The weight of the Pontiff's expectation and the lingering, guilty heat of his Theron-haunted dreams pressed down on Elias Vance like the cathedral's stone vaulting. He craved open air, space, anything to dispel the claustrophobic sense of being watched, judged, and at war with his own treacherous subconscious. His usual paths felt tainted – the infirmary by Averey's recent oily presence, the library by the specter of Marcus's doctrinal scrutiny. He found his steps, seemingly of their own accord, leading him towards the eastern cloister walk. It offered a view of the inner gardens, yes, but more importantly, it ran parallel to the vast, sun-drenched expanse of the Holy Knights' training grounds.
He told himself it was for the breeze. For the distraction of watching disciplined movement. Anything but the truth that pulsed beneath the surface, a truth the Moonbloom Essence and his own dreams had ruthlessly exposed.
Emerging onto the covered walkway, the sounds hit him first. The rhythmic, powerful thwack of wooden practice swords meeting padded shields. The grunts of exertion. The barked commands of sergeants. And beneath it all, the low thrum of focused masculine energy. Sunlight, bright and unfiltered by stained glass, poured onto the dusty field, making the air shimmer slightly over the packed earth.
He leaned against a cool stone pillar, half-hidden in the arched shadow of the cloister. His gaze, almost against his will, swept the field, searching, drawn by a magnetic pull he could no longer deny. And there he was.
Theron Blackwood stood at the center of a group of younger knights, demonstrating a complex disarming maneuver. He wasn't clad in full plate, just a sleeveless training tunic of dark linen and sturdy leather breeches tucked into worn boots. The sun glinted off the sweat already sheening his powerful arms and shoulders, highlighting the intricate play of muscle beneath taut skin as he moved. He was pure, contained power. A force of nature distilled into human form.
Elias watched, transfixed. Theron's movements were a breathtaking blend of brute strength and lethal grace. He demonstrated the maneuver slowly at first, explaining the footwork, the angle of the wrist, the transfer of weight. Then, with a sudden, explosive fluidity that made Elias's breath catch, he flowed through it at combat speed. His body became a weapon, every muscle coiling and releasing with predatory efficiency. The wooden practice sword in his hand wasn't wood; it was an extension of his will, a blur of controlled violence. He moved like water finding its path, like fire consuming fuel – utterly focused, utterly dangerous, and utterly mesmerizing.
Sunlight caught the droplets of sweat tracing paths down the strong column of his neck, over the defined planes of his chest visible through the damp tunic, and along the powerful cords of his forearms. Each bead seemed to sparkle, emphasizing the raw, vital masculinity radiating from him. This wasn't the stern Commander in polished armor, nor the shadowy figure in the gallery. This was Theron stripped down to his essential power, elemental and fiercely alive. The sheer presence of him, the untamed energy barely leashed by discipline, was a stark, intoxicating contrast to the cool, controlled sanctity of Elias's world.
Elias forgot to breathe. The ache in his bones, the weight of the crimson promise, the guilt of his dreams – all receded, drowned out by the sheer visual force before him. He watched Theron correct a knight's stance, his large hand firm but not unkind on the younger man's shoulder, his low voice carrying a note of instruction Elias couldn't quite make out but felt in his bones. He watched the ripple of muscle across Theron's back as he demonstrated a powerful overhead block. He watched the focused intensity in Theron's profile, the slight furrow of concentration between his brows, the way the sunlight turned his usually sharp black hair into strands of dark silk.
He was lost. Utterly and completely absorbed. The cloister walk, the cathedral, the Pontiff, his own vows – they ceased to exist. There was only Theron in the sunlight, sweat gleaming on his skin, moving with the lethal, beautiful precision of a hunting dragon. A warmth, entirely different from the Moonbloom's artificial calm, began to bloom deep within Elias's chest, spreading outwards, chasing away the lingering chill of guilt and apprehension. It was a warmth of pure, unadulterated admiration, laced with something far more dangerous, something that felt perilously close to the yearning heat of his dreams.
He didn't know how long he stood there, hidden in the pillar's shadow, drinking in the sight. Long enough for Theron to finish the demonstration and turn to observe the knights practicing the move in pairs. Long enough for Theron's gaze, sharp and instinctively scanning his surroundings even while instructing, to sweep across the cloister walk.
It happened in a heartbeat. Theron's head turned, his amber eyes, narrowed in assessment, passing over the shaded arches. They swept past Elias's pillar… then snapped back. Locked.
Elias froze. The warmth flooding him instantly crystallized into icy panic. Theron's gaze wasn't the fierce intensity of his dreams, nor the urgent concern of the gallery. It was pure, unadulterated awareness. He hadn't just seen a figure in the shadows; he'd seen Elias. Seen him watching. Seen him transfixed.
Those golden eyes held his across the sunlit distance. There was no anger, no reproach. Just a profound, unsettling stillness. A knowing. It lasted only a fraction of a second, but it felt like an eternity laid bare. Theron didn't smile, didn't frown. He simply looked, and in that look, Elias felt completely, utterly exposed. Every stolen glance, every dream-fueled fantasy, every illicit thrill he'd felt watching Theron move – it all felt laid bare under that piercing amber stare.
Panic seized Elias's throat. The guilt roared back, tenfold. The Pontiff's warning screamed in his mind. Unnecessary drains. Guard your reserves. Focus. He had been anything but focused. He had been utterly consumed.
With a gasp that was almost a sob, Elias wrenched his gaze away. He didn't think, didn't plan. He simply moved. Pushing himself off the pillar, he turned sharply, robes swirling around his legs. He didn't run – running would draw more attention. But he walked with a speed and stiffness that was entirely unlike his usual measured pace. He kept his head down, eyes fixed on the worn stone flags of the cloister floor, his cheeks burning as if scorched by the very sunlight he'd been basking in moments before.
He didn't look back. He couldn't. The image of Theron's sweat-sheened power was seared onto his retinas, but it was the piercing stillness of that final, knowing glance that sent shivers down his spine. He felt it like a physical touch, branding him. He fled the cloister walk, not towards the gardens he'd pretended to seek, but back into the dim, safe anonymity of the cathedral's echoing interior, the phantom scent of dust, leather, and male sweat clinging to him like an accusation. The stolen moment of sunlight and admiration had ended, leaving only the chilling echo of discovery and the frantic drumbeat of his own terrified heart. He hadn't just watched Theron; he'd been seen watching. And the dragon knight's silent acknowledgment felt more dangerous than any spoken word.