Chapter Twelve
In time, the colors faded.
The bright moments dulled and became distant, as if the very essence of them slipped away into the gray mist of forgetfulness.
The world around him grew cold, brittle, and yet it still shivered, as if afraid to stay for long.
Memories were no different, fleeting things that hovered just beyond reach, eager to return to the shadows where they belonged.
They flickered in and out of existence, taunting him with their transient nature.
The remnants of them brushed against his mind like the softest touch, and then they were gone again, leaving nothing but the hollow echo of their absence.
But slowly, through the haze, the flickers caught.
They didn’t remain, but they appeared.
A sound here, a sensation there, whispering at the edges of his consciousness.
The first things to return to him were the sounds—the low, mournful howl of the wind, gusting through the mountain passes.
The branches scraping against the glass of a window, the sound so faint it could be mistaken for a trick of the mind.
The quiet shuffle of feet, the comings and goings of several pairs, a soft and rhythmic presence in the background.
The creak of the bed beneath him, a shift in weight, someone sitting on the edge, making the mattress dip ever so slightly.
Touch came next.
He felt the pressure of a soft mattress beneath him, the weight of a heavy blanket settled over him, keeping him warm.
The clothing against his skin was thick, soft, buttery fleece that cushioned him against the cold.
He was reminded of his body when it felt the chill, or when pain flared up from deep within, or when a gentle hand brushed the hair from his forehead, or tilted his chin up to offer him liquid.
There were eyes on him—always watching, but he couldn’t see their faces.
He knew they were there.
The sensation of being observed lingered in the back of his mind, a constant.
His awareness ebbed and flowed, like the tides, hesitant, wavering.
The steady rhythm of reality, as unreliable as it was persistent, washed over the shore of his consciousness in bits and fragments.
The raw taste in his throat, the sweat that slid down his back in warm, damp rivulets.
The murmur of voices, distant and muffled, just out of reach.
The faint glow of light—a mix of gray, blue, and amber—danced in the corners of his mind, unraveling the darkness, bit by bit, but never quite pushing it away.
And then, one moment, it was as if everything stopped.
The sounds, the sensations, the flickers—they all aligned, and Thorne woke.
The first thing he became aware of was the dimness.
When he opened his eyes, he blinked, the faint light of the room confusing his senses.
It took him a moment to realize that the dimness wasn’t from the shadows of night, but the heaviness of it.
It was night—again.
Or still? The question lingered as his eyes took in the unfamiliar surroundings.
The room was sparsely furnished, the bare essentials: a nightstand, a small fireplace, and two small chairs.
There was nothing there that he recognized, nothing that brought him comfort. But it was warm, a welcome contrast to the cold that had been gnawing at his body.
The fire crackled softly in the hearth, sending occasional bursts of amber light across the room.
The scent of pine and thistle lingered in the air, mixed with the sharp tang of burning wood.
Thorne’s head ached, an oppressive weight behind his eyes, and he couldn’t bear it.
With a deep breath, he closed his eyes again and let the darkness swallow him back whole.
The next time he awakened, it was different.
There was no lingering haze of confusion, no slow drift back into unconsciousness.
This time, awareness came more sharply, with an edge of clarity that wasn’t there before.
He felt the presence before he saw it.
The soft shuffling of feet, the faint rustle of parchment, the scratch of a quill against paper.
The sound of metal, somewhere off to the right, the faintest clink.
The flicker of golden light spilled over him as someone moved past his bed, casting a shadow on the floor that briefly blocked out the sun.
It was strange, that first sensation.
It felt… familiar, yet out of place.
Thorne opened his eyes, the light blurring his vision at first.
When it cleared, the figure was there.
A woman, dressed in pale robes, long dark hair cascading down her back.
A healer.
Thorne could tell immediately by the way she moved, the way her hands worked with practiced care.
The way she held herself with the quiet confidence of one who had seen death, and life, and everything in between.
She pressed her hand gently to his forehead, her palm cool against his skin.
Thorne, too weak to resist, grunted in discomfort and tried to shift away, but it was futile.
Her hand remained firm, unyielding, as though she had known he would fight it.
“Don’t touch me,”
he managed to rasp, his voice hoarse, as dry as sandpaper.
She didn’t react to his protest, nor did she show any sign of irritation.
Instead, her fingers moved to the side of his neck, pressing lightly against his pulse.
