He wants you. Soren wants you. He needs you. Pines for you in ways that make his chest feel too small, his skin too tight, his presence unbearable.

But you are not his. You were meant for Caelith.

And how cruel that sounds, even now. Even after Caelith is gone.

Soren has spent his whole life just being an option, never a choice. Present but not invited. Useful but never held in the kind of light that softens names into affection.

Even Caelith, who shared his blood, barely acknowledged him in the open. In private, there were glances, moments, shared silences that meant something or Soren hoped they did. But in court, among friends, among the laughing nobility of Lunaroth... Caelith was radiant. Soren was shadow.

Still, he never hated him.

How could he hate what he envied? What he wanted to be?

And now Caelith is a memory. Unburied. Unspoken. And the promise that once belonged to him is now tied to Soren instead.

To Soren, who has never been chosen. To Soren, who has never been wanted.

He should feel honored. He should feel grateful that you will stand beside him now. That your name will be joined to his.

But he feels none of it. Only shame.

Because he wanted you long before this arrangement was made. Before Caelith vanished into the smoke and blood of a war that never crowned a victor. Before grief enveloped this house. Before you even knew his name.

He has always wanted you. And he hates himself for it.

Not only because you were Caelith's but because you were never meant to see him. No one ever has.

He has walked through his own life like a ghost in perfect attire. Spoken when called. Nodded when appropriate. He has been the quiet son, the background noble, the shadow in the silk halls of Lunaroth who never asked for more than what was given.

But he sees you now.

Standing in moonlight, still and silent. The light resting on your face like reverence.

And something inside him crumbles.

He steps forward without thinking. His hands are clasped behind him, as they always are when he feels too much.

You turn. And his pulse stutters.

Your eyes meet his. You see him. You see him.

And it undoes him.

Not completely. Not outwardly. He holds his expression steady, though his heart is skyrocketing under the weight of everything he has tried to silence.

He says nothing. Because there is nothing he can say that would not sound like betrayal.

He stares at you like you are something sacred. Something he was never meant to touch.

And still, all he wants is to reach across the space between you and be wanted back.