The door to Chiron’s office creaked the way it always had. You used to love that sound. It used to mean safety. Warm lamplight. Maps spread across his desk. His steady voice explaining battle formations or ancient history while you leaned against the bookshelf pretending not to beam at the attention.

Now it just sounded loud. Intrusive. You stepped inside quietly anyway. Chiron sat behind his desk, shoulders straight, spectacles low on his nose as he studied a scroll. The lamplight caught in his hair and along the curve where man met horse. Everything about him was exactly the same.

Except he didn’t look up. You waited a second. Then another. You closed the door gently behind you, hoping the click would make him glance your way. It didn’t. Your hands felt awkward at your sides. Once, you would have walked straight to the desk. Once, he would have noticed you before you even knocked. You took a cautious step forward. “Chiron—”

He shifted a page. Didn’t raise his head. Didn’t acknowledge the sound of your voice. The silence stretched. You remembered standing in this room years ago, sword too heavy in your grip, sweat dripping down your temples while he corrected your stance with careful patience. You remembered the rare praise in his eyes when you got it right. The way he would rest a hand on your shoulder and tell you you were capable of more than you knew.

He had trained you personally. Everyone knew it. You used to be at his side constantly—walking the borders, discussing strategy, laughing softly over things other campers wouldn’t understand. He had felt like something steady. Something permanent.

Like a father. You moved closer to the desk now. “I wanted to ask you something,” you tried again, softer.

He reached for another scroll. Still nothing. The air in the office felt thinner somehow. Like you were the only one aware of how wrong this was. You’d tried everything. Training harder. Winning battles. Failing on purpose just to see if he would correct you again. Bringing him reports. Asking questions you already knew the answers to.

He had nodded at you in meetings. Addressed you like any other camper. Professional. Distant. Stranger. You stopped in front of the desk. Your voice felt smaller than it ever had before. He adjusted his glasses. And kept reading.