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The practice yard rang with magic.
The sound climbed the pale stone walls of the castle, sharp and resonant, echoing through the open arches and dissolving into the high blue air. Will stood at the edge of the eastern balcony, fingers curled tight around the limestone rail. The stone was warm where the sun had touched it, rough beneath his skin, grounding in a way nothing else ever quite managed.
Below, the court mages moved in disciplined arcs across the packed earth. Sigils flared bright and clean, light snapping like sparks before settling into something controlled. Fire bloomed and vanished. Stone lifted, then obediently sank back into place.
Will’s breath hitched.Magic stirred behind his ribs, instinctive and restless, heat crawling down his arms. The wards threaded through the balcony responded at once, a soft hum vibrating through the stone, through him. Not painful. Never painful. But undeniably firm.
“Will,” his mother said gently, already stepping closer. “Honey, don’t lean like that.”
He stiffened and stepped back, boots scraping against the stone. He hated how automatic it was.
“I’m fine,” he said, jaw tight.
Joyce smiled with visible relief and smoothed a hand down his sleeve, careful as if even that touch might bruise him. “I know. I just don’t want you getting hurt.”
“I won’t,” Will muttered. He swallowed the rest of the words before they could escape.
Beside them, Jonathan’s eyes tracked the yard, sharp and watchful. “That’s enough for today,” he said finally. “You’ve been here for a while.”
“They get to practice,” Will snapped, gesturing toward the mages below.
Jonathan glanced at him, guilt flickering across his face. “They’ve been trained.”
So have I. Or I could be. If you let me.
Will turned away before either of them could read his face.
“That’s why we brought him,” Joyce said quickly, voice lifting as she gestured toward the archway behind them. “He’ll be keeping you safe.”
Will turned—and froze.
The boy standing a few paces back was younger than he’d expected. Maybe his age. Maybe just a year or two older. He wore a paladin’s training tabard that still looked stiff and new, the white bright against the worn leather beneath. His sword hung unused at his side, and his boots bore scuffs like he’d been pacing, waiting.
He held his helm tucked under one arm, fingers shifting restlessly against the rim.
“This is Michael,” Joyce said. “He’s been assigned to you.”
Assigned.
Will felt something sharp twist in his chest.
“I don’t need a guard,” he said flatly.
Mike startled, eyes flicking up. Brown, steady eyes. Not cold. Not afraid. Just—watchful.
“I know,” Mike said.
The answer threw Will off enough that he frowned. “Then why are you here?”
Mike didn’t bristle. Didn’t straighten up or defer. He just shifted his weight slightly, like he was getting comfortable where he stood. “Because your mother asked for someone to walk with you. Not to stop you.”
“That’s the same thing,” Will said.
Mike shook his head, slow and deliberate. “It doesn’t have to be.”
Will scoffed and turned away, already done with him.
They started down the corridor toward the inner gardens. The castle swallowed the sounds of the yard behind them, replacing it with echoing footsteps, the distant clang of steel, the faint murmur of voices carrying through vaulted stone. Sunlight streamed through stained glass, casting fractured color across the floor—reds and blues and gold that shifted with every step.
Mike walked a half-step behind Will.
Too close.
“Don’t crowd me,” Will snapped without looking back.
“Okay,” Mike said immediately—and slowed.
Not dramatically. Not offended. Just enough to give Will space.
That made Will angrier.
“You don’t have to pretend,” he said. “I know what this is. You’re here to watch me.”
“Well yeah, I’m supposed to watch you.” Mike replied.
Will spun on him. “I don’t need help.”
Mike met his glare evenly. “I didn’t say you did.”
They stared at each other for a moment, the air between them humming—not with magic this time, but something else. Will felt the familiar prickle under his skin, the reflexive surge of power that always came with frustration.
Mike noticed.He didn’t reach for his sword. Didn’t tense.
He just shifted his stance, grounding himself, and waited.
The magic ebbed, confused by the lack of fear.
Will scowled and turned away again.
They passed into the inner gardens, where ivy crept up the stone walls and fountains whispered softly over carved marble. The air smelled of damp earth and crushed leaves, cool and shaded after the sunlit yard.
Will cut across the path abruptly, vaulting a low stone wall instead of taking the proper walkway. He expected Mike to shout. To warn him.
Instead, Mike vaulted it too.
Cleanly. Easily. No comment.
Will blinked and kept walking, pace quickening. He ducked under a low-hanging branch, brushing leaves from his hair. Mike followed without complaint, without reaching out to steady him.
“You’re bad at this,” Will muttered.
“At guarding?” Mike asked.
“At hovering,” Will said. “You’re supposed to tell me not to do things.”
Mike considered that. “But you’re not doing anything wrong?”
The words landed strangely, warm and unsettling.
They reached the edge of the garden where the castle wall dropped away into a view of the valley below. Will stopped without thinking, breath catching at the sight. Wind rushed up from the drop, cool against his face, carrying the smell of pine and distant rain.
Mike stopped too—but not beside him. A few steps back. Close enough to be there. Far enough to let Will stand on his own.
“You’re not afraid I’ll fall?” Will asked quietly.
Mike shook his head. “You know where your feet are. And if you do fall, then I’ll help. But you’re not falling.”