Thorne jerked in response, but the healer was too quick for him, and her fingers remained.
She seemed to take her time, making notes in a journal as she did, her quill moving quickly over the page with a steady, practiced motion.
Thorne’s breath was shallow, his mind a swirling mess of questions.
“Where am I?”
he asked, his voice breaking on the words.
The healer didn’t answer.
She pulled out a pencil from her robes and wrote something in the journal, completely ignoring his question.
When she was finished, she tucked the pencil away and made her way toward the door.
Thorne scowled, frustration flaring within him as he watched her leave, the door creaking shut behind her.
He was alone again, left in the silence of the room.
He let his head fall back against the pillow, staring up at the high ceiling.
His eyes tracked the shape of the chandelier, the dark shadow it cast on the stone walls.
It was a strange room, one that he had never seen before.
But the familiar weight of exhaustion dragged him under again.
So, still Erethos, if he had to guess.
He never made it out of Castle Erethos.
The realization hit him hard, like a cold stone to the chest.
He was still here, still trapped within the same walls, and whatever the healer’s purpose was, whatever brought him back to consciousness, it didn’t matter.
What mattered now was the deepening confusion that churned inside him.
Where was he? And why had he been left here, suspended between life and death?
He blinked again, the light from the small, flickering fire in the hearth casting faint shadows over the stone walls.
He craned his neck, glancing about the room once more, but the austerity of it didn’t reveal anything more than the first time he had seen it.
Cold, sterile, clinical—just like the last time, a sickroom.
His gaze dropped, falling to the healer’s cart a short ways from his bedside, stacked with vials, jars, and dried herbs.
The scents of them—bitter, pungent—clung to the air.
His throat felt as if it had been scraped raw, the dryness almost unbearable, but as he swallowed, he was surprised by something else.
The dull, rumbling pain of hunger.
A strange sensation.
He was too accustomed to pain, to the gnawing emptiness of his body’s needs, but this—this was different.
This was not something he had expected.
Hunger.
It was almost comforting, as if it were a reminder that he was still alive, still bound to this world, no matter how much he wished to escape it.
But there was only so much to scowl at in this room.
The healer’s cart, the stone walls, the flickering light.
Time seemed to stretch on without end.
The stillness in the air pressed in around him, suffocating and thick.
The ticking of time seemed distant, irrelevant.
The only thing that remained in Thorne’s mind was the hollow ache inside, and the uncertainty of what would come next.
The questions. The waiting. Would anyone come for him today? Would anyone answer the questions he had, the things he needed to understand?
Just as he was about to slip back into the dark, quiet embrace of slumber, the door creaked open again.
Thorne lurched up in bed, the movement instinctive, sharp.
His muscles were stiff, weak, but the shock of a new presence sent him upright.
His eyes immediately went to the figure that stood in the doorway.
Where he had expected to see the healer from before, there instead stood a young man, regal in every sense of the word.
Clad head to toe in rich black and gleaming gold, a bright royal blue cape trimmed with fur draped over his broad shoulders.
A heavy crown, encrusted with jewels, rested atop his golden head, catching the dim light in an almost otherworldly way.
Kaelen.
Thorne’s breath caught, and his heart skipped a beat, despite everything.
How could it not? Kaelen was… radiant.
His very presence seemed to burn with a blinding intensity.
He was the sun, the light itself, radiating a brilliance that could not be ignored.
Even in this desolate land, this cursed place, Kaelen’s aura filled every corner of the room.
The silver ice of his eyes gleamed with a cold fire, and for a moment, it felt as though Thorne were looking at something far beyond human.
His beast. A king.
He felt his gaze fall to Kaelen’s head, to the dazzling crown he now wore.
If Thorne had been asleep for three days, then that meant Kaelen had been crowned King of Erethos.
The weight of it hit him, a dull ache at the back of his mind.
Kaelen was the king now.
His rise to power had been inevitable, and with it came the harsh certainty that Thorne had failed.
Seraphina would have known, would have understood that this was the end.
“How do you feel?”
Kaelen asked.
Thorne shut his eyes, unable to bear the sight of Kaelen any longer.
The bright radiance of him was too much, too overwhelming.
He felt the weight of everything press down on him, and for a moment, he didn’t know if he could bear it.
“Like death,”
Thorne rasped, his voice hoarse, struggling to find the words as they ground their way through his dry throat.
