The storm rolled in from the east like a siege with no warning and no subtlety. One moment the sky was wide and pale, the horses’ hooves drumming over the wet meadow grass, Aerion’s laughter carrying on the wind as he urged his mount faster. The next, the horizon was a wall of iron, clouds boiling over the hills, rain sweeping toward them in a dark sheet.

“Damn,” Aerion hissed, yanking at the reins as the first fat drops splattered his cheeks.

The storm struck all at once, thunder cracking open the sky like the world itself was splitting apart, rain slashing down in hard, stinging waves. Wind howled through the trees, bending them like reeds, scattering leaves across the sodden ground.

Aerion cursed, squinting through the torrent. “There—cabin!” He pointed, rain slicking his hair to his face.

Clyde said nothing, only spurred his horse after Aerion’s, steady despite the mud sucking at their hooves.

They reached it just as the storm broke fully overhead; a squat, forgotten hunting cabin at the edge of the woods, its roof sagging but still intact. Aerion leapt from his horse before it had fully stopped, boots splashing into muck, and half-ran for the door. Clyde followed, slower, dismounting with deliberate care, his injured side pulling at him with every motion.

Inside was shadow and dust. The air smelled of damp wood and old ash. A stone hearth crouched in the corner, empty but for a scatter of soot. Broken chairs leaned against the wall, and a narrow cot sagged with age.

Aerion shoved the door shut against the wind, water dripping from his hair, his tunic plastered scandalously against his body. He shivered and laughed at once, a sharp, reckless sound. “Gods, we’ll drown in our boots before we drown in wine.”

Clyde closed the bolt, then crossed the room without hesitation, checking the walls, the corners, the roofline where rain seeped through in thin rivulets. Always scanning. Always guarding.

Aerion dropped into one of the chairs with a dramatic sigh, kicking off his soaked boots. “Perfect,” he muttered. “A palace of splinters and mildew. Just what I deserved.” He tugged at his wet sleeves, annoyed when the fabric clung stubbornly.

Clyde knelt at the hearth, stacking kindling from a forgotten pile of logs that had gone soft at the edges. He worked in silence, striking flint until sparks caught. Slowly, reluctantly, flame bloomed, casting the cabin in a soft orange glow.

Aerion tilted his head back against the chair, watching the firelight play across Clyde’s face, angular, stern, streaked with rain. Scar tissue caught the light like pale silver, glistening beneath damp skin.

The thunder cracked again. Aerion flinched, though he tried to mask it with a smirk. “I’ve always hated storms,” he admitted, voice lazy, almost careless. “When I was a child, I used to imagine lightning as the anger of long-dead kings clawing their way out of the clouds.” He swirled an invisible goblet in his hand. “Now, as a man, I drink.”

Clyde’s eyes flicked toward him. Just once. Steady. Unmoved. But not unhearing.

Aerion chuckled, softer this time, as if the storm outside had stolen some of the bite from his laughter. The fire popped, shadows stretching across the walls. For once, the castle and its courtiers, its endless performance, were far away.

It was only him.

And the hound who had bled for him.

The storm battered the cabin as if it meant to tear it apart. Rain lashed the shutters, wind howled through the chinks in the roof, and thunder cracked so close it rattled the walls.

The fire Clyde had coaxed to life fought valiantly against the damp, its glow throwing long, flickering shadows across the rough-hewn walls. Aerion dug through the cabinets, seeking out liquor he knew must be somewhere in the cabin, his soaked tunic clinging like a second skin.

He scowled, tugging at the fabric. “Gods, I might as well be naked. This thing’s useless. Ah! At last!” He pulled out a bottle of dark liquid.

Clyde didn’t answer. He stripped off his own sodden cloak with one wince of pain, laying it near the fire. His movements were slow, deliberate, each one betraying the strain of his wound, but he made no complaint.

Aerion watched him, irritation and something else twisting together in his chest. “You’ll catch a fever,” he said sharply, though it came out sounding more like concern than mockery. He hated that. “Take that shirt off before it freezes to you.”

Clyde glanced at him once, unreadable, before pulling the linen over his head. The firelight caught on the ridges and valleys of scars across his chest, the still-angry wound stitched at his side. A map of battles fought and survived, each mark a story Aerion didn’t know.

Aerion swallowed, looking away too quickly. He tugged at his own tunic again, then stood abruptly, yanking it over his head in one sharp motion. The wet fabric slapped against the floor. His hair clung to his temples, drops sliding down the long line of his throat.

“There,” he said, voice too flippant, too loud in the small space. “Now we’re both half-drowned and indecent. A fitting pair.”

He tossed the tunic toward the fire, spreading it across a chair to dry. Then he lowered himself onto the cot with exaggerated carelessness, one knee bent, his bare chest gleaming in the firelight.

The silence thickened. Outside, the storm screamed. Inside, only the fire popped.

Clyde crouched by the flames, stretching his hand toward the warmth. His profile was cut sharp by shadow—jaw, cheekbone, the line of his throat. His grey eyes stayed fixed on the fire, though Aerion felt the weight of his presence, heavy as a hand pressed against his chest.

“You really won’t say anything, will you?” Aerion asked finally, his voice dropping low. “Not about the council, not about the ball, not even about this.” He gestured vaguely between them, the closeness, the heat, the way their damp skin steamed in the firelight.

Clyde’s answer came after a long pause, quiet as the storm was loud. “There’s nothing to say.”

Aerion laughed once, bitter and bright. “Gods, you are maddening.” He leaned back on the cot; arm draped across the pillow. “Do you know what silence does to a man? It makes him hear things that aren’t there. Feel things he shouldn’t.”

The fire hissed, swallowing the words.