Will stared out at the valley, magic humming low and steady in his chest.
No one had ever said that to him.
Something inside him shifted—small, but undeniable.
Oh.
He glanced back at Mike, really looking this time. The way he stood. The way he watched without judgement. The way his presence felt less like a wall and more like ground.
Oh.
For the first time, being guarded didn’t feel like being caged. It felt peaceful. Safe.
They didn’t leave the overlook right away.
Will stood with his hands braced on the stone edge, wind tugging at his hair, the valley spread wide and endless below them. The castle behind them hummed softly—footsteps in distant halls, the faint ring of steel from the yard—but out here, it felt quieter. Like the world had narrowed to just the two of them.
Mike stayed where he was. He didn’t hover over him like he was a toddler.
“You’re supposed to tell me not to do that,” Will said again, almost like he was testing the words now.
Mike glanced at the drop, then back at Will. “You weren’t going to fall.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do,” Mike said simply. “You plant your weight before you lean. You did it on the balcony too.”
Will frowned despite himself. He hadn’t realized Mike had been watching that closely.
“You watch people a lot?” he asked.
Mike shrugged. “It helps.”
Will snorted. “That’s creepy.”
“Maybe,” Mike agreed, unbothered. “But it means that I can usually tell what’s going on.”
That made something in Will’s chest loosen, just a fraction.
They started back along the garden path, gravel crunching beneath their boots. The fountain burbled softly as they passed, cool mist brushing Will’s knuckles. His magic stirred in response—quiet this time, curious rather than restless.
“You always going to trail behind me like that?” Will asked.
“Only if you want me to.”
Will stopped short. “What if I don’t?”
“Then I won’t.”
He turned, expecting argument. None came.
Mike had already slowed, giving him space again without hassle.
“That’s not how guards work,” Will said suspiciously.
Mike smiled a little. Not smug. Just—soft. “That’s how I work.”
Will didn’t know what to say to that, so he didn’t say anything at all.
Later, in the west corridor, the castle grew cooler. The stone walls here were thicker, the light dimmer, torches flickering low. Will felt it before it happened—the familiar pressure behind his eyes, the prickle along his arms.
Magic building.
He slowed, breath hitching.
Mike noticed immediately. “Do you want to stop?”
“No,” Will said quickly, then more carefully, “I mean— It’s fine.”
Mike nodded. “Okay.” No insistence. No reaching.
They walked another dozen steps before the magic surged harder, a flicker of light crackling along Will’s fingertips. He hissed and shoved his hands into his sleeves, heart racing.
“Sorry,” he said automatically.
“For what?” Mike asked.
“For—” Will gestured vaguely. “That.”
Mike tilted his head, studying the faint glow that hadn’t quite faded yet. “Does it hurt?”
“No,” Will said. Then, after a beat, “Well, sometimes it does. When I try to hold it back.”
Mike considered that. “Do you want help?”
Will bristled. “No, I’m fine.”
Mike lifted his hands slightly, palms open. “Okay. I just meant—help like counting. Or breathing. Or I can just… stand here and listen.”
Will stared at him. “You don’t think it’s dangerous?”
“It can be,” Mike said honestly. “But so can stairs.” He shrugged.
Despite himself, Will laughed. It burst out of him, sharp and surprised.
Mike’s smile widened, just a little.
They stood there until the magic settled on its own, quiet and obedient now that it wasn’t being forced into silence.
“That usually takes longer,” Will muttered.
Mike nodded. “Most things do when you force them away.”
The words lodged somewhere deep.
By the time they reached the armory passage, Will had stopped walking ahead on purpose.
He slowed just enough that Mike naturally fell into step beside him.
“Your sword’s never been used,” Will observed, nodding toward it.
Mike glanced down, then back up. “Not yet.”
“Doesn’t that bother you? Being a paladin and not… fighting?”
Mike shrugged. “I didn’t swear to fight. I swore to protect.”
“That sounds the same.”
“It’s not.”
Will hummed thoughtfully. “You’re weird.”
Mike smiled again. “You think so?”
They passed a narrow set of steps leading down toward the servants’ halls. Will took them two at a time without thinking, boots skidding slightly on the worn stone.
He waited for Mike to warn him. He didn’t.
Instead, Mike followed at the same pace, matching his steps, ready but not grabbing.
At the bottom, Will stopped and turned, breathless.
“You really think I can handle myself,” he said.
It wasn’t a question.
Mike met his gaze, steady as ever. “I’ve thought that since I first looked at you.”
Something warm bloomed in Will’s chest, brighter than magic.
Oh.
Oh… okay.
For the first time, he didn’t feel like he was being watched by a hawk.
He felt like he was just being observed. Being seen.
That was how Mike stayed.
Not because anyone said it out loud, and not because it was ever written into his duties. He simply didn’t leave. Somewhere between one season and the next, between lessons that dragged and afternoons that slipped quietly away, him walking a few steps behind Will turned into him walking beside him, and then into something so ordinary that Will stopped noticing it at all.
By the time they were fourteen; the years blurred together—Mike guarding Will didn’t feel like guarding anymore, not that they ever really had. It felt like having someone around who knew his pace and matched it without comment. Someone who leaned in doorways while Will complained about tutors, or sat on low stone walls in the gardens with his boots scuffing the rock while Will skipped pebbles into fountains.
