The moment breakfast ended, the grand hall emptied with sudden urgency, as if a quiet command had been given to disperse.
Lucien was the first to slip away, his footsteps measured and light as he murmured about sword practice.
Behind him, the twins, Cassian and Elias, melted into the shadows of the hallways, their whispered voices barely audible but filled with meaning.
They stole glances at Killian.
Their glances were sharp with curiosity, laced with unease.
Damon lingered the longest of all, his posture rigid and tense, eyes narrowed and distant, like a knight bracing for battle before finally taking his leave, with Vespera following suit.
Yet surprisingly, the Duke remained seated, watching with a silent, penetrating gaze.
He made no move to rise as the servants cleared the heavy plates from the table.
His quiet scrutiny weighed down on Killian like an unseen hand, pressing against his back, measuring, and judging.
Though no words passed between them, the Duke's look was colder and heavier than any spoken command.
Killain swallowed the lump in his throat as he got up.
The Duke silently stared at him as Killain straightened his spine, and lifted his chin up.
Killain's footsteps were steady but light, carrying him away from the suffocating grandeur of the hall and the expectations woven into every glance.
He moved toward the quieter back corridor, where the scent of polished wood and the faint warmth of kitchen steam filled the air.
This corridor was dimmer than in the dining hall.
Frasier stood just ahead, stepping out from the kitchen's archway.
His hands, rough and calloused, wiped on his threadbare apron, while his sleeves were rolled low, concealing the dark bruises mottling his pale wrists.
These marks, a map of hardship and unseen cruelty, spoke volumes of the long hours and harsher punishments he endured by the very people sworn to work alongside him.
The sharp bark of a kitchen maid cut through the corridor like a whip.
"Slow down, Frasier! Clumsy as always!" She spat.
Laughter followed.
It was cruel and sharp, echoing through the kitchen doors.
Frasier's jaw tightened, but the expression he wore was carefully crafted.
It was a mask of calm and endurance honed over years of torment.
He refused to let the bruises or the insults cut too deeply, even though each one left a sting beneath his skin.
But the moment his gaze found Killian's, something softened.
Fraiser's face lit up with a rare flicker of warmth and recognition that had long been buried beneath layers of pain.
"Young Master Eiden," Frasier said, voice low and hesitant, careful not to shatter the fragile peace between them.
Killian's breath caught, and he wrapped his arms protectively around himself.
A gentle warmth blossomed beneath his wrist where the soulmark rested, its subtle pulse stirring quietly.
"Don't call me Eiden," Killian said, voice steady despite the turmoil inside, "Call me Killian."
Frasier nodded, swallowing the words he hadn't dared say.
"Young Master Killian," Fraiser repeated, each syllable soft and solemn.
Killian's eyes flickered to the bruises just barely concealed beneath Frasier's sleeves.
They spoke not only of hard work but of darker things; anger, punishment, cruelty thinly veiled as discipline.
Yet when Frasier had helped him before in the dining room, he had moved with a tenderness that seemed almost fearful, as if afraid of breaking something far more fragile than skin.
"You look tired," Frasier said gently, stepping closer.
"Let me help." His voice held a thread of genuine concern.
Killian's skin prickled at the idea of touch.
Memories of cold hands and harsher reprimands flared at the edges of his mind, but Frasier's steady presence, quiet and kind, pulled him toward a strange comfort.
The echoing laughter of the kitchen staff still haunted the halls behind the door, but here, in this narrow passage bathed in dappled sunlight, only Frasier's gentleness filled the space.
Slowly, with cautious hesitation, Frasier reached out.
His fingers hovered briefly, waiting for Killain's response.
Killian hesitantly nodded before Fraiser lightly brushed against Killian's sleeve, lifting it to reveal a shallow scrape on the boy's arm.
Frasier produced a small hankerchief from his pocket and offered it with a gentle smile that barely touched his tired eyes.
Killian exhaled, a fragile surrender, and allowed Frasier to tend to the wound.
