Ronan slowly stirred, his body feeling as if it were weighed down by stones. His eyes fluttered open, but the world around him was blurred, as if he were seeing it through a thick fog. A dull, constant ache pulsed in his head, like a distant drum beat that wouldn’t stop. He blinked several times, trying to clear his vision.
Shapes came into focus—Reginald standing nearby, his face as unreadable as ever, along with a few maids hovering around. One of them was pressing a warm, heated cloth against his forehead, the sensation soft but oddly soothing.
Reginald's eyes flicked over to him as soon as he moved. Without a change in expression, he said, “I’m glad to see you awake, Young Master Ronan.” His tone was formal, but there was the faintest hint of relief behind it.
That was weird. Wasn’t he supposed to be without emotions?
Ronan groaned slightly, trying to sit up, but his body protested, exhausted beyond belief. Every muscle ached, and his mind felt like it was wrapped in a thick blanket, suffocating him. When he tried to think—tried to focus on anything—the ache in his head sharpened, warning him to stay still.
Reginald watched him for a moment, then gave a nod. “I’ll inform the Lord that you’ve woken up.”
Ronan wanted to respond, but the effort felt like too much. Instead, he just sank deeper into the pillow, letting the faint heat from the cloth on his head offer what little comfort it could.
He stared up at the ceiling, too tired to care about anything beyond the weight pressing down on him. It was easier to stay still, to just exist in this fog, and let the world go on around him.
Not long after Reginald left, the door creaked open softly. Ronan’s tired eyes shifted toward the sound, and he saw Gideon enter the room, his usual composed expression softened by a hint of concern. The change was subtle, but in someone as guarded as Gideon, it was noticeable.
Gideon approached the bedside, his gaze lingering on Ronan for a moment before he spoke. “Don’t talk. Don’t even think, if you can help it,” he said, his voice firm but gentle.
Ronan lay still, the heaviness in his limbs making even the idea of speaking impossible. His head still throbbed, though the pressure had dulled just a tiny bit compared to when he first woke up, or maybe he was getting used to it. He let his eyes rest on Gideon, waiting, sensing that there was more to come.
Gideon pulled a chair closer to the bed and sat down, his movements deliberate, as if he were choosing each action with care. He glanced at Ronan’s forehead and then met his eyes again. “You’ve been asleep for a week.”
Ronan blinked, the information hitting him slowly, as if his mind was wading through thick mud to comprehend it. A week? He wanted to say something, but even the thought of forming words made his headache pulse painfully.
Gideon leaned back slightly, his gaze never leaving Ronan’s. “I knew it wasn’t my place to stop you from going through with the ritual,” he continued, “but what you did... that was dangerous. More dangerous than you realize.”
Ronan’s mind flickered with memories—fragments of the ritual, the searing pain, the feeling of his mind unraveling. He flinched at the thought but said nothing.
Gideon let the silence stretch for a moment, as if letting the weight of his words settle. “You were on the edge of something irreversible, Ronan,” he said, his voice softer now, but no less serious. “Pushing yourself like that, without understanding the risks... it could have cost you more than just a headache.”
For a brief moment, Gideon’s composure slipped, and Ronan could see genuine concern in his eyes. “I know you might think you’re insignificant. That you’re just another piece in a much larger game, and maybe on some level, we all are. But that’s not the complete truth.”
Ronan stared up at the ceiling, the words floating through the fog in his mind, hitting some part of him he hadn’t expected. Gideon’s tone shifted, becoming almost... personal.
“Life is precious, Ronan. Even with all the hardships, even when it feels unbearable.” He paused, as if choosing his next words carefully. “You need to learn to cherish it, even when it's hard.”
The silence that followed felt heavy, and Ronan found himself unable to look at Gideon. He couldn’t find his usual sarcastic edge, not with the weight of those words pressing on him.
Gideon stood up from the chair, straightening his coat. “Rest,” he said, his voice firm but kind. “You need to stay in bed for at least another week. Let your mind recover. The headache will fade in time, but don’t rush it. Give yourself the space to heal. We will talk later.”
He hesitated for a moment, as if he had more to say, but then turned and quietly left the room, leaving Ronan alone with his thoughts.
Despite Gideon’s warning not to think, Ronan couldn’t help it. It had been so long since someone had cared about him like that.
His life story wasn’t that unpredictable. He was only ten when his mother had died and thirteen since that terrible accident with sister had occurred. For years, it was him, and his grief. Even lying in the bed, he knew just a single thought about his mother and sister would bring him to tears.
He loved them.
He had never known his father.
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He had never known Raya’s father.
And he wondered. A noble, caring for a child from the slums. That sounded something completely illogical. It was something straight out of a dream. Something that weirdly made him scoff.
A noble, caring for a kid from the slums? The thought seemed ridiculous. People like him didn’t get saved by nobles, or anyone for that matter.
Still, as much as he wanted to dismiss the idea, it lingered. His mind, though foggy and aching, wouldn’t let go of Gideon’s words. The concern had been real—he couldn’t deny that. It wasn’t pity or some hollow attempt at nobility. Gideon’s warning had been firm, but behind it, there was something else. Maybe not love, but... care.