Mike talked about drills and sore shoulders and how his tabard never fit right no matter how many times it was altered. Will talked about lessons that treated magic like something fragile, something that might shatter if handled wrong. Neither of them ever said anything that felt important. Somehow, it always was.
Mike still never told Will to be careful. If Will climbed something, Mike watched to make sure he had his footing, not to tell him to get down. If Will ran, Mike ran with him—not to stop him, but to keep up. When Will leaned over battlements, Mike stood close enough to be there without reaching for him.
It didn’t feel special. It felt normal.
Which was why, when Will finally decided to practice his magic, it didn’t feel like rebellion. It felt like something that had been kept waiting.
The castle was asleep when Will slipped out of his room.
The corridors were cool and dim, torchlight turned low, shadows pooling between the columns. His fingers brushed the stone walls as he moved, the chill grounding and familiar. He knew the way by heart—the narrow stair near the kitchens, the door that led to the inner courtyard gardens, the latch that stuck unless lifted just right.
The garden lay quiet beneath the open sky.
Moonlight spilled down between the high walls, silvering leaves and pale stone paths. Ivy climbed the arches, heavy with dew, and the air smelled of damp earth and crushed herbs. A small fountain murmured softly at the center, water trickling over carved stone.
Will stepped into the open space and stopped.
The magic inside him stirred immediately, alert and restless. Heat gathered in his hands, pressure building behind his ribs. He closed his eyes and breathed, trying to remember the grounding exercises tutors had spoken of but never let him try.
Slow in. Slower out.
He reached.
The magic answered too fast.
Light flared between his hands, uneven and bright, heat snapping across his palms. Will gasped and tried to pull back, but the magic surged harder, spilling outward in a sharp wave that rattled leaves and sent ripples tearing across the fountain’s surface.
“Okay,” he whispered, heart racing. “Okay—slow—”
The pressure climbed, dizzying now, his thoughts blurring. Ivy shuddered along the walls. The air crackled, sharp and hot.
“Will.”
He turned.
Mike stood in the garden archway, breath coming a little fast, hair rumpled as if he’d rushed. He took in the flaring light, the trembling leaves, and didn’t shout. Didn’t draw his sword.
He just looked at Will.
“Do you want help?” Mike asked.
The question cut through the panic.
“I-I don’t know how to stop it,” Will said, voice unsteady.
“That’s okay,” Mike replied. He stepped forward, then paused. “Can I come closer?”
Will nodded. “Yes.”
Mike moved slowly, deliberately, stopping a few steps away. Close enough that Will could hear his breathing, steady and even.
“Don’t fight it,” Mike said. “Just give it somewhere to go.”
“I don’t know how.”
Mike glanced around the garden, then back at him. “Focus on something else,” he said. “The ground. The water. My voice. Pick one.”
Will focused on Mike’s voice.
The magic wavered, confused, then softened. The light dimmed, pressure easing in uneven waves until it finally settled, humming low beneath his skin. The leaves stilled. The fountain calmed.
When it was over, Will’s knees nearly gave out.
Mike reached out without thinking, catching his wrist—not gripping, just there, warm and steady.
“You okay?” Mike asked.
Will nodded, breathless. “Yeah. I think so.”
Mike looked around at the scorched stone and the faint glow still clinging to Will’s hands. “That was… actually kind of impressive.”
A shaky laugh escaped Will. “Don’t tell my mom.”
“Wasn’t planning on it,” Mike said.
They stood there for a moment, the garden quiet again, moonlight cool and indifferent.
They eventually walked back toward the castle together, the path familiar beneath their feet. It didn’t feel awkward. It never did.
Will didn’t think about what it meant that Mike was the first person he’d ever practiced magic with.
He just knew that next time, he wouldn’t be alone.
After that night, it became routine.
Not official. Not spoken about. Just something that happened once the castle settled into itself and the corridors grew still. Will would slip out, and Mike would follow—not immediately, not obviously, but always close enough that Will never wondered if he was alone.
They practiced in the courtyard garden.
The space changed with the seasons. Early spring brought damp earth and sharp green scents, dew clinging to the ivy along the walls. By summer, the air was warmer, heavy with blooming herbs and stone that held heat long after sunset. Moonlight filtered down differently depending on the time of year, sometimes bright enough to cast shadows, sometimes thin and uncertain.
Will learned his magic in fragments.
Light held steady between his hands instead of bursting outward. Water lifted from the fountain in careful arcs, suspended long enough for him to breathe before letting it fall. Leaves trembled and stilled at his command, responding to intention instead of panic.
Mike stayed nearby.
Sometimes he stood with his back against the wall, arms crossed, watching with the kind of focus he brought to everything important. Other times he sat on the edge of the fountain, fingers trailing through the water like he was grounding himself too.
“You rush when you’re nervous,” Mike said once, quietly.
Will glanced at him. “I’m not nervous.”
Mike didn’t argue. He just tilted his head slightly, like he was considering something, then said, “Okay. Try again.”
Will did. The magic steadied.