Kaelen hummed in acknowledgment, his voice smooth, comforting, even as it cut through the air like the edge of a blade.
“I’m not surprised.
The blade was poisoned, after all.”
Thorne’s eyes snapped open at that. Poisoned.
He blinked, his mind sluggish but the words sinking in, heavy and bitter.
“I’m guessing you didn’t know,”
Kaelen continued, his tone casual, as if discussing the weather, completely unfazed by the gravity of the situation.
Thorne’s throat tightened as he swallowed.
The fire that had been in his throat now spread, a painful heat.
“What was in the poison?”
he managed to rasp out.
Kaelen seemed unbothered by Thorne’s questions, settling into one of the chairs nearby with a quiet scrape of wood on stone.
He looked perfectly at ease, as if this conversation were nothing more than routine, nothing more than a casual exchange between two old friends.
“A variety of things,”
Kaelen said, pulling a small leather-bound journal from his robes, flicking it open.
His fingers skimmed over the pages before he looked back up, meeting Thorne’s gaze.
“Foxglove, devil’s blossom, oleander…” Kaelen trailed off, as if reciting a list from memory.
Thorne closed his eyes against the sharp spike of pain that shot through his head.
The list, each poisonous name, each deadly plant, was a punch to the gut.
The sensation of the poison working its way into his blood, the sickening feeling of it spreading through him, came rushing back.
He could almost feel it, the burning, the cold creeping through his veins.
His mind drifted back to the night before he left, the night he’d spent with Orion in the family armory.
Orion had offered him the Sylvan-toothed dagger, its gleaming edge catching the firelight.
The reassuring words, the knowing smile. It was supposed to be a tool for protection, a weapon in case things went wrong. But Orion had known. He must have known. He must have been aware that there was more at play here than anyone had realized.
After a long, heavy silence, Kaelen’s voice broke the stillness again, his tone somber.
“They are saying you only survived because of your magic.”
Thorne lowered his head into his hands, a wave of weariness flooding over him.
The truth of the statement, the way it wrapped itself around him, was suffocating.
It made sense in a way—magic was the only thing that could have saved him, could have stopped the poison from claiming him fully.
But even that truth didn’t bring him any comfort.
“I know who you are, Thorne.
Who you really are.”
The words were gentle, soft even, but there was something about the way Kaelen said them that felt like a wound being reopened, a soft apology that only made the pain worse.
There was no hiding from it anymore.
Thorne couldn’t escape the gravity of the moment, couldn’t fight the knowledge that Kaelen knew, truly knew him.
In a way, it felt like the last shred of any illusion between them had finally been stripped away.
Kaelen’s voice was sincere, almost painfully so.
"I’m sorry" echoed in his tone, and Thorne felt each syllable land like a stone on his chest.
The words twisted deeper, a slow, deliberate puncture.
Fitting.
At the very least, Thorne didn’t think it was a lie this time.
His face fell into his hands again, fingers gripping his temples as the weight of it all crashed down on him.
He rubbed his face with a tired sigh and slowly lifted his head.
He met Kaelen’s gaze, his mind still reeling, but his voice came out steady, spiteful.
“What are you going to do with me now, then, wolf? I won’t tell you anything.”
The room was eerily still, the quiet punctuated only by the faint rustle of leaves and the occasional creak of the wooden frame.
The shadows of branches shifted across the bedspread, a delicate dance of light and darkness.
Kaelen was unmoved by Thorne’s words, but he hummed thoughtfully, considering the unspoken tension between them.
“I could imprison you,”
Kaelen said, his voice low and calm, though it held a sharp edge of authority.
“It would be well within my right as king to do so.”
The way he said it—the casual acknowledgment—was nearly worse than the words themselves.
It was a cold reminder that Kaelen, now king, had the power to bind him, to control him, in ways that Thorne had never wanted to imagine.
Thorne’s heart dropped, his gut twisting painfully.
He scowled, his fists balling into the comforter beneath him, desperately trying to ground himself.
“Do it then,”
he sneered, the venom in his words failing to mask the hollow emptiness that threatened to overwhelm him.
“I couldn’t kill you, so I’m as good as dead anyway.”
Kaelen’s expression softened, the weight of the words falling between them.
He sighed deeply, and then his voice broke—suddenly faltering, unsteady.
