Sion had always believed that mornings were kinder than nights.
When dawn barely brushed the sky with pale gold, he was already awake. The house was quiet—too quiet, some would say—but Sion found comfort in the silence. It gave him space to think, to move, to exist without judgment. He rolled up his sleeves and began preparing the food he would bring along, hands steady and practiced. Fresh bread wrapped carefully in cloth, preserved fruits, a simple stew that would travel well. It was nothing extravagant, but it was made with care and that mattered more.
He had missed his visit to the orphanage a few days ago.
That alone was reason enough for him to rise early.
The orphanage was located in the capital, the same place he had once sworn never to return to. Though the small town where he lived now was not far, the journey still took two to three hours by carriage. Long enough for memories to surface if he allowed them to but Sion rarely did.
Before leaving, he reminded Eiran of his duties for the day.
"If anyone arrives," Sion said calmly while fastening his cloak, "you'll be the one to welcome them."
Eiran blinked. "And if they ask for you?"
"Tell them I'm out," Sion replied without hesitation. "Which is true."
Eiran sighed, already resigned. Sion merely smiled and stepped out.
The town was just beginning to stir when he passed through its narrow roads. Shopkeepers raised their shutters, farmers led their carts, and as always, eyes followed him. Whispers trailed behind like shadows.
"Going somewhere again?"
"Probably looking for another alpha."
"Shameless omega…"
Sion heard every word. He always did.
And as always, he ignored them.
He walked with his head held high, cloak pulled low, pace unhurried. Their rumors had long since lost their sting. People spoke because they needed someone to speak about—and Sion had learned that giving them a reaction only fed their hunger. Silence was far more effective.
By the time he reached the capital, the sun was already high. He adjusted his cloak, blending into the crowd with practiced ease, and headed straight for the orphanage tucked between stone buildings and ivy-covered walls.
The moment he stepped inside, warmth greeted him—not from the hearth, but from the people.
"Brother Sion!"
Children came running, laughter filling the space as small arms wrapped around him. He chuckled softly, steadying himself as they nearly knocked him over.
"Careful," he said lightly. "I may not look fragile, but I assure you, I am."
His mom approached soon after, expression softening the instant he saw him. "You're late," the older woman said gently, though there was no accusation in her tone.
"I know," Sion replied. "The fields have been demanding lately."
They sat together while the children played nearby, catching up over simple tea. His father asked about his health, his work, why he had not visited sooner when he promised he would.
Sion answered smoothly, offering excuses polished by repetition. Busy harvests. Unexpected matters. The usual.
"You could stay," his father said again, hopeful as always. "Even just for a while."
Sion shook his head, smile apologetic but firm. "I can't."
He never explained further. He never needed to.
By the time he left the orphanage, it was already afternoon. He lingered just long enough to ensure the children were settled before pulling his cloak back on and disappearing into the crowd once more.
Meanwhile, far from the capital, three cloaked figures were entering the small town Sion called home.
One was clearly an adult—tall, broad-shouldered, walking with a quiet authority. The other two were smaller, their steps lighter, cloaks slightly too big for their frames. From beneath the hoods, curious eyes took in everything.
They headed straight for the inn.
Once seated, the adult gestured for food and leaned toward the waiter. "Excuse me," he said evenly. "Do you know a man named Sion Montgomery?"
The waiter paused then turned away as if he hadn't heard a word.
The man frowned slightly and asked another patron nearby. The reaction was the same: stiff surprise, followed by deliberate silence.
The older of the two cloaked figures shifted uneasily. "Uncle," the child whispered, voice laced with frustration, "how are we supposed to find him if everyone here pretends we don't exist?"
Before the man could answer, a drunken laugh cut in.
"You'd be better off not looking for him at all," a drunkard slurred, stumbling closer with a crooked grin. "Unless you want rumors sticking to you like mud."
The man turned to face him, eyes sharp beneath his hood. "Then you must know who he is," he said calmly. "And where he lives if you're confident enough to speak ill of him."
The drunkard's grin widened. He rubbed his fingers together in a familiar gesture.
"I do," he said. "But information isn't free."
Without a word, the man reached into his pouch and took out several gold coins. The drunkard's eyes gleamed but instead of reaching for them, he eyed the pouch greedily.
"All of it," he said. "Or I forget everything."
The man hesitated.
"Uncle," the other child spoke suddenly, voice clear and bright. "May I?"
The man glanced at him, surprised but nodded.
The child leaned forward, tilting his head innocently. "You know," he said lightly, "it's funny how you're so eager to sell information you claim is dangerous."
The drunkard scoffed. "What's your point, brat?"
"My point," the child continued, unfazed, "is that you're not the only one watching us. I can already count people who haven't stopped staring at our table since the gold came out."
The drunkard stiffened.
"If we leave," the child went on cheerfully, "we can always ask them instead. Perhaps they'll charge less. Or perhaps they'll be kinder."
The drunkard cursed under his breath.
The child then placed a few coins on the table that is far fewer than before.
"Take it," they said sweetly. "Or lose everything."
Silence stretched.
Then
The drunkard snatched the coins.
"…Fine," he muttered.
And just like that, the deal was done.