They didn’t talk much during practice. They didn’t need to. Mike had learned the signs—when Will needed space, when he needed someone close, when the magic was humming low and obedient and when it threatened to slip. Will learned Mike’s tells too: the way his shoulders tensed when he thought Will was pushing too hard, the way his hand hovered at his side when things went wrong, never reaching unless Will leaned first.
One night, the magic came easier than usual.
Will stood near the fountain, palms glowing faintly, the light reflecting off the water and painting his fingers gold. He focused on holding it there—steady, quiet, controlled.
Mike stepped closer without realizing it.
“Will,” he said, voice low. “That’s— you’ve got it.”
Will glanced up at him, distracted, and the magic flickered but didn’t break. Mike was close now. Too close to be accidental. Close enough that Will could feel the warmth of him through the night air.
“Like this?” Will asked.
“Yes,” Mike said, a little too quickly. “Just—like that.”
For a moment, neither of them moved.
The garden felt suddenly smaller, the air thicker. The magic hummed softly between Will’s hands, steady and alive. Mike’s gaze flicked from the light to Will’s face and then away again, like he wasn’t sure where it was supposed to rest.
Then Mike cleared his throat and took a deliberate step back.
“Uh,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “You should probably—let it go before you tire yourself out.”
Will nodded, letting the light fade. The moment broke, settling into something quieter.
“Yeah,” he said. “Right.”
Mike laughed softly—not mocking, not nervous exactly, just… relieved. “You’re getting really good at this.”
They talked about something else after that. About drills. About how Jonathan had almost caught them sneaking out the night before. About nothing that mattered.
But the space between them stayed changed.
They walked back to the castle side by side, close enough that their shoulders brushed once on the narrow path. Neither of them mentioned it. Neither of them pulled away.
They didn’t know what to call what lived in the quiet between them.
They only knew that the garden felt safer now.
And that whatever Will was becoming, Mike was already there for it.
By fifteen, Will was finally allowed lessons.
Or so they were called, but they were hardly that. They were careful ones—measured, narrow, and fenced in on all sides. Tutors taught theory more than practice. History instead of application. Control without exploration. Every session came with reminders of restraint, of limits, of how easily things could go wrong.
Joyce sat in on more lessons than she didn’t.
She asked careful questions afterward. She watched Will’s hands for tremors, his face for exhaustion, his eyes for that faraway look she didn’t like. When tutors suggested advancing, suggested pushing just a little further, Joyce always hesitated.
“Not yet,” she said gently. “He’s doing well where he is.”
Will nodded when she looked at him.
He always did.
What Joyce didn’t know was that the lessons were only half of it.
The rest happened in the courtyard garden. In the quiet hours when the castle settled and the world felt wide enough to breathe in. That was where Will learned what his magic could actually do—how it moved when it wasn’t being watched, how it listened when it was trusted.
Mike never framed it as sneaking.
He just showed up.
Joyce’s concern came to a head one evening after a lesson that left Will restless and frustrated, his magic humming under his skin with nowhere to go.
She stood near the window of Will’s solar, arms folded tight against herself. “I think we should slow down again,” she said. “You’ve been tired.”
“I’m fine,” Will replied, the words worn thin with use.
Mike stood a few steps away, quiet, listening.
“The tutors say he’s progressing,” Joyce continued. “But that doesn’t mean he needs more. He’s already—he’s already different.”
Mike shifted then, drawing her attention without raising his voice.
“With respect,” he said calmly, “that’s exactly why he deserves to learn more.”
Joyce turned to him, surprised but not angry. “Mike—”
“He’s not reckless,” Mike continued, steady and certain. “He pays attention. He listens. He adapts faster than most.”
Will stared at the floor, heart pounding.
Joyce hesitated. “Magic isn’t just about adapting.”
“I know,” Mike said. “It’s about trust. And he’s earned that. With you and himself.”
Silence stretched.
Joyce’s expression softened, conflicted. She looked at Will, really looked at him, like she was trying to reconcile the boy she wanted to protect with the person he was becoming.
“I’m not saying no,” she said finally. “I’m saying… I’ll consider it.”
Mike nodded, satisfied without pushing further.
When Joyce left, the room felt lighter. Like something had been loosened.
They ended up in Will’s room afterward, sitting cross-legged on the bed, backs against the wall.
Will couldn’t stop smiling.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he said again, but this time he was laughing too.
Mike shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, I kinda did.”
“She never listens like that,” Will said. “Not to me.”
“Well,” Mike replied, “you make a pretty convincing case. I just helped.”
Will snorted. “You won the case.”
They giggled quietly, like they were sharing a secret—even though they were, just not the one Joyce thought.
The laughter faded into something softer.
They talked about the lessons, about how slow they were, about how much Will already knew that he wasn’t allowed to show. Mike listened the way he always did, focused, absorbing every word like it mattered.
At some point, Mike’s gaze drifted. Not intentionally. Just—wandering. Taking in the way Will gestured when he talked, his pretty lips, the way his expression changed when he was excited, the familiar shape of him in a space that felt too small all of a sudden.
A thought flickered through Mike’s head. A shameful one.
He wondered what Will would look like underneath him, panting, on this very bed.
