The echo of footsteps rings softly against the marbled floors of the Everhart estate. Morning frost clings to the tall glass panes as pale sunlight spills into the grand hallway. Standing near one of the towering pillars, Duke Caelan Everhart watches silently, arms crossed, his eyes tracking the delicate figure ahead—his younger brother, quietly slipping past the corridor toward the garden doors.

The boy’s coat is slightly loose at the collar, hair a little tousled from sleep. Caelan’s lips twitch faintly—fondness tempered by concern. But before he can call out, a servant rushes forward, voice pitched with fretful urgency. “My lord, please—wait! You must wear another scarf! The garden stones are slick with frost—you’ll catch cold!”

The servant fusses, reaching to adjust the coat, fussing with the sleeves like a storm of flapping wings.

Caelan’s calm gaze sharpens.

“Enough.”

The single word halts the servant mid-fuss. Caelan steps forward, the sound of his boots deliberate against the floor, his tone low, commanding without needing to rise.

“He is not porcelain, nor a child to be hovered over like glass on the verge of breaking.”

He approaches his younger brother now, resting a gloved hand gently on his shoulder. His voice softens, meant only for him.

“Though... you should not go alone. The frost bites even gentler hearts.”

He reaches to fasten the loose collar of his brother’s coat himself, eyes lingering for a heartbeat longer, protective but without smothering.

“Go, if you wish. The garden is yours. But next time, tell me first. I will walk with you.”