Chapter 147: Did You Lose Your Way?
Deep in the grand garden, far from the glittering ballroom and its suffocating noise, little Ellis sits beneath an old oak tree. Its branches stretch wide above him, casting a shifting patchwork of sunlight and shadow across his small frame. The trunk is rough against his back, warmed by the afternoon sun.
His legs are stretched out across the grass, cool and damp beneath his palms. His favorite book rests open in his lap—Tale of Nine Flowers. Bound in fine leather with gilded page edges, it remains impeccably cared for despite the countless times he has read it.
He knows every word by heart, every twist of the story, every quiet moment of its gentle magic. But he turns the pages anyway, tracing the familiar rhythm with his eyes, letting the comfort of the familiar settle over him like a blanket.
The throbbing in his head has finally quieted. The bleeding has stopped. He dabs the handkerchief—now stiff with dried, rust-colored blood—against his nose one last time, then lowers it.
No fresh red.
Just the quiet evidence of what already passed.
A small sigh slips from his pink lips, barely more than a breath—a sound that seems to carry the weight of the entire afternoon.
Finally.
It stopped.
He rests his head against the tree and lets his eyes fall closed. The air moves gently across his skin, stirring the fine hairs at his temples. Above him, the leaves rustle in a language he doesn’t need to understand. Warm sunlight filters through the canopy, dappling his face with shifting gold.
For a moment, he simply stays like this, feeling the breeze brush against his skin, listening to the whisper of leaves overhead and the distant murmur of voices that feel impossibly far away.
Calm. So calm.
The breeze carries the scent of damp earth and crushed grass, mixed with the faint sweetness of flowers he cannot name. Somewhere in the distance, a bird calls—a single, clear note that lingers before fading into silence.
Everything feels distant. Safe.
Held at arm’s length.
Then the warmth disappears. A shadow falls across his face. Ellis opens his eyes.
A small figure stands before him.
Ten-year-old Silas Stoneheart stands there, two years younger than Ellis himself.
His brown hair is soft as silk, stirring gently in the breeze, the strands catching the sunlight until they glow like spun gold. His eyes are a warm shade of brown, gleaming like polished amber, fixed on Ellis without blinking. There is something unnerving about that stillness, about the way he stands without fidgeting, without shifting from foot to foot like other children his age.
Ellis blinks.
Who is he?
I thought no one would come here.
He lowers his gaze to the book in his lap with practiced dismissal. The words blur together, meaningless. Even so, he can still feel the weight of the other boy’s silent stare, patient and unwavering.
"I’m sitting here." His voice is flat, carrying the practiced indifference of a child who has learned to keep people at a distance. "You can’t play here."
Silas doesn’t answer.
He simply stands there, still as stone, his small hands hanging loosely at his sides. His shadow stretches across Ellis’s face, blocking the warm afternoon sunlight.
Ellis looks up again, a flicker of irritation crossing his young face. His brows knit together slightly.
"Why are you still standing here? Don’t you hear me? Go play somewhere else."
Still no answer.
Silas just stares—at Ellis’s long, dark lashes, at the unusual blue of his eyes, a shade that seems cold and warm at the same time. Like winter sky and summer sea had somehow found a way to exist together without canceling each other out.
Ellis tilts his head, studying him with the careful attention of a child who has learned to notice things others overlook.
"You look like an Omega." A pause. His voice carries the careless honesty of a child who has not yet learned to soften his observations. "Did you lose your way?"
Silence.
Silas doesn’t blink. His gaze doesn’t waver. He just stands there, looking at Ellis as though he is the first interesting thing he has ever seen.
Ellis looks away, frustration crossing his features. His fingers tighten around the edges of his book, pressing into the paper.
"I can help you if you—"
His gaze catches something.
A scrape on Silas’s knee.
Blood seeps from the broken skin, a thin red line trickling slowly down his shin. Not deep—but enough. Enough to hurt.
The sight of it, small and ordinary, pulls something loose in Ellis’s chest.
"Your knee is hurt."
Silas’s face stays blank. No pain. No reaction. Just emptiness. As though the wound doesn’t belong to him, as though he has no connection to the body that carries it.
Ellis watches him for a long moment, his young brow furrowing. He speaks slowly, carefully, as if explaining something to a child who might not understand—or perhaps to himself.
"Go straight. Don’t turn left or right. Follow the white stone path. It will take you to the entrance of the garden. There are guards and caretakers there." He pauses, his voice softening just a fraction. "They’ll treat your wound and take you to your parents."
He looks back at his book, turning a page he isn’t really reading.
Silas doesn’t move.
The silence stretches between them, thick and patient. Ellis can feel the weight of the other boy’s gaze on him.
Still there. Still as a statue. Steady and unwavering, like a thread that refuses to break.
With a quiet sigh—soft, almost inaudible, the sound of surrender—Ellis closes his book and sets it aside on the grass. He pats the ground beside him.
"Sit here."
Without hesitation, Silas obeys. He lowers himself onto the grass beside Ellis, close enough that their shoulders almost brush. His movements are quiet and unhurried, as though sitting beside Ellis is the most natural thing in the world.
Ellis leans in, studying the wound on Silas’s knee. His fingers hover over it before lightly brushing the edges, his touch as gentle as a feather.
"Did someone bully you?"
His fingertips graze the torn skin with surprising gentleness. A small streak of blood smears across his fingertip.
"It’s not big, but it looks deep."
Silas doesn’t flinch.
He doesn’t make a sound. He simply watches Ellis with those shining brown eyes—silent, patient, and unreadable.
Ellis meets his gaze.
For a moment, neither of them moves. The air between them grows still, as though even the breeze has paused to watch.
"You don’t have to pretend to be strong." His voice softens, the sharp edges of his earlier frustration melting away, leaving something raw and unguarded.
"If you want to cry, you can."
A pause.
He shifts slightly, his young face thoughtful as his gaze drops to the scrape on Silas’s knee.
"My mom says Omegas are fragile and soft."