It wasn’t something he had expected. It was a sudden, alarming awareness that made his chest tighten and his brain short-circuit.
He gulped.
His hand shifted slightly on the bedspread before he caught himself.
Mike froze.
What am I doing?
He pulled his hand back like he’d reached too close to a flame and let out an awkward little chuckle. “Uh—anyway,” he said quickly. “Your mom’s probably going to hover for, like, a week now, so.”
Will blinked, then laughed again, unaware of the internal crisis happening two inches to his left. “Yeah. That sounds right.”
Mike laughed too, a little too loud, grateful for the topic change.
They sat there a while longer, talking about nothing important, the moment dissolving back into something safe.
But later—long after Mike left—Will lay awake staring at the ceiling, heart still beating a little too fast.
And Mike, pacing his own room in the guards quarters, wondered why standing up for Will felt easier than standing still next to him.
Neither of them knew what was happening.
The great hall was full.
Not celebratory—formal. Nobles lined the long tables, advisors murmuring in careful clusters, banners hanging heavy from the rafters. Will stood beside Joyce at the high dais, posture perfect, expression neutral in the way he’d been taught since childhood.
He hated it.
Not the ceremony itself, but the way people watched him. The way their eyes lingered, assessing—too sharp, too curious, like they were trying to decide whether he was something to be protected or something to be feared.
Whispers followed him like smoke.
Mike felt it immediately.
He stood a few steps back, stationed with the other paladins, helmet off, jaw tight. He tracked every gaze that lingered too long on Will, every murmured aside that tilted into speculation.
“He’s changed,” someone said quietly.
“Too much power for someone so young.”
“They shouldn’t let him stand there.”
Mike shifted his stance, subtle but deliberate, positioning himself so he blocked Will from at least one line of sight.
Will noticed. He always did.
The presentation dragged on. Titles recited. Alliances reaffirmed. When it was finally over, the hall loosened into polite chaos, nobles rising, conversation swelling.
A man Will didn’t recognize approached Joyce first, bowing too shallowly.
“Your son is… remarkable,” he said. “Though I imagine such gifts come at a cost.”
Joyce’s smile tightened. “He manages.”
The man’s gaze slid back to Will. “With enough supervision, I hope.”
Mike stepped forward. Not aggressively. Not loudly. Just enough to matter.
“William has proven himself capable,” Mike said calmly. “In every situation he’s been placed in.”
The man blinked, surprised. “And you are?”
Mike met his gaze without flinching. “His paladin.”
The implication hung heavy.
Joyce didn’t contradict him.
Will’s pulse thundered.
The man murmured something polite and excused himself quickly.
When Joyce turned to Mike, her expression was unreadable. “That was unnecessary,” she said.
Mike inclined his head respectfully. “With respect, my lady, it was accurate.”
A pause.
Joyce studied him for a long moment. Then, quietly, “We’ll speak later.”
She moved away.
Will exhaled shakily.
Mike didn’t look at him. He couldn’t—not here, not with eyes everywhere—but his presence shifted closer, grounding, familiar.
They didn’t speak until a while later, when the corridors had emptied and the noise of the hall was a distant echo.
They ended up in an unused gallery overlooking the inner courtyard.
Moonlight spilled through tall windows, silvering the stone floor. Will leaned against the balustrade, finally allowing himself to relax.
“You don’t have to keep doing that,” he said.
Mike rested his forearms on the stone beside him. “Yeah. I do.”
Will glanced at him. “You’re not supposed to speak for me.”
“I know.”
“So why—”
“Because you weren’t allowed to,” Mike said simply.
The words settled deep. Will swallowed. “She’s trying to protect me.”
“I know,” Mike said. “But protecting you doesn’t mean shrinking you.”
Will turned fully toward him then. “You really believe that?”
Mike met his gaze, unwavering. “I wouldn’t stay beside you if I didn’t.”
The space between them felt smaller suddenly. Not because either moved—because the truth had.
Mike became acutely aware of how close Will was. Of the way the moonlight caught in his hair. Of the fact that sixteen was old enough to understand exactly what he was feeling and young enough not to know what to do with it.
He straightened abruptly. “We should—go back. Before someone notices.”
Will nodded, a little reluctantly.
As they turned to leave, Will’s sleeve brushed Mike’s hand. The feeling lingered, made his chest tighten.
Then they stepped apart, the moment slipping back into the space between things unsaid.
But this time, Will knew something he hadn’t before. Other people could see it.
The castle didn’t announce the change, It settled into it.
Doors stayed shut longer. Councils ran later. Messengers arrived at odd hours and left without ceremony. Maps were replaced quietly in strategy rooms, old pins removed, new ones pressed in deeper.
Will noticed because magic noticed.
The wards along the outer perimeter had begun to tighten—not failing, not flaring, just pulling inward, responding to something beyond the borders with a wary kind of attention. It felt like standing in a room where everyone had gone silent at once.
Joyce called it precaution. Will called it preparation. He stopped pretending he wasn’t aware of what was happening.
At council meetings, he listened until the moment silence became avoidance, and then he spoke—not emotionally, not defiantly, but with a precision that unsettled people who were used to his quiet compliance. He asked where defensive forces were being shifted. He asked why patrol routes were changing without corresponding reinforcement of the wards.