Killain extended his arm and Frasier began his treatment.
Frasier's touch was tender and deliberate, steady despite the ghosts of bruises lining his own skin.
Putting the hankerchief away, Fraiser got a small container of ointment from his pocket and spread it across Killain's wrist.
The ointment soothed the scrape, and Killian's breath caught in his throat, the quiet intimacy of the moment stirring a fierce protective feeling deep inside.
The pulse of their bond flickered faintly beneath his skin, shy but insistent, a secret dance between two souls struggling to reach one another.
When Frasier lowered the cloth, their eyes met.
In his gaze was an unspoken promise: silent, steady, unwavering.
"Better now," Frasier whispered.
Killain nodded.
Suddenly, a loud clang echoed from the kitchen, followed by a muffled curse.
Frasier's body stiffened for a heartbeat, a shadow of pain flickering across his features before he hastily masked it with his usual calm expression.
"Are you alright?" Killian asked, voice quieter than he meant it to be.
"They don't like me," Fraiser admitted quietly, voice barely audible, "But I'll protect you, Young Master Killian. Always."
Killian's chest tightened as warmth bloomed inside him despite the cold stones beneath his feet.
In that brief moment, the cruel world with the harsh voices, the biting judgments, fell away.
Once as delicate as a breath, the soul bond between them settled into place with a quiet, unshakable finality.
In this world, even soulmates didn't feel the full weight of their connection right away.
At first, the bond came like a whisper: faint, uncertain, and barely a tug under the skin.
It could fade if rejected, or remain dormant for years if left untouched.
But sometimes, in rare moments of trust or quiet sacrifice, the thread between two souls would tighten.
It rooted deeper, locking into something that could no longer be ignored.
That's what happened now.
It didn't crash into place.
It didn't blaze.
It simply was anchored beneath the skin, as if it had always been there, waiting for the exact second it was meant to belong.
Killain barely breathed.
He wasn't used to quiet things meaning anything good.
Not here or there.
The world he came from before this one.
He had never known gentleness, not truly.
Not since waking up in this life, and definitely not in that broken, miserable life from before.
Every touch he remembered had been sharp-edged or cold.
Every glance had carried weight.
Nothing was ever safe.
But Frasier's touch didn't push.
It didn't demand.
Frasier held his wrist like it was something precious.
Despite the darkness lurking beneath Frasier's calm exterior, Killian sensed in the gentleness of his actions that this wasn't done out of duty, nor because of the soul bond but because Frasier truly wanted to.
That made it worse, somehow.
Or better.
Killain didn't know what to think.
He was scared of being cared for but Frasier made him feel safe.
And Killain didn't know what to do with safety.
The soul bond beneath Killian's skin hummed, warm and steady, like a second heartbeat layered over his own.
It no longer flickered.
It stayed.
Permanent.
Undeniable.
And for the first time of both lives, Killain didn't want to run.
Killian swallowed the lump in his throat and glanced back once more toward the grand dinning hall, where his family once ate.
There, in that dining room, there were expectations, whispers, and threats waiting for him, but in the quiet of this hidden corridor, he found a fleeting sanctuary.
A place where his name, his true name, could be spoken softly and without judgment.
Frasier shifted slightly, as if drawn by an unseen tether to stay close, yet knowing he would soon have to retreat back into the shadows of the kitchen and its unrelenting cruelty.
Killian watched the tension flicker across Frasier's face: the fatigue, the pain, but also the strength, quietly burning beneath the surface.
As the afternoon light shifted and stretched, the two stood there, bound by a secret neither dared speak aloud, yet both desperately needed to hold onto.
A bond forged in bruises and whispered promises, fragile as the daylight slipping through the windows, but as real as the pulse that tied them together.
For Killian, it was the first true moment of hope in a life shadowed by betrayal and fear.
For Frasier, it was a reminder that even amidst the harshest wounds, kindness could bloom quietly and fiercely.