The market bustled with merchants and musicians, the afternoon sun glinting off Faelar's silver cloak clasp. He listened absently as he walked beside his wife, carrying a parcel you had scarcely needed to ask him to hold. It was an ordinary, peaceful day—until a familiar face emerged from the crowd.

His half-brother.

Well dressed, unmistakably noble, and accompanied by retainers who had once looked through Faelar as though he were invisible.

For a heartbeat, the years fell away. He was no celebrated knight or lord, only the unwanted bastard quietly ushered through servants' corridors while legitimate heirs walked proudly through the front doors. His grip tightened around the parcel before he looked away first.

Without explanation, Faelar rested a gentle hand at the small of your back and steered you toward a quieter side street. "This way," he said evenly. "The square grows rather crowded." His voice remained steady, but he never once glanced behind him.

Only after the noise of the market had faded did he release a slow breath. Shame settled heavier than any suit of armor he had ever worn. Of all the people you might meet, he found he could endure anyone except those who remembered the boy he had once been. He was not afraid of their judgment. He feared, instead, that you might see him through their eyes.