No one interrupted him.
They just watched him more closely afterward.
Mike stayed beside him through all of it.
Not looming. Not interjecting. Just present in a way that made it clear Will wasn’t alone in these rooms, even when no one addressed Mike directly. When gazes flicked toward Will with that familiar mix of concern and calculation, Mike didn’t step in front of him.
He didn’t need to.
Will could handle being seen.
After one late council, Joyce pulled Mike aside in the corridor, voice low.
“He’s pushing,” she said.
Mike nodded. “He knows.”
“That doesn’t make it safer.”
“No,” Mike agreed. “But he still knows. He’s not a baby, he’s going to figure things out.”
Joyce searched his face for something—reassurance, maybe, or obedience. She didn’t find either.
That night, orders were given.
Defensive units would be deployed along the eastern border. Not a declaration of war. Just containment. A show of strength meant to discourage escalation.
Mike didn’t argue.
He went to the armory.
The armory was quiet in the hour before dawn, the kind of quiet that existed only when everyone else was doing the same thing somewhere else. Torches burned low, their light steady against rows of weapons that had seen too much history.
Mike sat on a bench, armor spread out in front of him, checking each piece with careful efficiency. Not ritualistic. Practical. This wasn’t ceremony; it was readiness.
“You’ll get in trouble for being here,” he said, without looking up.
Will closed the door behind him. “You’re not stopping me.”
Mike glanced over, a corner of his mouth lifting. “I don’t want to.”
Will moved farther into the room, the door thudding shut behind him. He didn’t hover in the doorway. He didn’t act like this was something he’d snuck into. He belonged here as much as anyone.
“How many are there?” Will asked.
Mike tightened a strap, then loosened it slightly. “Enough.”
“That’s still not an answer.”
Mike looked up then, meeting Will’s gaze evenly. “Enough that the rest won’t stay away forever, it’ll only get worse unless we fight all of them off.”
Will nodded, absorbing that without flinching. He stepped closer, stopping beside the bench, eyes tracking the familiar motions of Mike’s hands.
“You’re going to see it all before I do,” Will said.
“Probably,” Mike replied.
“That doesn’t bother you.”
Mike shrugged. “It’s what I trained for.”
Will’s jaw tightened. “That’s not the same as wanting it.”
“No,” Mike said, simply. “It’s not.”
They sat in that truth for a moment.
The armory hummed faintly—wards, old and reliable, thrumming beneath the stone. Will could feel them responding to his presence, to Mike’s, to the fact that too many people were preparing at once.
“You’re not going to tell me to stay out of this? To mind my business?” Will said.
Mike didn’t hesitate. “No.”
Will exhaled slowly. “Good.”
Mike finished securing his gauntlet and set his sword within reach, resting his forearms on his knees. He looked tired in a way Will hadn’t seen before—not afraid, not uncertain. Just aware.
“While I’m gone,” Mike said, “they’re going to watch you harder.”
Will scoffed quietly. “They already are.”
“They’ll push,” Mike continued. “Try to redirect you. Keep you busy.”
“I won’t let them,” Will said.
“I know,” Mike replied.
That was it. No warning. No cautioning. Just trust, stated plainly.
Will reached out, fingers brushing the edge of Mike’s gauntlet—brief, grounding, intentional. Mike stilled, then covered Will’s hand with his own, solid and steady.
“I’ll be here,” Will said. “Holding things together.”
Mike nodded. “I figured.”
A horn sounded faintly beyond the walls.
Mike stood, armor settling into place with practiced ease. Will stepped back to give him space, but not distance. They faced each other in the torchlight, equals in that moment, bound by something unspoken but absolute.
“Come back,” Will said.
Mike’s expression softened—not into reassurance, but into resolve. “I plan to.”
He turned toward the door, then paused.
“And Will?”
“Yes?”
Mike met his gaze. “You stay alive too, for when I come back.”
Will’s magic stirred, low and alert. “I will.”
Mike nodded once and left.
Will remained in the armory long after the sound of boots faded, surrounded by steel and history and the unmistakable sense that the world was leaning forward, just slightly.
The first sign wasn’t sound.
It was absence.
Will woke just before dawn with the distinct, unsettling sense that something fundamental had shifted. The wards still hummed beneath the stone — familiar, steady — but their voice felt wrong. Careful. Like someone choosing their words around a secret.
He sat up slowly, breath shallow, magic stirring under his skin.
Mike was gone.
Will could feel the space where Mike usually existed so solidly in the world, the way one notices a missing weight before understanding why everything feels off-balance. The defensive force had returned late the night before. Mike was supposed to be among them.
Instead, there was a hollow stretch of distance.
Will didn’t wait for confirmation. He was already moving by the time the bells rang, bare feet cold against the stone as he crossed the room and pulled on the first clothes he could find.
The air felt tight, compressed — like the moment before a storm broke.
The attack didn’t announce itself.
It slipped.
Magic fractured without warning, a sharp, keening scream that cut through the castle’s defenses like glass snapping under pressure. Will staggered mid-step as the wards recoiled, torches flaring violently before extinguishing in uneven sections. Corridors plunged into darkness. Stone groaned in protest.