Clyde didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But his eyes lifted from the flames, meeting Aerion’s across the small, flickering room.

For a heartbeat, it was not silence at all. It was a bowstring, drawn taut.

And Aerion wasn’t sure who would break first.

Clyde sat by the hearth, sharpening his blade. Of course.

The fire was little more than a stubborn glow, its smoke curling up through a crooked chimney. Rain hissed where it slipped through cracks in the warped roof, pooling on the uneven stone floor. The cabin smelled of damp wood, mildew, and disuse.

Aerion blinked at him from the chair, last drops of water still dripping from his hair and rolling down his chest. “Do you ever sleep,” he drawled, “or are you part of the furniture now?”

Clyde didn’t look up, the whetstone rasping over steel in slow, even strokes. “Resting.”

“You’re holding a sword.”

“I rest better armed.”

Aerion gave a theatrical snort and rolled his eyes. The chair creaked dangerously beneath his weight as he shifted, but he sprawled anyway, legs draped over one armrest, his cup dangling loosely from his fingers. “Gods, you’re exhausting.”

The faintest tug pulled at Clyde’s mouth, not a smile, but something perilously near to one.

The storm growled around them, hammering at the cabin walls. The fire popped, shadows rising and breaking across rough stone and rotting beams. Aerion let his gaze rest on Clyde’s hands, the deliberate patience in each pass of the whetstone, the sound like a heartbeat carved from stone. It should have been dull, but it wasn’t. It was steady. Soothing. Like survival given shape.

After a long silence, Aerion muttered into his cup, “I couldn’t sleep. The thunder sounds like—” He stopped himself, scowled, and drowned the words in a sip. He tried again, lighter, feigned: “Do storms bother you?”

Clyde paused, steel hovering over flame-light. “No.”

“Of course not,” Aerion scoffed. “You’d probably spit at a hurricane.”

Clyde said nothing, only dragged stone over steel again, unhurried.

Aerion let his head fall back against the chair, lashes low, lips curved in a bitter parody of a smile. “You know, I’ve had three men try to seduce me this week. One was a baron’s son. Another was married. And the third just wanted the bragging rights.” He tipped the cup, wine sloshing. “I told them all no.”

Clyde stopped. The blade slid back into its sheath with a quiet click.

Aerion’s eyes flicked to him, sharp even through the veil of weariness. “Surprised?”

“No.”

“Disappointed?”

Clyde’s gaze found his, calm and steady, firelight deepening the grey. “Not my business.”

Aerion’s smile twisted, brittle as glass. “Ah. The Hound bites but doesn’t chase.”

The storm chose that moment to roar, thunder crashing overhead, the roof shuddering as if the sky meant to cave it in. The fire guttered, throwing them into near-darkness before flaring again.

Aerion tipped the cup to his lips, swallowing hard, then licked a drop of red from his mouth. His eyes stayed fixed on the flames. His voice was softer now, stripped of its edge. “Have you ever loved someone?”

Clyde didn’t answer. Not right away. Not with words.

But his gaze… his gaze lingered. It held. It didn’t waver, didn’t sharpen—it softened. Just barely. Like a crack opening in iron. Like frost giving way to warmth.

Aerion’s breath caught.

It wasn’t a yes.

It wasn’t a no.

And for a man like Clyde, that was louder than a confession.

Aerion tore his eyes away first, throat tight. He drained the rest of his wine, the swallow loud in the charged silence.

“You’re a very dangerous man,” he whispered, and for once, there was no mockery in it.

Clyde didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

Aerion toyed with the empty cup in his hands, tilting it until the dregs slid across the bottom like dark blood. The firelight made his rings gleam, though his hand trembled faintly from drink… or something else.

At last, he spoke again, voice low, restless. “If you’ve felt that way,” he said, still staring into the flames, “then why?” His head tipped, eyes narrowing. “Why never a word? Never a touch? Not so much as a glance that meant something?”

Clyde’s jaw shifted, just slightly, but he didn’t look away.

“Do you not want me?” Aerion pressed, his laugh sharp and humourless. “Or is the thought of it beneath you? A jest to share with the barracks when the wine runs low?”

“No.” Clyde’s tone cut through the storm, steady and unyielding. His eyes stayed locked on Aerion’s. “It is a game to you. A smile. A word. A hand placed just so. Giving a dog a treat.”

Aerion flinched, though he covered it with a scoff.

Clyde’s voice softened—not gentle, but firm, anchored. “But I am no dog. I swore an oath. To guard you. To put your life before mine. That is what I am bound to. Nothing else.”

Aerion sat very still. His smile, brittle and bitter, wavered like glass under pressure. “So, what I am to you is a commandment?” he asked, voice rougher than he intended.

Clyde didn’t answer. Not aloud. But his silence was heavy.

The fire popped, smoke curling up toward the broken rafters. Rain hammered against the roof, relentless.

At length, Aerion pushed himself from the chair, unsteady on his bare feet. He glanced once at Clyde, then at the wool cloak stretched across the floor near the fire, its fabric now dry and faintly warm.

Without a word, he lowered himself onto it, curling onto his side. His hair fell across his face as he dragged the edge of the cloak around his shoulders. The warmth seeped into him, despite the ache in his chest.

His lips moved once more, a whisper meant for no one—or perhaps only for the knight seated a few feet away. “I hate storms.”

Then his eyes slipped closed. His breathing slowed.

Clyde didn’t move. He sat with his back to the hearth, one hand resting on the hilt of his sheathed blade, gaze fixed on the dark cabin door. But every so often, his eyes drifted to the bundle of violet silk and golden hair stretched across his cloak.

Watching. Guarding. Silent.

Until the storm began to pass.