The keep fell into hush in the days after the ball. The chandeliers remained unlit, their crystals dull with dust. No lutes strummed in the galleries, no harps plucked airy notes to fill the halls. Even the nobles’ laughter dulled, thinning into whispers behind jewelled hands. Their attention no longer clung to Aerion’s scandalous gowns or barbed remarks, but to the shadow of a knight who had bled on marble to keep the peacock prince alive.
Aerion had not left his chambers for two days. Not out of grief—he told himself—but out of irritation. His schedule had been disrupted, his routine shattered. He had missed a luncheon, a fitting, a dozen chances to parade himself through the market. His gowns—new, tailored, daring—lay folded in chests, unworn.
He told himself it was this that set his teeth on edge.
But still…
The bloodied sash lay across his lap as he read petitions, its once-black fabric ruined by rust-red stains. He told himself it was simply a distraction, a thing to fiddle with while he skimmed dull demands for more grain, fewer taxes, new roads. And yet his fingers tightened in the cloth, worrying the torn threads until his knuckles whitened.
Still, he paced. From window to hearth, from chaise to mirror, restless steps tracing lines across the same stretch of rug until the pattern blurred. He muttered curses at the council, at his father, at the assassin who dared strike at him in his own hall. But each word rang hollow in the empty chamber.
And still…
He dreamed. Not of the knife’s glint, nor of the masked figure vanishing into chaos. Not even of the pain in his knees as he knelt on marble, his hands pressed to blood.
No.
He dreamed of Clyde’s eyes.
Grey as stormed steel, unflinching even as his body faltered. Eyes that never left him, even when the knight’s breath grew ragged, even when crimson spread across his side in widening circles.
They had not looked at the assassin. Not at the guards. Not at the exits.
Only at him.
Aerion cursed himself for remembering it. Cursed the way those eyes haunted the edge of his thoughts, slipping past his armour of laughter and silk. He told himself it was nothing—mere irritation, the residue of panic.
And yet, when he closed his own eyes, he saw them again.
Unflinching. Unyielding.
Fixed only on him.
On the third day, Aerion dressed simply. No jewels. No paint. Just a slate-gray tunic, loose at the collar, and soft boots that made no sound in the halls. He didn’t tell anyone where he was going.
He reached Clyde’s quarters in the west wing—modest rooms carved from stone and shadow, far from the noble suites. A single guard stood outside, who nodded and stepped aside.
Aerion knocked once.
No answer.
He knocked again, louder.
A pause.
Then, a low voice: “Enter.”
Clyde sat at the edge of his cot, shirtless, one arm bound across his chest, his side still stained with fresh healing salve. His skin was littered with old scars—some long and clean, others jagged like lightning. A tapestry of violence, worn without shame.
Aerion hesitated in the doorway. Then entered.
The room was spartan. A cot, a trunk, a washbasin. No books. No paintings. No warmth. Just a whetstone on the desk and a sword resting across his lap, as if he’d rather die than be caught unarmed.
“You’re alive,” Aerion said, folding his arms.
Clyde gave the slightest nod.
Aerion’s eyes dropped to the stitched wound on his side. The skin was black-blue around it, angry and swollen. Aerion winced despite himself.
“I didn’t thank you,” he added stiffly. “For… shielding me.”
Clyde said nothing.
“You lost a great deal of blood.”
Another pause. “I’ve bled more.”
Aerion took a step closer, frowning. “Gods, do you ever accept gratitude like a human?”
“I don’t do it for thanks.”
“Oh?” Aerion snapped, irritated. “Then what? Glory? Duty? Some code of cold northern honour?”
Clyde raised his eyes. “I swore an oath.”
“To whom? My father?”
“To you.”
Aerion blinked. “You barely know me.”
“I don’t need to.”
The silence thickened, pressing between them.
Aerion looked away, flustered. “You’re… infuriating.”
“I’ve been told.”
Aerion’s gaze drifted again—this time slower, without pretense. Across Clyde’s torso, the hard plane of muscle, the constellation of scars. One, near his hip, looked like the kiss of a beast’s fang. Another ran down his ribs like a drawn blade. The sight did something strange to Aerion’s stomach.
He swallowed. “Those are from battle?”
Clyde nodded.
“All of them?”
“No.”
Aerion raised an eyebrow.
Clyde didn’t elaborate.
The fire popped in the small hearth. A long silence stretched, taut with something Aerion couldn’t name. He hated silences, usually. They made people reveal too much.
Yet this one… this one felt like an invitation.
He stepped forward, gently placed something on Clyde’s desk.
It was the torn sash.
“You dropped this.”
Clyde glanced at it, then at him. Their eyes met—close, too close.
Aerion’s breath hitched, just slightly. He stepped back before it could become a tremble.
“Well,” he said, straightening his tunic. “Don’t die again. It was… inconvenient.”
Clyde gave him the faintest smirk—barely there, more in the eyes than the mouth.
“I’ll try, my lord.”
Aerion turned quickly, muttering under his breath, “Arrogant dog.”
But when he reached the door, he hesitated.
He looked back once.
And found Clyde watching him—not with judgment, or duty, or even amusement.
