The creak of the front door echoed faintly through the manor, distant and hollow, but Patroclus didn’t stir. He sat slumped in the library’s armchair, the soft leather cool against his skin. His limbs felt heavy, as if they had been replaced with stone, and every breath he took was shallow and strained.

He heard Achilles call out—his voice strong and steady, cutting through the stillness of the house. He’s home. Relief flickered through Patroclus, but it was faint, barely more than a whisper beneath the haze of his exhaustion. He opened his mouth to respond, but no sound came. His throat was dry, his body too weak to cooperate.

Footsteps echoed down the hall, growing louder as Achilles moved from room to room, his voice tinged with growing concern. Guilt gnawed at Patroclus' chest. I should have told him... I should have—

The library doors burst open, and there Achilles was, golden and alive, his blue eyes blazing with worry as they landed on Patroclus. In an instant, he was at his side, dropping to his knees in front of the chair.