Shouts echoed. Orders overlapped. Somewhere nearby, someone screamed his name.
Will planted his feet and raised his hands, instinct snapping into focus as power surged up to meet the threat. Light bloomed around him — clean, controlled — illuminating the warped shimmer of corrupted magic bleeding into the walls.
They hadn’t forced their way in.
They’d learned how to slide through.
Will swallowed hard and moved.
By the time he reached the inner courtyard, the castle was already bleeding.
Fire scorched the far walls where corrupted magic had eaten into stone. Paladins clashed with figures that didn’t quite belong in the light — armor wrong, movements jagged, edges blurring like they couldn’t settle into this world properly.
Mike wasn’t there.
The thought hit hard, sharp enough to steal his breath, but Will shoved it aside before it could take root. He didn’t have time for it. He couldn’t afford it.
He stepped forward into the center of the courtyard and let his magic rise.
The air answered immediately.
Light snapped outward in deliberate arcs, barriers slamming into place and cutting attackers off from one another. Fire died where it touched his power. Stone lifted and reshaped itself at his command, sealing breaches before they could widen.
For a moment — just a moment — it worked.
Then something struck him from behind.
Will hit the ground hard, pain flashing white across his vision. He rolled instinctively, throwing up a shield just as a blade slammed down where his chest had been seconds earlier. The impact rattled through his arms, numbing his fingers.
He gasped and forced himself upright.
Too many. Too fast.
Magic surged again, brighter now, hotter, fueled by fear and focus alike. Will pushed deeper than he ever had before — not recklessly, but fully. He reached past his own limits and into the castle itself, ancient wards bending under his will instead of resisting it.
The courtyard shuddered.
A wave of force tore outward, flattening attackers and hurling them back against the walls. Light burned through corrupted magic like it was alive, screaming as it unraveled.
The breach sealed.
The wards screamed once more —
And then fell silent.
Will stood alone in the aftermath, chest heaving, vision narrowing at the edges. The sudden quiet felt wrong, oppressive in its completeness.
He’d done it.
His knees buckled.
He collapsed onto the stone, magic folding inward all at once. The world didn’t go dark — it went distant. His eyes stayed open, fixed on the gray morning sky, but his body refused to respond.
Wrong.
This wasn’t exhaustion. This was emptiness.
Will tried to lift his hand.
Nothing happened.
Footsteps crunched nearby.
Slow. Deliberate.
A shadow fell across his vision.
One of them had survived.
The figure loomed over him, blade rising, dark magic curling ugly and corrosive along its edge. Will’s heart hammered uselessly as he reached for his power and found nothing there — not gone, but unreachable, like it had slipped just beyond his grasp.
The blade came down—
Steel rang sharp and final.
A sword intercepted the strike inches from Will’s throat, sparks flying from the force of the impact.
“No,” Mike said, voice low and furious. “Absolutely not.”
He surged forward, placing himself squarely over Will’s body, stance wide and unyielding. His armor was scorched and dented, returned too fast and too hard — like he hadn’t stopped moving from the moment he’d felt something was wrong.
Mike didn’t hesitate.
His blade found its mark cleanly, decisively. The attacker collapsed, dissolving into ash that scattered across the stone.
Silence followed.
Mike dropped to his knees beside Will, hands immediately grounding, anchoring.
“Hey,” he said, breathless. “I’ve got you. I’m here.”
Will couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move.
But he could see Mike — alive, shaking with adrenaline and fear, still between him and the world.
Mike swallowed hard, pressing a hand flat against Will’s chest like he needed proof. “You saved everyone,” he whispered. “I felt it. The wards — everything just locked.”
Will’s eyes burned.
Mike leaned closer, forehead nearly touching his. “You’re not alone,” he said fiercely. “Not ever.”
He stayed there, sword still in hand, body a barrier.
And for the first time since the night began, Will had something to believe in.
The healers had left, and Will had been awake for a while when Mike knocked.
Not the formal knock paladins used. Not even a careful one. Just two soft taps, hesitant enough that Will almost missed them.
“Yeah,” Will said.
Mike stepped inside and closed the door behind him, no longer wearing his armour, but something far more homely instead. A sweater and the type of pants one would sleep in, soft and comfortable.
The room was dim, curtains drawn against the late evening light. Will was propped up against pillows, blankets loose around his waist, color back in his face now — healed, steady, unmistakably alive. The last of the healers had cleared him that morning, murmuring reassurances Joyce had clung to like scripture.
Mike stood there for a second too long, like he wasn’t sure where to put himself now that he didn’t have to guard the bed.
“You wanted to talk,” Will said quietly.
Mike nodded. “If that’s— yeah.”
He crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed, hands clasped together, elbows resting on his knees. Close enough that Will could feel the warmth of him. Not hovering. Just there.
They sat in silence for a moment.
Then Mike exhaled, long and shaky.
“I thought I’d lost you,” he said.
Will’s chest tightened.
“I came back and everything was wrong,” Mike continued, voice low, careful like he was afraid if he spoke too fast it would all fall apart. “The wards were screaming, people were running, and no one could tell me where you were. And all I could think was—”
He stopped. Swallowed.
“I didn’t want you to die without knowing,” he said. “Without me telling you.”