“Thorne, I—”
His words stumbled, and for a brief moment, the kingly air that surrounded him seemed to dissolve, leaving a young man, unsure and vulnerable.
Kaelen forged on, but his words were no longer confident, no longer wrapped in authority.
“I don’t want to imprison you.
I don’t want to hurt you, not after we shared—”
And it was then that Thorne finally looked at him, truly looked at him.
Kaelen trailed off as their eyes met, the weight of the silence heavy between them.
He was still wearing the grand mantle, the gleaming crown atop his head, but in that moment, all Thorne could see was a young man.
Tired.
Unsure.
And yet, still, despite everything, there was something in Kaelen’s eyes—something like hope, burning bright and foolish, as if it had never dimmed, not even now.
Thorne couldn’t help the flush that crept across his face, a sudden heat rising in his cheeks.
He opened his mouth, but the words were clumsy, confused. “You, I—”
He ran a hand through his hair, trying to collect himself, but the overwhelming rush of emotions made it all the more difficult.
“You’re ridiculous.”
Kaelen smiled at him then, a small, pained expression that tugged at the corners of his lips.
“And you mean a great deal to me.”
The words hit Thorne like a cold wave.
It made no sense.
None of it did.
He had expected Kaelen to lie, to manipulate, to twist the truth as he had always done before.
But now, in the raw light of this moment, Thorne couldn’t dispute it.
Kaelen had kept him alive, had ensured that he didn’t die from the poison that had burned through his body.
They both knew each other for who they truly were—nothing left hidden, no walls between them anymore. Their past, their truths, all laid bare.
Thorne lifted his palm toward the dim light that spilled through the window, the scarred red mark still faintly visible on his skin.
It was healing slowly, the jagged wound that had nearly killed him.
His fingers brushed over the tender skin, a reminder of the poison that had nearly claimed his life.
And yet, here he was, alive.
And Kaelen… Kaelen was here too, sitting beside him, still here.
“How can you just say things like that?”
Thorne’s voice trembled slightly, the words feeling foreign on his tongue.
“As if you know me?”
He glanced at Kaelen, sitting so close, yet so far away.
The space between them felt impossible.
Thorne’s heart ached with the need to close the gap, to reach out and touch him.
But the distance was too great, an insurmountable chasm between them.
Kaelen’s gaze softened as he remained seated in that small wooden chair beside Thorne’s bed.
The space between them felt unbearable, and for all the cold, regal authority Kaelen wielded, there was something so raw, so vulnerable, in the way he sat there now.
Thorne’s chest tightened.
He wanted to reach out, to close the distance, but the thought of it paralyzed him.
He wanted Kaelen to touch him—to be near him, even though everything had changed, even though they both knew the truth now.
Kaelen’s eyes flicked down, and he sat back in his chair, the dire creak of the wood resounding in the sparsity.
“I know I said some strange things that night, and though I’m not at liberty to explain it all, I can tell you this.”
He closed his eyes and let out a deep breath.
“Seraphina is capable of more than you know and has committed atrocities you couldn’t begin to fathom.
Not least of all…”
He looked up then, arresting Thorne in the blue of his gaze.
“Stealing you from me before I could know you.
With the assistance of her cohorts, she has crafted you into an agent of Tarvela rather than allow you to work by my side.
And for that, as much as anything else she has done, I will never forgive her for.”
Thorne shivered and could only stare, stare in disbelief as Kaelen continued to speak.
“Despite it all, war is not what I desire.
I’ve been told… I’ve been advised she will fight me at every turn, no matter how much I extend my hand to her.
And still, I want to make amends with her.”
Thorne swallowed, dry throat constricting.
It did nothing to ease the descent of Kaelen’s words into Thorne’s stomach.
He felt hollowed out.
And yet simultaneously, that there was no room in his chest for air, no space in his body for blood.
He’d spilled it all over Kaelen’s sheets, giving up all his breath from the moment Kaelen claimed him.
And yet, and yet -
Thorne’s hands gripped the comforter tighter, the fabric digging into his palms as though it might somehow anchor him in a reality that felt increasingly slippery.
His mind, fragile and overwhelmed, threatened to spiral into an abyss of endless “what-ifs”
and “could-bes.” Every thought felt like a potential cliff, one that, if he let himself fall into it, would drown him in the chaos of the unknown.