Just quiet.
And something else Aerion refused to name.
Aerion did not go directly to dinner. He claimed a headache, sent the handmaidens away with a flick of his wrist, and locked the door behind him.
The fire in his chambers had been stoked to a golden glow, casting shadows across silks and cushions, glinting on the gilt edges of mirrors and the polished legs of tables. It should have been comforting, indulgent. But tonight, the air felt close, heavy, almost suffocating.
He shrugged off his tunic, letting it fall to the floor in a careless heap, and poured himself wine. Strong, red, bitter. He drank too quickly, the liquid burning down his throat.
Yet still, his mind circled back.
Not the assassin’s blade. Not the chaos in the ballroom.
Clyde.
Sitting shirtless on that narrow cot, a sword across his lap as though even half-dead he’d fight until dragged to the grave. His scars, a tapestry of every battle, every wound, every survival. The way he’d said I swore an oath. To you.
The words should have pleased Aerion, should have fed his vanity. But instead, they lingered like a thorn beneath the skin.
And those eyes… storm-grey, unflinching, fixed on him even through pain. No mockery. No judgment. Just… something Aerion could not name, though he tried.
He paced the room, restless, dragging a hand through his hair until golden strands stuck wild. He muttered under his breath. “Infuriating man. Arrogant dog. Bleeds all over my floors, sits there like a statue carved of scars, and—” He broke off, jaw clenched.
The fire popped. Shadows leapt across the mirrors.
He sat at last on the edge of his bed, wine glass dangling from one hand, his other pressed to his own bare chest where the tunic had slipped. His pulse thudded beneath his palm, too quick, too loud.
It wasn’t love. Gods, he didn’t even believe in such nonsense. And it wasn’t gratitude, either—he had given his thanks, however grudgingly.
So why couldn’t he shake the image of Clyde’s quiet smirk, the weight of that gaze, the way silence had stretched between them like an unspoken vow?
Aerion drained the glass, set it down too hard, and lay back across the silks. He stared up at the carved beams above, willing sleep to come.
But when it did, his dreams were not of the ballroom, nor of his gowns, nor even of the council pressing marriage on him like a chain.
They were of storm-grey eyes and the ghost of a voice saying: I swore an oath. To you.
***
Dawn bled pale and reluctant across Valemont Keep, light slanting through narrow windows to gild the marble halls in washed-out gold. The great house stirred slowly, servants whispering through corridors, their steps muted as though even the stones were unwilling to wake.
Aerion stirred earlier than his habit, the silk sheets restless beneath him, dreams of storm-grey eyes still clinging like cobwebs. He lay for a moment, staring at the carved beams above, scowling at the tightness in his chest. Then, with a sharp motion, he threw the covers aside and rose.
He dressed quickly—too quickly—into a robe of deep violet velvet, pulling the sash around his waist hard enough to bite into his ribs. The fabric shimmered faintly, but it was nothing like his usual dazzling excess. No jewels, no kohl, no paint across his cheekbones. The handmaidens blinked at his haste, at his stripped-down state, but before they could fuss with combs or powder he snapped a hand through the air.
“Out,” Aerion said, voice like glass. “I don’t need an audience to breathe.”
The door shut behind them, and the room was silent. Aerion pressed a hand briefly to the sash, drawing in a long breath before he strode out.
The hall beyond was cool and still, shadows stretching long over the stone. And there he was.
Clyde.
Already there.
As though he had stood vigil all night, wound or no wound. His uniform was plain, dark, stretched taut where bandages bound his chest beneath. One arm hung stiff at his side, but he did not lean, did not falter. His sword was belted as always, its weight sitting at his hip as naturally as his shadow.
Aerion halted in the doorway, eyes narrowing to slits. “You,” he said, voice curling like smoke, dangerous in its softness. “What are you doing here?”
Clyde inclined his head. Not a bow. Just acknowledgement. His expression was carved from stone.
Aerion stepped closer, tilting his chin, the violet robe whispering against the floor. The cruel glimmer in his deep blue eyes sharpened, brittle as glass. “You know,” he said, each word slow and deliberate, “if a hunter’s hound were wounded, it would be taken out back and put to death. An injured dog is no use to its master.”
The words lashed in the still air. Aerion savoured them, waited for the sting. Expected a flinch. A shadow of shame. Something.
But Clyde only looked at him. Grey eyes steady, storm-still. His voice was low, even, the edge of steel beneath it. “It’s good, then, that you’ve never been one for hunting.”
The retort slid beneath Aerion’s skin like a hidden blade. His lips parted, but no clever cruelty came to him. The silence stretched between them, taut and dangerous, humming like a bowstring pulled to breaking.
Aerion’s pulse thudded faster, traitorous. He broke it with a scoff, sharp and brittle, turning on his heel. His robe flared behind him, violet velvet catching the dawn light.
“Arrogant dog,” he muttered, loud enough to be heard. “One day that tongue will hang you.”
His footsteps rang against the stone, swift and biting. But though he did not look back, he felt it: the presence trailing behind him. Silent. Steady. Unyielding.
As if no wound, no insult, no venom could drive Clyde away.
And it infuriated him.
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