The storm had burned itself out by dawn. The world outside the cabin was washed clean, grass glittering with dew, the air sharp with the smell of wet earth and pine. A pale sun crept between the trees, hesitant, as if afraid of what it might find.

Aerion stirred first.

He blinked against the pale light, groggy, his mouth dry from too much wine. The fire had burned down to embers, faint warmth clinging to the hearth. For a moment he didn’t recognize where he was; the sagging beams, the stone walls damp with rain, the threadbare cloak pulled across his shoulders like a second skin.

Clyde’s cloak.

Memory trickled back, the whetstone’s rasp, the storm’s fury, Clyde’s voice steady as stone, cutting sharper than any blade. Giving a dog a treat… I swore an oath.

Aerion lay very still, the fabric warming him where it brushed his collarbones, carrying a faint scent of leather and iron. It made something uncomfortable stir in his chest.

Slowly, carefully, he pushed himself upright. The cloak slipped down his arms, pooling at his waist. He stared at it, as if the wool itself had betrayed him.

Across the cabin, Clyde sat against the wall, exactly as he had the night before. His head was tilted back, eyes closed, but his hand still rested on the hilt of his sword. Sleeping, but ready. Even in exhaustion, he looked immovable.

Aerion swallowed, the dryness in his throat suddenly worse. He wanted to say something sharp, something mocking—that he wasn’t in the habit of sleeping on a dog’s bed, that he must’ve been drunk enough to forget himself.

But the words caught in his throat.

Instead, he only gathered the cloak and folded it once, sloppily, but folded all the same. He laid it back where he had found it, then sat in silence, watching Clyde’s chest rise and fall in slow, even rhythm.

The stillness pressed at him.

Too close.

Too quiet.

Too loud.

When Clyde stirred at last, opening his eyes, he found Aerion already sitting upright, legs crossed, chin tilted high, as if he had been awake and composed for hours.

“About time,” Aerion drawled, though his voice was softer than usual. “I was beginning to think you’d finally rusted through.”

Clyde said nothing. He only stood, slow and deliberate, and began to check his gear.

Aerion’s smirk lingered, but inside, his chest tightened.

They left the cabin without a word.

The storm had scoured the forest clean; every branch dripped silver, every leaf gleamed as though newly made. Mist clung low over the ground, curling around the horses’ legs as they stamped impatiently in the clearing. The air was sharp and cold, the kind that bit at lungs and made each breath feel too loud.

Clyde moved with his usual precision, tightening saddles and reins, checking buckles twice before swinging into his saddle with a wince he didn’t voice. His cloak across his shoulders again, as though the night had never happened.

Aerion mounted more languidly, violet robes sweeping as he swung astride. He looked every inch the dishevelled lord: hair loose, collar askew, his rings catching weak sunlight. But his eyes were sharper than they had been the night before, awake and restless.

They set off at a slow trot, hooves squelching against the wet earth. The silence rode with them.

Aerion’s gaze flicked toward Clyde more than once, though he disguised it by turning his head toward the trees, the sky, the winding trail ahead. He wanted to speak—some clever barb, some careless quip—but every word he conjured felt too brittle, too transparent.

Finally, he tried. “If anyone at court asks, we’ll tell them I insisted on inspecting the forest paths.” His tone was airy, dismissive. “Better than admitting we spent the night in a hovel smelling of damp straw and regret.”

Clyde didn’t turn his head. “No one will ask.”

Aerion scoffed, the sound sharp as the snap of a twig. “They always ask. What I eat. What I wear. Who I—” He broke off, biting the word before it could leave him. He forced a smirk instead. “Who I mocked last.”

“Then tell them that,” Clyde said simply.

Aerion’s fingers tightened on his reins. Gods, the man was infuriating. Always still, always steady, as if the storm—last night’s storm, any storm—could never reach him.

And yet…

When thunder had shaken the cabin walls, when the roof had groaned and the fire guttered, Aerion hadn’t thought of his father, or the keep, or the courtiers waiting to pick apart his every move. He’d thought of Clyde. Of grey eyes softening, just for a breath, like iron bending under impossible heat.

He shook the thought off like rain.

The keep’s towers soon rose in the distance, black stone jutting from the mist. Courtiers would be waiting. Whispers would follow. The world would resume.

Aerion straightened in the saddle, slipping his mask back on like a second skin. He tossed his hair back, adjusted his robe, set his smirk firmly in place.

But when he glanced at Clyde again, just once, the mask cracked at the edges.

