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“I never do.”

“He’d hate you less if you did every now and then. Or at least called him by his surname.”

“That would insinuate I respect him.” Draven crossed his arms, glancing out of the window. “How can you tell when I run into him?”

“The barging in here hell bent on ruining my peace gives it away.”

“That was coincidental today. I wanted to do that from the moment I escaped Alister.”

“Sorry to disappoint, but I’m perfectly happy where I am,” Caine assured.

Draven frowned at the unmade bed. “It’s midday, brother. You need to stretch your legs. Eat a meal. Bask in the sun.”

“I have food,” Caine said, vaguely gesturing to a bowl of fruit on the table beside his paints, then to the window. “And sun.”

Draven hummed, digging through the bowl before swiping an apple and biting into it, slowly. When Caine continued to ignore him, he moved to the bookshelf, taking another obnoxious bite as he gazed absently over the titles.

It didn’t take much more before Caine set down the brush. “How are you so good at always getting your way?”

“It’s an art, not unlike the masterpieces you make.” Draven snagged a book before taking a moment to really admire Caine’s painting.

It was the sun against a black backdrop. But the flames that licked along the edges of the star were a blend of pastels, creating a rotating kaleidoscope of color. From the flames, it all bled to a gold, fading to a creamy white the closer it got to the core.

“What do you think?” Caine asked.

“It’s impressive,” Draven said.

“Do you mean it? I forgot the stars in the background, and it’s driving me mad.”

“No, no. I didn’t even realize they were missing because the rest of it steals your attention.” Draven cocked his head. “Is it—”

“Erebria, yes.” Caine stood, wiping his hands with a cloth.

The star from which the Primordials descended. Where the Flares’ energy came from. A place said to be heaven for Imordials, past and present. Pictures of it were everywhere, so it was easy to identify where Caine’s inspiration originated.

“It’s a wonderful depiction,” Draven said. “You should be proud.”

A small blush crossed Caine’s cheeks as he began packing up his paints.

Draven moved to help him, pocketing the apple core and moving the fruit bowl to the bed so he could fold down the table. “Who are you going to give this one to? I know Alister could use some color in his room. I bet that man has nothing hanging on his dented walls.”

Caine laughed, quiet and unsure. “I was wondering if you’d like it.”

Draven paused. The last time Caine gave him any artwork was when the boy was very small. As he grew and honed his talents, most of his larger pieces went to the nobles, with Valen and Chiman getting the bulk. “Truly?”

“Truly.”

Draven was unable to stifle his widening smile. “It’ll go wonderfully beside that very flattering portrait of myself scribbled onto a scrap piece of paper.” He continued fawning over the gift, unable to stop his curiosity. “But why this one?”

“I thought it would be fitting.” Caine crossed one arm to hold the other. “Considering what’s to happen soon.”

Draven’s smile fell. The assault on Alokya. The night he was to take his first Dusk Flare. The time had moved up from next year to a mere two moons time. All because of—

“And I keep thinking about what happened at Sarnin.”

That. “Never mind about Sarnin,” Draven said.

Caine’s voice devolved into anger the more he spoke. “I can’t help it. So many more lives were lost because she was there.”