The residence granted to Caelan Aurelion Vale did not sit atop the highest spire of the Inner Manor, nor was it buried in the deepest sanctum. It occupied a deliberate middle—embedded into the mountain's inner face, where the stone was old enough to remember pressure, but close enough to the surface to feel the breath of the sky.
The corridor leading into it curved gently inward, walls smoothed by centuries of restrained use. Pale glyphsteel veins traced quiet lines along the stone, not glowing, merely present, as if the walls themselves were awake and listening. The temperature was controlled to a constant cool—neither cold nor warm—designed to sharpen thought rather than comfort the body.
Inside, the space opened.
The main chamber was broad and spare. A low hearth burned with steady white flame, its heat even and contained. To one side stood a long stone table polished to a soft sheen, set with simple but flawless utensils. Shelves lined the far wall, already half-filled with tablets, bound volumes, and crystalline record-slates—Thad's work, methodical and anticipatory.
Large openings in the stone revealed the mountains beyond, framed rather than exposed. Frostlight filtered in, illuminating the room without glare.
It was not a child's residence.
It was a place meant for endurance.
Bram stood just inside the threshold, turning slowly as he took it all in. His boots scuffed faintly against the stone floor as he craned his neck, eyes wide, grin tugging at his face despite himself.
"Well," he said at last, voice echoing lightly. "I don't know what I expected, but I'm pretty sure it wasn't 'ancient fortress monk aesthetic.'"
Caelan stood near the hearth, hands folded behind his back, posture straight and composed. He watched Bram's reaction in silence, eyes tracking the way Bram instinctively tested the space—how he leaned his weight into the floor, how his breathing synced with the room as if measuring whether it would hold him.
"It's functional," Caelan said. Short. Flat.
Bram snorted. "That's one way to put it. Another would be: if I trip in here, I feel like the floor itself would judge me."
A faint pause.
Then Caelan said, "It probably would."
Bram laughed, loud and unrestrained, the sound bouncing off stone that had not heard such a thing in a long time. He walked toward the window openings, planting his hands on the carved ledge and peering out at the distant glacier plains.
"Stars," he muttered. "You can see everything from here. Makes my old place look like a hole someone forgot to finish digging."
Caelan moved then, steps measured, stopping beside him. For a moment, neither spoke. The wind outside howled softly, filtered and broken by the mountain's embrace.
Thadric Emeran stood a short distance away, arranging a tea set on the stone table with practiced efficiency. The porcelain was dark, rimmed in silver, steam rising in thin, controlled spirals. His presence was quiet, unobtrusive—yet absolute.
Bram glanced over his shoulder. "So he just… lives here too?"
"He serves here," Caelan replied.
Thad did not look up. "I am assigned here," he said calmly. "Where my lord resides, I reside."
Bram tilted his head, studying him openly. "Huh. You're quieter than most walls I know."
"That is a compliment," Thad said, setting down the final cup. "Thank you."
=== === ===
They sat at the table soon after.
The tea was strong, bitter at first taste, warming as it settled. Bread followed—dense, layered with grains Bram didn't recognize, but devoured anyway. Thad replenished without comment, as if he'd already calculated exactly how much Bram would consume.
Bram leaned back in his chair, patting his stomach. "Okay, I take it back. This place is blessed."
Caelan took a slow sip of his tea. "You're overeating."
"Growing," Bram corrected cheerfully. "Very important process. You should try it sometime."
Caelan's gaze flicked to Bram's broad shoulders, the solid line of his neck, the way his presence seemed to anchor the space around him.
"I am," Caelan said. "Differently."
Bram hummed, nodding as if that made perfect sense. "Yeah. Figures. You always did things the complicated way."
That earned him a look.
But not a cold one.
Bram noticed. His grin softened, something quieter settling beneath it. He rested his elbows on the table, leaning forward slightly.
"So," he said, lowering his voice just a bit—not because of Thad, but because the moment demanded it. "This whole thing. Me staying here. You nearly starting a civil war over it." He chuckled. "You sure about this?"
Caelan did not answer immediately. He set his cup down with care, fingers resting against the stone.
"When I look at the future," he said, voice even, measured, "most paths fracture early. Too much pressure. Too little foundation." His eyes lifted to meet Bram's. "When I look at you, they don't."
Bram blinked.
Once.
Then he laughed again—but this time it was quieter, rougher around the edges. He scratched the back of his head, gaze drifting away.
"Damn," he muttered. "You always had a way of saying heavy things like they're just… observations."
"They are observations," Caelan replied.
Bram looked back at him. "Still counts."
There was a pause. Comfortable. Real.
"I don't get half of what's going on here," Bram admitted. "Titles, elders, rules that feel like they were written by people who hate fun. But I know this—" He tapped the table once. "Where you go, I'm going. Worked out pretty well last time."
Something tightened in Caelan's chest. Not pain. Recognition.
"Yes," he said quietly. "It did."
=== === ===
Thad approached then, refilling Caelan's cup first, then Bram's. His movements never interrupted the flow of conversation—only supported it, like stone supporting a flame.
Bram watched him for a moment. "You ever smile?"
Thad considered the question. "Rarely," he answered. "When I do, it is usually inefficient."
Bram grinned. "I like you already."
Caelan glanced at Thad. "You don't have to listen."
Thad inclined his head. "I do."
Bram raised an eyebrow. "See? Told you. Wall."
The evening stretched on.
They spoke of small things—food, training aches, the strange stiffness Bram felt when standing still too long now. Caelan explained, in longer sentences than he ever used with anyone else, how the Bastion bloodline reinforced posture and weight distribution. Bram listened, asked questions, joked about becoming an immovable statue.
They spoke of the House. Of the looks Bram had received. Of the silence that followed Caelan wherever he went.
"Doesn't bother you?" Bram asked at one point. "Everyone staring like you're about to crack the world in half?"
Caelan stared into the hearth. The white flame reflected in his ash-gray eyes, deepening them.
"No," he said. Then, after a moment, "It used to. Before."
Bram nodded. "Guess that makes sense."
The fire burned on. The mountain held.
And for the first time since the ritual, Caelan allowed himself to sit—not as an heir, not as an anomaly—but as a boy sharing a table with the one person who made the world feel… aligned.
Whatever came next, they would face it from here.
Together.