The silence between them hadn’t broken.

It had only grown heavier.

By the time they rode beneath Valemont’s iron gates, the keep was already stirring. Servants hurried across the courtyard with baskets of bread and bolts of cloth, guards barked orders from the walls, and above it all, the towers loomed dark and slick from rain.

They hadn’t even dismounted before the whispers began.

“My lord Aerion—” “Where had he gone?” “Overnight, no less—scandalous—” “Not alone. The Hound was with him.”

Aerion felt the eyes like nettles against his skin. Nobles at the steps, chamberlains in the archways, servants with downcast gazes, all of them watching, guessing, filling the silence with their own stories.

Perfect.

He smiled, broad and careless, slipping from his saddle with a flourish of violet robes. “Fear not, darlings,” he announced, loud enough to echo across the courtyard. “I was not lost to the storm. I merely decided the Archduke’s son should test the forest paths personally. Wouldn’t want our noble carriages to rattle too much on their way to the next feast, would we?”

A ripple of uneasy laughter swept the gathered crowd. Aerion let it linger, let it sting, before tossing his reins to a waiting stablehand. “The roads are dreadful, by the way. Someone ought to see to them. Preferably someone not me.”

He swept past before anyone could answer, dripping disdain and amusement in equal measure.

Behind him, Clyde dismounted with none of the flourish, his boots hitting stone with the solid weight of inevitability. He offered no explanation, no deflection. Just silence. His presence was explanation enough; shadow to Aerion’s light, steel to his silk.

But Aerion felt it—the weight of Clyde’s absence the moment he slipped back into the role of guard, melting into the periphery like he’d never been more than an oath-bound shadow.

The courtiers’ laughter dulled as soon as Aerion’s back turned. Their whispers sharpened.

He ignored them. He always did.

Yet as he strode across the hall, every step loud against marble, he found his fingers brushing faintly at his collar, at the place where Clyde’s cloak had warmed him.

He hated himself for it.

And he hated the silence that followed him more.

The council chamber smelled of damp parchment and candlewax, the storm’s memory still lingering in the stones. A dozen lords crowded the long oak table, rings flashing as they argued, quills scratching furiously against vellum. The air was heavy with voices; complaints of tariffs, disputes over borders, demands for coin.

Aerion swept in late, as always, robes of blue and silver flowing, a smile already sharpened to a blade. He settled into his father’s empty chair as though it had been carved for him alone, a quill balanced idly on his knuckles.

“Have we solved the world’s woes in my absence?” he asked sweetly.

The chamberlain pursed his lips. “We were just discussing the levy on—”

“On wheat? On wool? On wine?” Aerion cut him off with a languid wave of his hand. “Why not levy air while we’re at it? You’ll find the peasants very willing to pay when they’re choking.”

A ripple of nervous laughter shivered around the table.

Aerion leaned forward suddenly, eyes sharp. “Better yet—let the lords who drink four goblets of wine at breakfast donate half their stock. That should fill the coffers by the week’s end.”

Lord Halford flushed scarlet. “My lord—”

Aerion smiled, wide and venomous. “Yes, my lord? Do speak. We all enjoy your wisdom—though not, I fear, your wine.”

The room broke into uneasy chuckles. Halford sank back into his seat, muttering into his beard.

Aerion twirled the quill between his fingers, smug, the picture of effortless cruelty. He thrived on it… the dance, the cutting remark, the way the chamber bent beneath his tongue.

And yet—

When he leaned back, eyes flicking lazily across the chamber, his gaze caught on the wall.

On Clyde.

Standing still, arms crossed, grey eyes steady. Silent.

Always silent.

Aerion felt something catch in his chest, though he masked it with another smirk. He tossed the quill across the table, watching it roll between two startled stewards. “Gods, you’re all exhausting,” he drawled. “Let’s adjourn before I die of boredom.”

The lords rose in a flurry of mutters and parchment. Aerion stretched like a cat, pretending not to hear them.

But as the chamber emptied, he found himself staring again at the knight in the corner. Silent. Unmoving. Watching.

The silence pressed in, heavier than the arguments had been.

Aerion pushed himself up abruptly, voice too sharp. “Do you enjoy standing there like a statue? Is that what you were carved for?”

Clyde’s expression didn’t change. “I was placed here.”

Aerion scoffed, but the sound was hollow. “Placed. Yes. Like furniture.” He swept past him, robes flaring. “At least furniture has the decency not to stare.”

Clyde didn’t reply.

And Aerion hated—hated—how much he wanted him to.