The great hall had not yet regained its old rhythm. Where once laughter had risen like a tide, now the nobles spoke in softer tones, glances darting like minnows through dark water. The marble floor still bore faint stains, scrubbed and scrubbed yet not entirely erased.

When Aerion entered, the murmurs sharpened, as though the room itself inhaled.

He had dressed not in mourning black nor in the jewel-toned extravagance that had made his name, but in sapphire trimmed with silver, the cut sharp as a blade, the collar plunging to the hollow of his chest. Jewels glittered at his fingers, though fewer than usual, chosen with precision rather than excess. His hair spilled golden and gleaming, framing a smile as bright and false as sunlight off glass.

He descended the dais steps as if nothing had happened. As if a blade had not nearly found his heart. As if his knight had not bled to keep him alive.

“Good morning, my lords,” Aerion purred, lifting a goblet from a servant’s tray without asking. “Do forgive me for missing our council yesterday. I was—how shall I put it—indisposed.”

A ripple of uneasy laughter swept the chamber. Some forced, some genuine. Aerion’s smirk cut through it, sharp enough to sting.

But the courtiers’ eyes slid past him. To the figure at his back.

Clyde.

Silent. Unmoving. His uniform plain, the bandages beneath invisible save for the stiff set of his shoulders. He stood with one hand braced casually against the hilt of his sword, his grey eyes scanning the hall, the crowd, every shadow.

Whispers sparked like kindling.

“That’s him—the Hound.”

“Bled like a sacrificial lamb—”

“Still standing?”

Aerion heard it all. He felt the weight of their stares—less on him, more on the man behind him. Fury flared, bright and brittle, though his smile did not falter.

He raised his goblet, tilting it toward Clyde in mock salute. “My shadow, ever loyal,” he drawled. “Try not to frighten them, Hound. They’re delicate things, these nobles.”

Another nervous ripple of laughter. Clyde said nothing. His gaze did not waver from the hall.

Aerion’s smile sharpened, a blade disguised as charm. “Well then,” he said, sweeping into the heart of the chamber with his robe trailing like a banner, “shall we begin our dreary duties before someone faints from anticipation?”

The nobles bent their heads, quills scratching, words tumbling over each other in eagerness to please.

But Aerion felt it—that pull behind him. Steady. Relentless. His court watched for cracks in him, weakness in his smile. And yet, in the corner of his eye, he saw only Clyde: silent as ever, but unmovable.

The ball had shifted something.

And Aerion hated that everyone could see it but him.

The chamber filled with the drone of voices, nobles leaning over ledgers and petitions, but Aerion knew where the talk would turn before it began. He sprawled into his father’s chair, a purple splash against dark wood, one arm draped over the carved rest, his goblet held carelessly between two fingers.

Lord Branvel cleared his throat, the same heavy sound as three days past. Aerion felt it like a pebble dropped in still water, the ripples inevitable.

“My lord,” Branvel began, voice rumbling with solemn weight. “Valemont requires stability. The Archduke’s health—”

“Yes, yes, he’s half-dead,” Aerion interrupted lightly, swirling the wine in his goblet. “He’s been half-dead for years. Remarkable how long he’s managed it.”

A few nervous titters broke across the table, quickly stifled.

Lord Darrick pressed on. “You are his heir, my lord. The council would be remiss if it did not remind you that heirs must secure the line.”

There it was.

Aerion tilted his head, letting the light catch on the jewels at his ears, a languid smile curving his lips. “Ah, marriage again. You do harp on the theme, my lords. One might think you intend to wed me yourselves, should I fail to select some simpering dove.”

A few lords flushed scarlet. Others looked away.

“The ball,” Branvel said firmly, “would have been an opportunity. Yet you squandered it. You danced little and courted less.”

“I drank the wine,” Aerion countered. “And mocked the fiddlers. Precisely as I promised.”

A ripple of restrained laughter. Branvel’s frown deepened.

“An heir must be made,” he said again, like a prayer to a deaf god. “If not now, then soon.”

