There was a nightmarish difference between the swamp in daylight and the swamp after dark.

By day, it was merely unpleasant—sticky air thick with gnats, mud clinging at the ankles, the constant drone of insects. Irritating, yes, but survivable. Manageable.

By night, the world transformed. Darkness swallowed everything whole, the mist congealing into something almost solid as it curled around roots and moss-slick trunks like living fingers. Shadows stretched long and restless, swaying as though they breathed. A reed snapping underfoot no longer sounded harmless but like claws scratching bark. Even the bubbles rising in stagnant pools seemed to gurgle with warning, each pop a ghostly croak.

Aelorian tightened his cloak around himself, the moonlit silk clutched to his chest as if it were armor rather than finery. The mist dampened its sheen, dragging it heavy over his shoulders. Every tree looked like it leaned toward him, every ripple in the black water slithered too close. His pace faltered, bootsteps slower, dragging through the muck, breath quickening to a sharp hitch whenever the swamp croaked, sighed, or whispered back.

Thorne trudged ahead as though the swamp were nothing but an inconvenience, his massive shoulders hunched, every branch and bramble snapping under his bulk. He didn’t bother to look back—why would he? Aelorian was always muttering, always fussing, always fluttering half a step behind like an overdressed shadow.

But the sound of dragging boots broke the rhythm. The mutters thinned. The elf prince was falling behind.

“Hurry up, elf,” Thorne grunted, ripping aside a snarl of reeds with one arm as thick as a tree trunk. “Keep moving. Can’t afford to slow down now that Seredane knows where we are.”

“I am keeping up, you dense pile of bricks!” Aelorian’s voice pitched shrill against the dark. His cloak snapped dramatically as he tripped through the muck. “Forgive me for not tromping through this gods-cursed bog like some—some lumbering ox!”

Thorne shot him a look over his shoulder, unimpressed. “Better an ox than a dead elf.”

“Oh, charming. Utterly charming, ogre.” Aelorian hissed back, his words stumbling over the edges of his breath. His cloak swirled as he tried to match Thorne’s pace, though his steps dragged more than glided now. “Do you know what you are?”

Thorne snorted, unamused. “Tired of your voice?”

“You're a bully with biceps! One big, brooding wall of—” Aelorian’s words faltered on the next breath. The bravado suddenly wavered, the edges of his voice thinning. He faltered, his hand brushing a root for balance. “Ogre,” he breathed, the whisper almost lost in the night air, “I feel faint.”

Thorne spun and caught Aelorian just as the elf’s knees buckled. For one terrible second, he thought it was another performance—some sharp jab in the middle of their spat. But then the prince’s weight truly sagged, moonlit cloak dragging heavy through the muck, his breath faltering against Thorne’s chest.

“Lori,” Thorne barked, voice sharp, hauling the elf upright as if he weighed nothing.

No reply. Just a faint sound—half-sigh, half-moan—as Aelorian’s head lolled against the solid plane of the ogre’s stomach. His hair clung in damp strands across his face, pale lips slack with exhaustion.

Thorne froze. Saints, it looked absurdly staged—like a scene ripped from those ridiculous romance novels the elf used to brag about. Limbs gone boneless, cloak dragging heavy with muck, his delicate frame sagged in Thorne’s grasp as though he’d been spun out of porcelain and dropped into the swamp. Even in the thin wash of starlight, his silver eyes showed no glitter of mischief, no sly smirk tugging at his mouth. Just emptiness. Just fragile, bone-deep fatigue.

“You've gotta be shitting me,” Thorne growled, irritation rasping under his breath. “You think swooning in the muck’s going to make me carry you the rest of the way?”

Aelorian stirred, but it was nothing theatrical. His lashes trembled against pale, damp skin; the tips of his ears were flushed faintly pink, and his lips parted slightly with ragged breaths. Each inhale was shallow, almost shivering, and his hands twitched against Thorne’s chest, too weak to anchor himself.

“I’m not acting,” he whispered, voice soft and frayed, almost swallowed by the thick night air. “I just… gods, I’m tired, Thorne. Tired of this swamp, tired of running, tired of…” His hand lifted shakily to his brow, delicate fingers trembling as if even that small motion was a weight too heavy to bear. His shoulders slumped like the weight of the crown he despised—and the chains of expectation—had finally pressed him to the ground.

“Tired of wearing a crown that isn’t mine.” The words were fragile, a whisper that seemed to echo in the dark mist around them, almost lost in the murmur of reeds and the distant croak of something unseen.

Thorne’s chest tightened. His jaw clenched as he swallowed a growl that might have been a curse or a sound of restrained frustration. This wasn’t the usual firebrand Aelorian who bickered with him, who teased and manipulated with silver-tongued precision. This was raw, unraveling, utterly elven fatigue, laid bare in the shadowed swamp.

The elf’s cloak stuck damp to his form, his robes smeared with mud, and the scent of earth and water clung to him. His chest rose and fell unevenly, breaths rattling against Thorne’s massive frame, each one a quiet plea for something steady, something strong to lean on.

