseeing. He imagined Theron receiving Anselm instead of him. The curt dismissal, the barely concealed impatience. The ache, real or fabricated, going unsoothed by the gentle, grounding warmth only Elias's Resonant Light could provide. The deliberate distance he enforced felt like a physical chasm, cold and isolating. He had obeyed Theron's brutal command to the letter. It was a necessary shield, a protection forged from ice. Yet, the cost was a constant, low thrum of painful detachment, a hollowness where the dangerous, vital connection had been.
Theron Blackwood stood on the western rampart later that afternoon, ostensibly reviewing the defenses. The wind whipped his hair back from his face, sharp and cold, carrying the distant scent of the city and the damp earth beyond the walls. Below, the training yard buzzed with activity, the clash of steel a familiar counterpoint to the wind's howl. But Theron wasn't seeing the drills. His gaze was fixed, unseeing, on the horizon.
He had seen Elias. Repeatedly. The Cardinal moving through the Cathedral like a silver ghost, serene and untouchable. Always looking away. Always walking past. The deliberate avoidance was a constant, grating presence. In the High Mass, Elias's downcast eyes had felt like a physical rejection. In the courtyard, the way Elias had walked past him, gaze fixed ahead, radiating an aura of obliviousness… it had ignited a spark of fury that quickly smoldered into something darker, more corrosive. It was a masterclass in icy indifference, executed with the precision Elias usually reserved for healing.
Then came Anselm. The old brother, earnest and nervous, arriving with his poultices and mumbled prayers instead of the cool, soothing Light Theron's body craved. The ache in his side, a genuine throb exacerbated by frustration and the cold stone he'd slept on during a border patrol, had deepened into a dull, persistent burn. Anselm's ministrations were kind, but utterly ineffectual. Theron had endured it with gritted teeth, his impatience a palpable thing that made the infirmarian fumble. He'd dismissed Anselm curtly, the old man scuttling away like a startled beetle.
Now, alone on the windswept rampart, the frustration boiled over. It wasn't just the physical discomfort, though that was a constant irritant. It was the distance. The enforced separation. He saw Elias's slender, grey-clad figure emerge from the scriptorium building below, heading towards the herb gardens. Elias walked alone, head slightly bowed, a picture of quiet contemplation. Theron's hand clenched on the cold stone parapet, the rough surface biting into his palm.
A low growl, more felt than heard, rumbled deep in his chest. It wasn't human. Beneath his skin, the dragon blood, usually a dormant ember, began to stir. It was a subtle heat at first, a warmth spreading from his core, coiling like a restless serpent. It responded to the roiling frustration, the suppressed anger, the sharp pang of… something dangerously close to hurt he refused to name. He felt it pulse, a low thrum against his ribs, a warmth that intensified the ache in his side rather than soothing it. His knuckles whitened on the stone. His vision seemed to sharpen preternaturally, the colors of the distant fields bleeding into hyper-saturated clarity, the sounds from the training yard below separating into distinct, almost painful clangs and shouts.
He forced a slow, deep breath through his nose, the cold air stinging. Control. Discipline. The tenets of his existence. He visualized locking the heat down, containing the restless energy. But the image of Elias's deliberately averted gaze, the memory of Anselm's fumbling hands instead of the Cardinal's cool, competent touch, fanned the embers. The heat flared, a sudden surge that made his muscles tense. He felt the familiar, dangerous prickle beneath his skin, the precursor to scales, to claws, to the fire that wanted to roar from his throat and scorch the source of his frustration.
No. He slammed his fist down on the parapet, the impact sending a jolt of pain up his arm, a welcome distraction. He leaned forward, bracing both hands on the cold stone, head bowed, breathing hard. The wind tore at his hair and cloak. Below, Elias disappeared among the rows of herbs, a flash of grey swallowed by green. Gone.
Theron squeezed his eyes shut, fighting the internal conflagration. The dragon blood surged again, a wave of heat and raw power that threatened to overwhelm his carefully constructed control. It mirrored the turmoil within – the frustration at the enforced separation, the anger at the whispers that necessitated it, the gnawing, unwanted ache of Elias's absence, and the dangerous, possessive fury ignited by the Cardinal's flawless, icy indifference. The deliberate distance was a shield for Elias, but for Theron, it was a brand, searing his control and stirring the ancient fire within into a dangerous, restless agitation. The Commander stood alone on the rampart, a man wrestling not just with his duty, but with the volatile beast in his blood, awakened and enraged by the painful void where connection used to be.