Stop it. He shook his head slightly, trying to push the thought away, but the effort made his headache flare. His fingers clenched around the blanket as memories of his mother and sister resurfaced, uninvited. The familiar ache of grief tightened in his chest, pressing against his ribs, sharp and relentless.
But now, lying here, sore and exhausted, something tugged at the corner of his mind. Why would someone like Gideon even bother with me?
With a frustrated sigh, Ronan closed his eyes, willing himself to stop thinking. I can handle this alone, like always.
***
Five days had passed since Ronan had woken up, and the lingering headache had dulled to a faint throb, though his mind still felt raw and fragile. Following the instructions he’d been given, he had rested, barely moving from bed, except for this—the garden.
The fresh air was a welcome escape from the heaviness of his thoughts. He wandered through the quiet paths, letting his mind drift, careful not to push too hard against the fragile boundaries of his consciousness. He stopped in front of a particular flower, its deep violet petals catching the light just right, making them look almost metallic. It was striking, standing out against the other plants around it, and there was something about it that made him pause.
As he knelt down to get a closer look, he was interrupted by a voice behind him.
"Ah, the Lyrias," the voice said, old and weathered but carrying a gentle warmth.
Ronan blinked and turned around, surprised. Standing just a few feet away was a very, very old man, bent slightly with age but with sharp eyes that twinkled beneath bushy white eyebrows. His skin was wrinkled, weathered by years in the sun, and his clothes were simple—a worn, earthy-colored tunic. Despite his age, the man exuded a kind of quiet vitality, like he was as much a part of the garden as the flowers themselves.
“The Lyrias,” the old man repeated, taking a few slow steps forward. “A rare flower, only blooms once every five years.”
Ronan straightened up, still feeling a little off-balance from the sudden intrusion. The old man’s gaze rested on the flower before turning back to Ronan, a soft smile on his lips.
“They say it represents resilience,” the man continued, his voice low but steady. “It endures the harshest conditions—long winters, scorching summers—yet, it always blooms. Always finds its way back to life.”
Ronan shifted, unsure if he liked where this conversation was heading. “Sounds like a lot of effort for a flower.”
The old man smiled faintly. “Maybe. But some things are worth the struggle, Young Master. It’s not about how often it blooms, but what it takes to get there.”
Ronan glanced back at the flower, the bright red pollen in the center looking like a pupil.
The old man straightened up, glancing around the garden with a quiet reverence. “Every flower here has its own tale. Some, you might say, reflect the people who tend to them.”
Ronan’s eyes followed the old man’s gaze, landing on a cluster of pale blue flowers growing low to the ground, their petals delicate yet spread wide, reaching hungrily toward the sun.
“That one there,” the old man pointed, “is Inveil. It blooms in the hottest seasons, thriving in drought when everything else withers away. Fragile-looking, isn’t it? But it’s stronger than it seems.” He paused, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Just like some people.”
Ronan raised an eyebrow. “You’re saying I’m a flower now?”
The old man chuckled softly, the sound deep and weathered by age. “Not exactly, Young Master. But nature teaches, if you care to notice. Some things look weak, but they’re the ones that endure the longest.”
Ronan crossed his arms, his gaze still on the Inveil. It felt strange, listening to an old man talk about flowers and strength, but something about it wasn’t irritating. In fact, it was... oddly comforting. Like this man understood something deeper about struggle that no one else had ever bothered to explain.
“What about that one?” Ronan asked, nodding toward a tall stalk with vibrant yellow petals, standing proudly in the sunlight.
The old man’s expression softened as he looked at it. “Ah, Solaris Crest. That one thrives under the most intense sunlight. It grows in places where the heat burns everything else. Its seeds wait, sometimes for years, before they find the right moment to bloom. But when they do, they grow beautiful.”
“How is it that these flowers are growing here? I don’t sense such a hot climate here.”
The old man smiled, as if expecting the question. “Ah, this garden isn’t just any garden, Young Master. I personally created this with the temperature control artifact the Lord gave me.”
Ronan nodded, the old man’s words swirling in his head. There was something almost poetic about the idea of these flowers enduring through harsh conditions, only to come out stronger.
Without meaning to, Ronan found himself touching the flower, the tension in his chest easing slightly. It wasn’t some life-altering moment, but it was something—an understanding that seemed to be quietly forming between him and the old man.
The old man dusted his hands off, his eyes twinkling with quiet knowing. “You don’t have to say much, Young Master. Sometimes, it’s enough just to sit and listen.”
Ronan looked at him for a long moment. He wasn’t sure what it was, but the old man’s presence felt... calming. He wasn’t pushing Ronan toward anything, just talking.
“Yeah,” Ronan muttered, his voice softer than usual. “I guess it is.”
The old man smiled, the lines in his weathered face deepening with warmth. He gave a slight nod, as if the conversation had done exactly what it was supposed to. Without another word, he turned and wandered back down the garden path, his steps slow and steady.
Ronan stood there a moment longer, his eyes lingering on the flowers. He still didn’t know what to make of it all, but there was a quiet comfort in knowing this place—and this old man—were here. The garden, the flowers, the quiet... It was like a small reprieve from everything else.
As the old man’s figure disappeared behind the hedges, Ronan finally turned and made his way back to the mansion.
Wait, what was his name again?