Aerion let the words hang. He leaned forward, setting his goblet down with a click that rang against the wood. His eyes sharpened, smile twisting into something crueller.

“Do you know what happens to geese, my lords?” he asked softly. “They are fattened. Caged. Paraded. And then they are eaten.”

The chamber hushed. Even the scratching of quills ceased.

“I am no goose,” Aerion said, voice soft as velvet, sharp as a knife beneath it. “And I will not be fattened for your feasts. If Valemont requires stability, then let us levy wine and gold, not my bed.”

Gasps fluttered around the room, some scandalized, some amused.

All the while, Clyde stood at the wall. Silent. Watching.

Aerion could feel his gaze like a weight between his shoulders. He wanted to twist, to lash, to see whether those grey eyes judged him or not. But he did not turn.

Instead, he flicked his fingers in dismissal. “Now—unless you wish to lecture me further on the virtues of livestock breeding, let us turn to matters that actually matter.”

The nobles bent their heads again, muttering, scribbling, unwilling to push further for now.

But Aerion sat back in his chair, heart thrumming too fast, the ghost of storm-grey eyes still pressing against him.

It wasn’t the lords’ disapproval that rattled him. It was knowing Clyde had heard every word.

The council finally dispersed, parchment gathered, chairs scraping across stone as lords bowed and muttered farewells. Their whispers trailed after them like smoke, some sharp with disapproval, others amused at Aerion’s insolence.

Aerion let them go with a languid wave of his hand, his smile fixed until the doors shut. Then it vanished; sharp, brittle, gone in an instant.

He rose too quickly, his goblet still half-full, and spilled wine across the table. He didn’t bother wiping it. His eyes were already fixed on Clyde, who stood as he always did: silent, steady, one hand braced against the hilt of his sword.

“You,” Aerion said, voice slicing the quiet.

Clyde straightened slightly but didn’t answer.

Aerion stalked across the chamber, robe flaring violet behind him. “You were there,” he pressed. “You heard every droning word, every plea for me to rut myself into a dynasty. And yet you stood silent. Again.”

Clyde’s grey eyes met his. Calm. Unmoving. “It was not my place to speak.”

Aerion scoffed, pacing a circle around him, restless as a caged hawk. “Not your place? Gods, is there anything your place is besides looming in corners like a shadow?” He stopped suddenly, turning to face him. “Well? Say it. Do you agree with them?”

Silence.

Aerion’s voice sharpened. “Do you think I should be married off like a prized mare? Do you think I should beget heirs and dance with simpering girls until my knees give out?”

Still nothing. Clyde’s jaw flexed, but his lips did not move.

Aerion’s fists clenched, rings biting into his palms. “You’re infuriating. Do you know that? I demand an answer, and still you—”

At last, Clyde spoke. Quiet. Even. Steady as stone.

“I think,” he said, “you are lord enough to make your own choice. Not theirs. Not mine.”

The words were simple. But they landed like a blade pressed to Aerion’s throat—not piercing, but close enough to feel the edge.

He swallowed. Heat prickled up his neck. “That’s it? No lecture, no judgment, no tedious northern sermon about duty?”

“No.”

Aerion stared at him, breath caught in his chest, furious that he couldn’t read what lay behind those dark eyes. Fury and something else tangled inside him, sharp as glass.

He laughed suddenly, brittle and bright. “Gods, you are impossible. An arrogant dog who thinks silence makes him wise.”

He turned sharply, striding for the door. But at the threshold he hesitated, just a heartbeat, before glancing back.

Clyde was still there, unmoved, unshaken, watching him.

And Aerion hated that the weight of that gaze steadied him more than all the council’s speeches ever could.

That evening, the hall was warm with firelight and chatter, the long tables heavy with roasted pheasant, spiced pears, and wine that flowed too freely. Courtiers laughed in rehearsed tones, their jewelled hands fluttering like birds as they leaned across goblets and platters.

Aerion arrived late, as ever, sweeping in draped in dark silk that caught the glow of every candle. The murmurs that followed him were familiar—scandal, awe, envy, disdain—and he drank them like a draught of wine.