He could feel the weight of the uncertainty pressing down on him, suffocating him, forcing him to focus only on the here and now—the pressing reality that he had a role to play in this moment, whether he was ready for it or not.
He lifted his gaze, torn between disbelief and something much more tender—something that ached deep in his chest.
The room felt smaller now, the air thicker with the tension that lay between them.
He couldn’t look away from Kaelen, though the question that lingered on his lips threatened to betray him.
“If you’re not going to throw me in the dungeons, what will you do with me?”
The words were soft, almost too soft, as though he feared hearing the answer, but he needed to know.
He needed to understand what Kaelen saw in him, if there was even anything left to see.
Kaelen didn’t respond immediately, his silence almost more telling than any words could have been.
Instead, he sat there for a moment, rooted in place as though trying to summon the courage to move forward.
Slowly, he began to approach, each step measured, deliberate, and the tension in the room thickened with every inch he closed between them.
Thorne’s heart raced, the air too thin to breathe as Kaelen’s presence grew, filling every corner of the space.
When Kaelen finally reached him, his hands—cold and hesitant—reached out, taking Thorne’s in a gentle grasp.
He turned them over, palms facing upward, exposing the raw vulnerability in Thorne’s touch.
The chill in the air sent a shiver down his spine, but it was the weight of Kaelen’s gaze that held him captive.
Then, with a soft sigh, Kaelen pressed his lips to the cut in the center of Thorne’s palm, the tender gesture somehow both intimate and reverent, as though the pain there was something sacred.
Thorne’s breath caught in his throat, his mind reeling, but it was the sensation of Kaelen’s lips against his skin that consumed him, narrowing his world to that single point of contact.
Before Thorne could even think to speak, Kaelen moved again, his hands finding their way to Thorne’s chin, lifting his face so their eyes could meet.
In the space between them, the world seemed to hold its breath, suspended in time.
Kaelen leaned in, pressing his lips to Thorne’s in a kiss that was brief but undeniable—a kiss that spoke volumes, full of things Thorne wasn’t ready to hear but couldn’t stop feeling.
It was a kiss that held all the words they hadn’t said, all the pain and longing and something far more raw that neither of them could ignore any longer.
When Kaelen pulled back just enough to meet Thorne’s eyes, there was no hiding the rawness in his expression, no masks or walls left between them.
His vulnerability was open and laid bare, a side of him Thorne had never seen before.
It was a softness, a tenderness that no king’s title, no battle-hardened resolve, could disguise.
And it made something inside Thorne tighten with a mix of fear and awe.
"Stay with me," Kaelen’s voice was soft, each word weighted with a sincerity that seemed to hang in the air long after the sound had faded.
There was no arrogance, no bravado.
Just Kaelen, stripped of everything but his need, his heart.
"I know the road ahead is uncertain.
I know the pain we’ve both endured, but...
I can’t let you go.
Not now. Not like this." His words faltered only slightly, but the depth of his emotion was undeniable. "Stay and help me unite our kingdoms."
Thorne’s heart hammered in his chest, his breath shallow as a rush of conflicting emotions churned within him—confusion, longing, and something else that he couldn’t name, but which made him feel as though the ground beneath him had shifted.
He searched Kaelen’s face, looking for some trace of doubt, some sign that this was a passing moment, a fleeting fantasy.
But there was nothing.
Nothing but certainty in Kaelen’s eyes, a depth that Thorne couldn’t escape.
"Are you mad?" Thorne asked, his voice tinged with disbelief.
He pulled himself out of Kaelen’s arms, leaning back to create space between them.
The words were sharp, a mixture of frustration and something more vulnerable.
"Have you completely lost your mind?"
The air in the room was thick with tension, the kind that pulled at their every breath, making it hard to think, hard to move.
Thorne wished he could pace near the window, where his gaze could drift outside, as though the answers he was searching for could be found in the empty streets below.
But instead, he was confined to the bed, confined to sit and wither under Kaelen’s piercing gaze.
Kaelen stayed at arm’s length, watching him, his expression a mixture of frustration and something softer, something more vulnerable.
"You’re running again," Kaelen said, his voice tight with barely contained emotion.
"Why? Why can’t you just stay?"
Thorne’s jaw clenched, his fists curling at his sides.
"Stay? After everything that’s happened, you think it’s that simple?" His voice rose, shaking with the weight of his own frustration.
