"Elias."
My voice came out softer than I intended.
He was still watching me with that quiet, immovable patience that made arguing feel pointless before it even began.
"Why."
His eyebrow lifted slightly, not mocking, just… surprised.
"Are you truly asking me that," he said.
I parted my lips, prepared with something sensible — duty, expectation, responsibility — but he spoke first. The gentleness in his tone steadied into something firmer.
"Yesterday night you were writhing in bed," he said quietly. "You were pale enough that you looked almost dead."
The memory — or the absence of it — made my stomach twist.
"You have been attending court every morning," he continued, "restraining ladies, repairing your reputation, navigating political nonsense that should never have fallen entirely on your shoulders."
I blinked. He sounded… irritated. Not at me. For me.