He took his place not beside his ailing father, but among the younger nobles, where the laughter was sharpest and the eyes eager. He played his part flawlessly: lifting a goblet in mock salute, teasing a knight about his waistline, tracing his fingers too boldly along a lady’s wrist.

She giggled, cheeks pink, leaning close enough that her perfume, rosewater and honey, lifted sweet between them. Aerion smiled, slow and wicked, lowering his voice to a murmur meant only for her ear.

“Careful, darling,” he drawled, “the way you look at me, someone might think you’re already planning our vows.”

Gasps and laughter burst around the table. The lady laughed too, though her eyes darted nervously toward her father at the far end. Aerion only grinned wider, basking in the scandal, basking in the noise.

Yet—beneath it, louder than the music, sharper than the laughter—Clyde’s words gnawed at him.

You are lord enough to make your own choice. Not theirs. Not mine.

Aerion tossed back his wine, the sweetness sour on his tongue. He leaned toward another lady, darker-haired, bolder in her gaze. He brushed his knuckles along her jaw, his smile flashing sharp as a blade. “And you, dove? Would you survive me? Or would you faint after the first kiss?”

More laughter. More scandal.

But even as he kissed the air just shy of her lips, even as he let the crowd shriek and titter, Aerion’s eyes flicked to the far side of the hall.

There he was.

Clyde.

Standing as ever, silent in the shadows. One arm bound stiff against his chest, but posture unyielding, gaze sweeping, grey eyes catching Aerion’s across the distance.

Aerion felt his pulse hitch. He turned back quickly, burying himself in noise, in wine, in smiles sharp enough to cut.

But as the night wore on, and laughter dulled to hollow echoes, he found himself wishing—furiously, shamefully—that Clyde would say something more.

Anything.

The door closed behind them.

The lady’s breath was already quick, laughter slipping through her teeth like she’d won some prize. “Will they talk?” she asked, eyes alight with wine and vanity.

“They always do,” Aerion said, his voice silk over glass.

He stepped into her space, and when she tilted her chin up to meet him, he kissed her. Not gently. Not tenderly. Not with heat.

With need.

His mouth opened against hers, his tongue pushing past her teeth like he meant to drown in her. She made a startled sound, then melted, fingers winding in the collar of his robe. It slipped from his shoulders as he walked her backward toward the bed.

She gasped when the backs of her knees hit the mattress. He didn’t pause. He pressed her down and followed, dragging her skirts up her thighs with practiced hands.

“My lord—” she breathed, one hand gripping his arm. “Wait—”

He shoved her dress higher, baring her. She wasn’t wearing anything beneath, and when his fingers brushed the inside of her thigh, she whimpered and opened her legs without protest.

“You’re wet already,” he said flatly. “How flattering.”

She laughed, breathless. “You’re not what I expected.”

“No,” he murmured, leaning down to kiss her neck, “I never am.”

He pressed the head of his cock against her, hard, already aching, and sank in with one smooth, punishing thrust. She cried out, legs tightening around his waist.

“Oh—gods—”

Aerion didn’t speak. He gripped her hips and fucked her like she was a memory he was trying to erase—quick, deep, relentless. The bed creaked, headboard striking the wall in rhythm. Her moans echoed off the stone walls.

She clawed at his back, gasped his name, arched beneath him. “Yes—like that—fuck—Aerion—”

But he was somewhere else.

Not here.

Not inside her.

Not really.

His eyes were open, fixed past her shoulder, staring into the dark.

Clyde.

Grey eyes.

Clyde’s voice: You are lord enough to make your own choice.

He came with a sharp, silent breath—no groan, no sound. Just a tightening of his jaw, a spasm in his thighs, his hands bruising her hips as he spilled into her like he was emptying out everything that still lived inside him.

And it didn’t help.

It didn’t help.

She lay beneath him panting, pleased, glowing. “You don’t say much, do you?”

He pulled out. The wet sound between them was louder than her voice.

She whimpered as he stood, reaching for her dress. “Will you see me again?”

“No.”

He didn’t look at her as she left.