"After all the lies, all the secrets, after what I did—how can I stay? How can I look you in the eye and pretend I’m not the one who ruined everything?"
Kaelen’s face twisted, a flicker of pain crossing his features before he pushed it away.
His movements were slow, deliberate, as he moved closer to Thorne, but still kept a distance, as if trying to bridge the gap between them without forcing him.
"You didn’t ruin anything.
You were trying to protect your people—trying to protect your home," he reasoned, leaning forward.
His voice softened slightly, but the fire still burned in his eyes.
"You think I don’t see that? You think I don’t know you were doing what you thought was right? It’s not your fault she used you, Thorne.
It’s not your fault that you didn’t know the truth, but you can’t keep running. Not from me. Not from what we could be."
Thorne could feel his chest heaving with each breath.
The weight of everything he had done—everything he thought he had lost—pressed down on him.
"I’m not running from you!" he shouted, his voice catching on a lump in his throat.
"I’m running from the mess I’ve made.
From the wreckage.
From the person I’ve become without even realizing it.
You shouldn’t want me around, Kaelen. You can’t—" He broke off, unable to finish, the weight of his own words suffocating him.
Kaelen’s eyes softened, the flicker of something deep within them making Thorne’s heart ache.
He could feel Kaelen’s understanding, his compassion, reaching out across the divide.
But Kaelen held his ground, his voice calm but unwavering, carrying the force of a thousand unsaid things.
"I do want you around.
You’re not some mistake to be hidden away or forgotten.
You’re here, Thorne.
And I want you here—by my side. Think of all we could do together."
Thorne shook his head violently, his frustration mounting, the old wounds threatening to reopen.
"You don’t get it.
I’m nothing.
I’m not some hero who’s going to come in and make everything better.
I’m just—" His voice faltered, a tremor running through him as he struggled to find the right words.
"I’m just a pawn.
And that’s not enough."
Kaelen leaned forward, closing the distance between them.
His voice was low, but unwavering.
"You don’t get to decide that." His hand reached out, fingers grazing Thorne’s arm in a gesture both tentative and sure.
"You don’t get to decide that you’re not worth it.
Not when I’m standing here telling you that I want you.
That I need you."
Thorne stared at him, his breath shallow, the storm of emotions crashing inside him.
He wanted to believe Kaelen.
Wanted to, with every part of him.
But doubt gnawed at him, whispering that he wasn’t worth the fight.
That he couldn’t be fixed.
"I’m not asking for your pity, Kaelen.
I don’t want that."
Kaelen’s expression softened even further, his eyes searching Thorne’s as if trying to piece him together.
"I’m not offering pity.
I’m offering you a new life.
I’m asking you to stay because I believe in us.
Because I believe in you.
Not despite your flaws, Thorne, but because of them." He paused, his voice cracking slightly, his words measured but raw.
"I can’t win this war she wants without you."
Thorne’s heart beat painfully in his chest, the weight of Kaelen’s words sinking in.
The room felt smaller, the walls pressing in as he tried to wrestle with the choice in front of him.
The fear.
The pain.
The uncertainty.
It all seemed so much easier to run from, to walk away and pretend that none of it mattered.
But in that moment, with Kaelen standing there, offering him something real, something he hadn’t dared hope for in so long… Thorne felt a flicker of something he hadn’t felt in years: hope.
"I don’t know if I can do this," Thorne whispered, his voice barely audible.
"I don’t know how to be more than I am."
Kaelen’s hand found his again, and this time, Thorne didn’t pull away.
"You don’t have to be anything," Kaelen said, his voice firm, but tender.
"You just have to stay.
That’s all I’m asking."
For a long moment, Thorne sat frozen, the weight of Kaelen’s words pressing down on him.
He could feel the pull—deep inside him, in the space where hope and fear tangled together.
Could he stay? Could he fight for this, for them? Could he trust that it was worth it?
Finally, Thorne let out a slow, shaky breath, his eyes meeting Kaelen’s.
"Fine, you brute.
I… I’ll stay." The words felt foreign on his tongue, but as they left his mouth, he knew they were the only ones he could say.
And with that, Kaelen moved closer, wrapping his arms around Thorne in a gesture of reassurance, of protection, as if holding him in place where he’d never thought he could belong.
It was a simple act, but it was enough to make Thorne believe, for the first time in a long while, that maybe there was a future for him.