Will turned his head fully toward him. “Telling me what?”
Mike laughed softly, breathless and humorless. “That I’m an idiot, apparently.”
Will didn’t smile.
Mike finally looked up at him, eyes bright with something dangerously close to tears. “That I love you. That I’ve loved you for a long time. And I was so scared that if I said it, I’d make things worse. Or heavier. Or put something on you that you didn’t need.”
His hands twisted together unconsciously. “But when I thought you were gone, all of that felt so stupid.”
The room felt very still.
Will’s heart was pounding — not with fear, not now. With something warm and overwhelming and certain.
“Mike,” he said.
Mike shook his head quickly. “You don’t have to say anything. I just— I needed you to know. I needed it out there, where it couldn’t disappear.”
Will shifted forward, careful but deliberate, closing the space between them.
Mike froze.
Will reached out and rested his hand over Mike’s, untangling his fingers gently. “You didn’t lose me,” he said. “I’m right here.”
Mike’s breath stuttered. “I know. I just—”
Will leaned in and kissed him.
It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t desperate.
It was soft and sure and unmistakably intentional.
Mike made a quiet sound of surprise before instinct kicked in, his hand coming up to Will’s jaw like he needed to make sure this was real. The kiss deepened, just slightly — enough to say yes, enough to say finally. Somewhere during the kiss, Mike had shifted above Will—when it happened, Will couldn’t have said.
When they pulled back, they were both breathing harder.
Mike rested his forehead against Will’s, eyes closed. “Okay,” he whispered. “Okay.”
Will smiled, small and certain. “Yeah.”
They stayed like that for a moment — close, steady, unafraid.
Mikes gaze travelled down, slowly, gently, to his lips before looking back up to meet his eyes, watching him through his eyebrows. “What do you want?” The question, spoke kindly, lingered for a moment.
“You.” Will answered simply.
That was all Mike needed to hear. He leaned down, lips meeting Wills once again. They moved in tandem, lips colliding against each other until both of them were panting and breathless. An uncontrolled sound escaped Will’s mouth as teeth grazed his lower lip. The sound was mostly drowned out by Mike’s own mouth, which was devouring him.
Mike pulled away once more, his thumb finding Will’s bottom lip, where he had bitten before. “Sorry. I got ahead of myself.”
Will shushed him, bringing a finger up to Mike’s soft lips.
Afraid of letting the moment slip, Mike rushed forward and brought his mouth to Will’s neck.
Mike kissed him a few times before sucking in earnest, deliberate enough to make Will gasp
Warmth journeyed across his throat, tugging at the skin. Quiet giggles escaped him as wetness began to lick at where he was already sensitive.
Hair brushed against his cheek as he lay back, basking in the sensations, torn between not wanting them to end but wanting to move onto different things - he was growing impatient.
“Mike.” He breathed.
One last kiss pressed onto his neck before the dark-haired boy on top of him leaned back, meeting his eyes.
“I want more.” He continued.
A hand came up to stroke his hair. “You will get more,” Mike promised.
Will looked up at him, something soft and searching in his expression. “Whatever I want?”
Mike met his gaze and nodded. “Whatever you want.”
Will’s hand came up behind Mike, tugging at his sweater. “This. Off. Please.”
Mike moved back only long enough to tug it off, quick and unhesitating.
Heat stirred between Will’s legs, and something tender struck his chest. He ran a hand down Mike’s abdomen, his gaze following the pale scars there.
There weren’t many, but there were enough to mean something — enough to form an intangible mess in Will’s throat.
A kind that made him want Mike to be protected from harm, knowing that all Mike ever did was protect everyone else.
Will lifted his hands to remove his own shirt, cold air grazing his stomach.
“God, you’re so beautiful,” Mike murmured, awe unmistakable.
“You’re not too bad yourself,” Will said, smiling.
Mike’s hand moved to Will’s thigh, stroking it — asking, no, yearning for permission to go further.
Will unzipped his pants and shuffled out of them, left in only his boxers.
Mike’s eyes wandered down. He bit his thumb, a quiet sound slipping out of him at the undeniable dent he saw.
“Yours too,” Will said, reminding him, quiet but certain.
“Uh-huh.” Mike hurried to unzip them, pulling them off a little too quickly and tossing them to the side.
Mike palmed the bed with one hand placed beside will, and pushed himself up to kiss around Will’s mouth once again.
Mike lapsed against his skin as he drifted further down his body, marking Will with kisses.
He pressed his lips to the dent on Will’s boxers.
“Mike, please.” He whimpered.
Mike stilled at the sound of it, lifting his head just enough to look at Will properly — not rushed, not hungry, just steady and certain.
“Hey,” he murmured, voice soft again, grounding. “We’ve got time.”
Will nodded, breathless but sure, fingers curling onto Mike’s wrist and tugging him closer instead of answering. That was answer enough.
Mike smiled at that — small, reverent — before lowering himself back down, careful and attentive in a way that made Will feel held rather than hurried.
The rest unfolded quietly after that. Not in a rush, not in pieces, but slowly — chosen, shared, and intentional.
The same Mike he had met as a child was still careful with him — never like he might break, just like he mattered.
And that was what he had always needed.