For a moment, Thorne felt a strange, gnawing unease in his chest—not fear, not frustration, but something tighter, sharper. Responsibility? Possession? Protectiveness? His massive hand tightened slightly where it rested on Aelorian’s back, a silent, grounding tether in the darkness.

“Enough dramatics, Moon Prince,” He finally growled, “ You’re not Seredane’s damned bride. You’re not a jewel he gets to hoard in the dark. You’re not his anything. He doesn’t name you. He doesn’t own you.” He moved to anchor the elf firmly by the small of his back, pinning him upright against his chest. “You’re my damned problem now. And I don’t drop what’s mine.”

Aelorian’s eyes fluttered open, silver catching faint starlight, caught between awe and scandal. 

Then the elf spoke. “...Yours?”

Thorne’s jaw clenched. “That’s not what I meant.”

Aelorian’s gaze drifted down towards Thorne’s huge, scarred hand still wrapped around his delicate elven wrist, skin pressed pulse against pulse. The sight made him quirk a tiny, almost mischievous smile, soft and daring at the same time. “Then why,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper, silk against stone, “are you still holding my hand?”

Thorne stiffened, scowl deepening, and gave a sharp tug, as if to wrench free, but Aelorian only tightened his slender fingers, delicate yet unyielding, holding fast. 

“Let go,” Thorne muttered, gruff and clipped.

“No,” Aelorian said simply, tilting his lips into a broody little pout, lashes lowering. “I like it.”

The ogre’s eyes flashed, all fire and irritation. He let out a low, warning growl, half threat, half plea—but he didn’t move. His hand stayed where it was, enormous, steady, a tether in the thick, clammy darkness. 

Aelorian tucked himself closer, so slight against Thorne’s bulk it was almost absurd. He pressed his delicate body against the breadth of the ogre’s chest, cheek settling against the warm, solid plane of his stomach as though he belonged there.

“Don’t push your luck, elf,” Thorne rumbled. The words were rough, warning, but something softer trembled beneath them.

“Mm?” Aelorian’s whisper curled sly and decadent, scandal wrapped in moonlight. “Not even when I’m muddy, wet, and… entirely at your mercy?”

The silence that followed stretched, charged, like the air before a storm.

Then—crack.

The sharp snap of wood split the night from the treeline.

Both froze. Breath stalled in their chests.

Aelorian’s eyes widened, lips parting on a sharp inhale. “What was that?”

Thorne’s shoulders coiled, every line of him taut, eyes raking the shadows. “Don’t know,” he muttered, low, dangerous. “But it was big.”

Aelorian’s fingers curled tighter into Thorne’s vest, his pulse fluttering like a trapped bird against the ogre’s chest. The playful edge drained from his voice, leaving only breathless dread. “Big…how big?” 

Thorne didn’t answer right away, eyes locked on the treeline where the sound had come from. The silence after was worse than the crack itself—thick, suffocating, broken only by the drip of swamp water and the faint rustle of something moving.

“Thorne,” Aelorian whispered, barely daring to breathe. He pressed himself closer, as though the ogre’s size alone might shield him from whatever stirred in the dark. “Tell me you saw it.”

“I saw something,” Thorne said, voice low, rough, and dangerous. He shifted, putting himself squarely between Aelorian and the shadows, his massive frame forming an unyielding wall. His hand moved instinctively, steadying the elf prince without thought. “Stay behind me.”

“I am already behind you,” Aelorian hissed, voice wobbling as he clung tighter. “Gods, you don’t think it’s him, do you? Seredane—”

Thorne cut him off with a sharp growl, not at the elf but the very idea. “Doesn’t matter who it is. If it comes any closer, it’s dead.”

The swamp seemed to pulse around them, thick mist curling low to the ground. And then movement. A shape, crouched in the trees, barely visible through the tangled reeds and skeletal branches.

Thorne’s eyes narrowed, muscles coiling tight as drawn steel. “We’re not alone.”

The reeds whispered again, deliberate this time—too careful, too precise to be an animal blundering through. Thorne’s shoulders bunched, weight shifting with the stillness of a predator, every muscle primed to strike.

“Ogre…” Aelorian’s whisper frayed, pale fingers digging into his vest. “I don’t see anything.”

“That’s because it doesn’t want to be seen.” His voice was low thunder, eyes locked on the treeline.

A hush fell, heavy and waiting. Then—a ripple of movement above.

Perched in the crook of a twisted branch, a figure crouched low, shadowed yet deliberate, like a cat savoring the kill. Her blade caught the moonlight just enough to betray her, a cold glint flashing between leaves.

“Stay down,” Thorne growled, shoving Aelorian closer behind his massive frame.

The figure leaned forward, lips curving in a slow, dangerous smile. Dark hair spilled around her sharp face, eyes bright and cutting in the gloom. Her voice slid through the fog, velvety and cruel all at once.

“Well, well,” The woman purred, feminine and feral in equal measure. “Looks like I’ve found the brute and his runaway bride.”