Page 60 of Elemental Becoming

On the opposite wall, a large map of Lumoria stretches nearly from floor to ceiling—the same tapestry that hangs in Thane’s room.

Its presence here makes me pause. The weight of history, of war, of the ever-changing borders of the realm, a silent reminder of the world beyond these walls.

Scattered throughout the room, several members of the household staff move with quiet efficiency. A woman smooths the bedding. A man adjusts items on a nearby table. Others tend to the Warlord who once ruled these halls, with a gentle hand.

They have not abandoned him.

Thane steps forward. I follow.

Elira enters behind us. I glance back, raising a brow slightly. She gives a small, reassuring nod.

I return it, grateful she understands without words.

The doors close behind us with a heavy thud.

In the sitting area, Thane’s father sits on a long, cushioned couch.

He looks older than I expected. The golden hair I saw in the family portrait has gone entirely gray, his beard neatly trimmed, his face lined not just with age, but with something heavier. He wears simple clothes, a dark tunic, casual trousers, but even they seem slightly loose on him, as if he has lost weight he never meant to lose. A pair of reading glasses rests on the bridge of his nose, an unexpected detail that softens the image of the warlord I had imagined.

Beside him, a chamber attendant sits close, speaking gently, coaxing him to eat. A plate rests on the low table before him, holding fresh fruit, eggs, and bacon. The meal is mostly untouched.

There is something strangely intimate about the scene—this once-mighty ruler, draped in the quiet comforts of his quarters, not commanding armies but being cared for.

Thane’s posture goes rigid beside me. I feel it in the way his breathing shifts, the way his fingers flex once at his side before stilling.

The attendant looks up at our approach and bows her head. “My Lord,” she murmurs before rising.

She hesitates, glancing at the untouched plate.

Thane’s voice is quiet but firm. “It’s all right. Leave it. I will feed him.”

She nods once before stepping away, disappearing into the background of the room like the others.

I turn back to his father.

He sits in silence, his gaze fixed somewhere ahead of him, unfocused. His shoulders slope forward, his hands resting loosely in his lap, as though even lifting them would take more effort than he has to give.

I expect something: a reaction or recognition of Thane’s presence. But when his eyes finally lift, it is sluggish, as though he’s pushing through something thick and impenetrable just to focus.

And then he sees him.

For a moment, the only sounds are the quiet creak of the wooden beams above us and the soft rustling of the chamber attendants moving about the room.

Then something shifts, barely perceptible.

His gaze lingers on Thane, as though trying to reconcile memory with what stands before him now. But it’s not the sharp appraisal of a father sizing up his son or the warmth of a reunion long overdue.

A faint crease forms between his brows, as if somewhere beneath the weight of it all, he understands that time has passedand that the boy he once knew is gone.

But whatever flickers behind his eyes, he does not speak.

Thane doesn’t either.

I glance at him, at the rigid set of his jaw, the way his fingers flex once against his thigh before stilling again. Whatever emotions churn beneath the surface, he keeps them locked away beneath that quiet, unshakable control he has spent years perfecting.

And yet, I see it.

The hesitation. The weight of all the years lost between them.