Demian was standing near the window of his study when Valerie entered. He did not turn around. His back faced the door, his shoulders slightly slumped the posture of someone who had carried a weight for far too long, a burden that should have been shared but was never truly spoken of. The dusk light slipped through the tall glass, breaking into pale streaks of orange that framed his silhouette. In that light, Demian looked thinner. More fragile. As if parts of him had been worn away by days that never offered answers.
Valerie stopped a few steps from the door. For a moment, she only looked at him the man who was so close, yet felt increasingly distant.
"Demian," she called softly.
The sound made him turn. Not in haste. Not defensively. His face showed an honest exhaustion, one no longer concealed by the authority of a duke. There was no anger, no justification. Only eyes that held too many unfinished things, too many choices endlessly postponed.
"Are you all right?" he asked.
