The fragile peace of Elias Vance's afternoon was shattered not by a knock, but by the door to his private study flying open with enough force to crash against the stone wall. Theron Blackwood stood framed in the doorway, a tempest given human form. The controlled intensity that usually radiated from him had boiled over into palpable, crackling fury. His amber eyes, normally sharp and assessing, burned with a cold, dangerous fire. He filled the doorway, his broad shoulders tense, his jaw clenched so tightly Elias could see the muscle jumping beneath the skin. The air in the study, previously filled with the quiet scent of parchment and ink, instantly thickened with the ozone tang of barely leashed rage.
Elias, seated at his desk reviewing a theological treatise, jolted upright, his quill clattering to the floor, a fresh inkblot spreading across the vellum like a dark omen. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. "Commander!" he gasped, the formal title slipping out automatically, a shield against the raw aggression pouring off the man. "What—?"
Theron didn't wait for an invitation. He strode into the room, the heavy tread of his boots echoing like drumbeats in the confined space. He slammed the door shut behind him with a finality that made Elias flinch. He didn't approach the desk; he stopped a few paces away, radiating fury like heat from a forge, his gaze pinning Elias to his chair with the force of a physical blow.
"Whispers," Theron spat the word as if it were poison. His voice was low, gravelly, stripped of any pretense of deference or respect. It was the voice of a Commander addressing a subordinate who had dangerously overstepped. "Foul, crawling things. Spreading through the barracks like rot. Do you know what they whisper about, Your Eminence?" The honorific was laced with corrosive sarcasm.
Elias's blood ran cold. He knew. The image of Kain silencing the knights in the refectory flashed through his mind. He saw the speculative glances, heard the hushed tones that fell silent whenever he or Theron approached. He opened his mouth, perhaps to feign ignorance, perhaps to protest, but Theron cut him off with a sharp, dismissive gesture.
"Spare me your holy platitudes," Theron snarled, taking a single, predatory step closer. The distance between them shrank, charged with his anger. "They whisper about you. About me. About the frequency of my visits to this…" He gestured violently around the quiet study, his lip curling slightly in distaste, "...this sanctum of yours. They whisper about 'undue attention'. About 'unseemly familiarity'." His voice dropped even lower, becoming lethally soft. "They whisper things that could stain your precious Cardinal's robes with mud far thicker than demon ichor."
Elias felt the words like physical blows. Shame and fear warred within him, heating his face. "Commander, I assure you, I have done nothing—"
"Nothing?" Theron barked a harsh, humorless laugh. He closed the remaining distance in one stride, looming over the desk, forcing Elias to crane his neck to meet his furious gaze. Theron planted his fists on the polished wood, leaning forward, invading Elias's space completely. The heat radiating from him was stifling. "Your very existence in my proximity is 'doing something', Priest! Your 'unique gift'," he sneered the term, "your… fragility… it draws attention! Unwanted attention!"
Elias recoiled instinctively, pushing his chair back, the legs scraping harshly on the stone floor. "I have sought only to offer healing, as my vows demand!" he protested, his voice trembling despite his effort to control it. The accusation felt unjust, cruel.
Theron's hand shot out faster than a striking serpent, not to strike, but to grip Elias's wrist where it rested on the arm of the chair. His grip was like iron, not bruising, but inescapable, conveying absolute dominance. Elias gasped at the contact, the sudden heat, the raw power contained in that grasp. Theron leaned down even further, his face mere inches away. Elias could see the flecks of gold in his dilated, furious eyes, the faint lines of strain etched around them, the pulse beating rapidly at the base of his throat. The fury was absolute, terrifying.
"Listen to me, Priest," Theron hissed, his breath hot against Elias's cheek. "Listen well, for I will not repeat myself. 'Heed your own counsel, Your Eminence.'" The formal address dripped with venomous sarcasm. "Mind your own sanctified business. Keep your head down, your gaze lowered, and your healing hands to yourself unless explicitly summoned by the Chapter Master himself." Each word was a shard of ice, deliberately hurled. "Do not seek me out. Do not linger where I might pass. Make yourself scarce. Invisible."
He tightened his grip infinitesimally, emphasizing his point. Elias felt the bones in his wrist protest, a sharp counterpoint to the icy dread flooding his veins. Theron's gaze bored into his, demanding absolute submission.
"Let the idle tongues wag about someone else's shadow," Theron continued, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous rasp. "Your sainted reputation is gossamer thin, Vance. Easily torn by the claws of rumor. Do not let those fools' idle chatter tarnish the only thing of value you possess in this viper's nest." The insult was deliberate, meant to wound, to distance. "Keep your distance. For your own cursed good."
He released Elias's wrist abruptly, as if the contact had become distasteful. Elias snatched his hand back, cradling it instinctively, the skin burning where Theron's fingers had been. The pain was nothing compared to the icy blade of rejection twisting in his chest.
Theron straightened to his full, imposing height, looking down at Elias with an expression of cold contempt. The fury was still there, banked but glowing hot beneath the surface. Yet, as Elias met his gaze, wounded and reeling, he caught it – the barest flicker beneath the molten amber rage. A fractional softening, a fleeting shadow of something that looked suspiciously like… concern. It was gone in an instant, masked by the hard set of his jaw, the deliberate clenching of his fists at his sides, as if physically restraining himself from saying more. The harsh lines around his eyes seemed etched with a different kind of strain – not just anger, but the strain of delivering a necessary, brutal blow.
The message was delivered. The warning, brutal and final. Theron didn't wait for a response, didn't acknowledge the hurt shining in Elias's wide blue eyes. He turned on his heel, his cloak swirling with the violence of his movement, and strode from the study. He slammed the door shut behind him with a force that rattled the shelves and sent a small vase of dried lavender tumbling to the floor, scattering fragrant purple dust like shattered peace.
Elias sat frozen in the echoing silence, the harsh words ringing in his ears: 'Mind your own sanctified business… Keep your distance… For your own cursed good.' The iron grip on his wrist still tingled. The deliberate insults – 'fragility', 'gossamer thin', 'viper's nest' – burned. He understood. Intellectually, he saw the jagged shape of Theron's protection, the desperate attempt to build a wall of harshness between them to shield Elias from the venomous whispers. Theron was offering the only armor he knew: distance and disdain.
But understanding did nothing to dull the sharp, unexpected pain. It lanced through the fear and the shame, clean and deep. It wasn't just the public humiliation implied, or the threat to his position. It was the deliberate cruelty in Theron's tone, the contempt in his eyes, the physical assertion of dominance. It was the shattering of the fragile, dangerous intimacy that had blossomed in the quiet of the meditation chamber, replaced by this icy, public rejection. Theron was pushing him away, violently, definitively, for his own protection. And the part of Elias that had craved the Commander's presence, that had resonated with his hidden pain and strength, felt brutally severed.
He looked down at his wrist, the skin faintly reddened. He could still feel the ghost of that iron grip, the terrifying heat. He could still see that fleeting, hidden flicker of concern beneath the fury. It was that flicker, that tiny, almost invisible crack in Theron's armor, that made the pain so much worse. Because it meant the harshness wasn't entirely real. It meant Theron cared enough to wound him. And that knowledge, instead of offering solace, twisted the knife of rejection even deeper. The warning was meant to protect, but all it had done was leave Elias feeling profoundly, unexpectedly, and dangerously alone. The covert pull had been severed, leaving behind a raw, aching wound.