"You say that," she said softly, "but I don't believe you've suffered like he has."
Francis lowered his gaze. "No. I probably haven't. But I've paid. And I still am."
Silence stretched again between them, thick with the gravity of everything they'd never said.
"Whatever." she said.
"He doesn't need you anyway, just stay away from him. He is got enough to deal with without you dragging more weight into his life."
Francis didn't respond right away. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter. Not defensive. Just tired. "How is he?"
Nyxara hesitated. Her posture stiffened, arms crossing over her chest as if bracing against the truth.
Nyxara looked away. "He is… fine. I think. But..." Her voice faltered.
"But he's not stable." Francis filled in the blank. Finishing the sentence for her.
She gave him a long look. "No. He's not."
She leaned against the desk, as if the weight of the admission made her legs ache.
"He's… functioning. He doesn't say much. Doesn't sleep much. He just spends his time with Norin, fussing over him, and… thinking. Too much."
Francis allowed a small, hopeful smile.
"Norin. Your child?"
"Who else?" she said, eyes softening briefly, not for Francis, but for the thought of Yoon and the boy. "Yoon's being the best uncle anyone could ask for."
He chuckled faintly, unable to picture it. "I bet he hated it at first."
Nyxara's smirk returned, faint but real. "He did. You should've seen his face the first time Norin hugged him. Looked like someone stabbed him."
"He still pretends to hate it, but the kid's got him."
"He's wrapped around that boy's finger."
They stood in a long moment, not too uncomfortable now. Quieter now. Not soft, but less sharp.
Francis broke it. "Do you think… will he want to see me?"
Nyxara groaned, scrubbing a hand across her face. "I told you, I don't know. And even if I did, I wouldn't tell you."
"Just a hint...Please."
She stared at him. He looked… tired. Worn down.
She saw the fatigue. The weight behind his eyes.
After a long pause, she shrugged.
"Look," she said finally, folding her arms. "I don't know. But…"
"But?" he pressed.
A sly smile touched her lips. "But I have a feeling you'll get your answer soon. Whether you want it or not."
Francis studied her face, searching for lies.
She gave him nothing.
He sighed, sinking into his chair, dragging a hand through his hair. "I hope so," he whispered. "I don't think I can take much more of this waiting."
She heard it, the pain beneath the words, but pretended she didn't. How pathetic, she thought. And yet…
"Can I ask a favor?" he said suddenly, voice almost pleading.
"Hell no." She deadpanned, didn't miss a beat.
"Please… if he ever even thinks of coming to see me, just… don't stop him."
"I said no, jackass."
"I'm not asking for forgiveness. I just… want a chance."
Nyxara sighed, exasperated. "He never listens to anyone anyway," she muttered. "You should know that better than anyone."
She moved toward the window again, pausing before she vanished.
"Stop with whatever you are trying to do." she said, not turning back. "You are cornering him, you are no different than the old bastards. It is annoying."
"Let him be. And he will come to you."
And then she was gone.
Francis sat down slowly, the study too quiet again. He stared out into the trees.
And far away, by a river, Yoon stood alone, watching the water flow.
The sky above him was starless, the water below sluggish and murky, heavy with the season's change. The moon's reflection rippled in broken patterns, distorted with every breath of wind.
He held a stone in his hand. Smooth, cold.
fingers curled loosely around it.
He hadn't thrown it yet.
But he was thinking about it
He hadn't been able to sleep. Not that it surprised him. He had, after all, been asleep for centuries. The concept of rest had lost all meaning.
The world was quiet around him. The kind of quiet that whispered, not comfort—but absence.
He turned the stone over in his palm.
Thinking. Always thinking.
Fragments of dreams. Fragments of voices.
He could still feel the chains sometimes. Phantom weight. He still jolted awake some nights, convinced he was back in the dark.
But he wasn't.
He was free.
And still, here he stood. Halfway between silence and action.
He hadn't thrown the stone yet.
But he was thinking about it.