The evening fell heavy over Valemont Keep. Torches guttered in their sconces, shadows gathering long across the flagstones. The storm was long gone, but Aerion carried it still, beneath his ribs, behind his eyes.

He had tried to drown it.

At supper he had laughed too loudly, leaning too close to a courtier’s daughter until she blushed crimson and nearly spilled her wine. He told scandalous jokes that made the stewards choke, mocked Lord Halford until the man all but stormed from the hall. He soaked up every glance, every gasp, every whisper like it was air.

But there was an absence where Clyde should have been. A rare break from his constant shadow. He should’ve been overjoyed, but he just felt himself annoyed.

When Aerion dismissed the court and stalked from the hall, his skin itched with it. The silence. The weight. The memory of the cabin fire and grey eyes that softened for a heartbeat too long.

He needed to crack it open. He needed… something.

He found Clyde in the training yard.

The place was nearly deserted, the moon glinting pale on damp stones. Clyde stood bare-armed despite the chill, his tunic discarded on a bench, bandages stark against his chest. He moved through drills with steady precision, blade flashing, boots sure on the slick ground. Each motion was deliberate, economical, a soldier’s rhythm.

Aerion leaned against the archway, arms folded, watching. His robe was a spill of sapphire, his hair catching torchlight like gold. He looked a vision from a painting. And yet his chest felt too tight, his pulse too fast.

“You’re injured,” he said finally, voice carrying across the stones.

Clyde didn’t falter. He pivoted, blade slicing the air in a clean arc. “Healing.”

Aerion scoffed, striding closer. “You’re supposed to be my hound, not my martyr. What use is a knight who can barely lift his sword?”

Clyde lowered the blade, breath even despite the sheen of sweat on his brow. “More use than you think.”

The words landed heavier than Aerion expected. He stopped, lips parting. “You’re insufferable.”

Clyde’s gaze flicked to him, steady, unreadable. “And you’re reckless.”

Aerion laughed, sharp and hollow. “Reckless keeps the blood warm.”

They stared at one another, the night thick with it—moonlight on steel, firelight in memory, silence swelling between them like a bowstring drawn too tight.

Aerion stepped closer, close enough to catch the faint scent of sweat and steel, close enough to see the scar that cut across Clyde’s ribs where the bandages ended. His voice dropped, dangerous and low.

“You never answer me,” he murmured. “Not when it matters.”

Clyde held his gaze. “Because you don’t ask what matters.”

The words struck like a blade driven into wood—quiet, final, impossible to ignore.

Aerion’s heart stuttered. His mask cracked. And for once, he had no ready reply.

The night pressed close around them, the damp stones of the training yard slick with moonlight. The torches hissed in the chill, casting their flames in restless arcs of shadow.

Aerion stood so near he could see the faint rise and fall of Clyde’s chest, the sheen of sweat across his collarbone, the slow flex of fingers still curled around the hilt of his sword.

You don’t ask what matters, Clyde had said.

Aerion’s lips curved, but there was no humour in it, only something brittle. “Then let me ask,” he whispered. His voice was low, sharper than it meant to be. “Do you want me?”

The words hung between them like lightning, raw and dangerous.

For the first time, Clyde faltered. Not much. But Aerion caught it: the barest shift of his jaw, the slow inhale through his nose, as though he were steadying himself against a blow.

Aerion stepped closer still, their breath mingling in the narrow space. “You’ve guarded me. Bled for me. Stared at me like stone stares at the rain. But you never answer. So, tell me, Hound. Do you want me?”

Clyde’s gaze locked on his, unflinching. Grey eyes, dark, holding more than silence this time. Something Aerion would not name.

At last, Clyde spoke. His voice was steady, but low enough that Aerion had to lean in to catch it.

“Yes.”

Aerion’s breath hitched, sharp in the cold air. The world narrowed; no court, no keep, no duty, no storm. Just this. Just him.

But before he could shape the moment into triumph or mockery, Clyde went on.

“Yes. But I swore an oath. And you—” His jaw tightened. “You play games. You offer smiles like coin, touches like treats tossed to a dog. I will not be that for you.”

The words cut deeper than Aerion expected, lodging beneath his ribs. His smirk faltered, his posture stiffened, but he forced a laugh, brittle and bright. “So, the hound bares his teeth.”

“Better that,” Clyde said evenly, “than let you put a leash on my throat.”

The silence after was heavier than any storm.

Aerion’s heart beat too fast, his fingers twitching at his side, aching to reach for something—his cup, his robe, his mask, anything to shield himself. But there was nothing here but the dark, the stone, the knight who refused to bow.

He stepped back first, chin tilting high to hide the tremor in his breath. “You’re insufferable,” he said again, though his voice was quieter this time.

Clyde sheathed his sword, the sound final, like a door closing.

And Aerion turned on his heel, silk robes whispering against the wet stones as he strode back toward the keep, heart thrumming, lips parted, breath caught on a single, terrible truth:

The Hound wanted him.

But not as a game.

Aerion slammed the chamber door shut with more force than he intended. The echo cracked through the silence, sharp as his heartbeat.

He tossed his robe across a chair, fingers clumsy, breath uneven. The torches hissed in their sconces, shadows stretching long against the carved walls, but for once, he felt caged by the grandeur. Too much stone. Too much silence.

Yes.

The word replayed in his head like a drumbeat. Steady. Relentless.

He paced, restless, one hand dragging through his hair, the other clenching and unclenching at his side. He wanted to laugh, to mock it, to strip it of meaning. He wanted to sneer at Clyde’s pride, at his refusal to bend.

But all he could hear was that steady voice, low and unyielding. Yes.

Aerion sank onto the edge of his bed; silk sheets cool beneath his hands. His throat felt dry, his chest too tight. He tilted his head back, eyes closed and let the word coil through him again.

Yes.

Grey eyes.

Steady hands.

That voice, grave as iron, softening only once.

His breath shivered out of him. His fingers, restless, slid lower.

He was already hard.

Already aching.

Already gone.

He told himself it was defiance. That if Clyde thought him incapable of want, incapable of seriousness, then he would prove otherwise, even in solitude. He told himself it was mockery, indulgence, nothing more than heat to be burned off like wine.

But when his breath hitched, it was not the faces of a baron’s son or merchant’s daughter that filled his mind. Not the courtiers who begged for his favour.

It was Clyde.

Broad shoulders bent over a blade.

Scars mapping skin like constellations.

That oath, spoken without flourish, lived without fail.

Aerion pressed his lips together; a sound caught in his throat. His body moved with the rhythm of memory; with the ache of a truth he could not name aloud, his own soft hand stroking where he wished a calloused one would.

When release finally broke through him, he bit down hard on his knuckle, silencing the cry before it could escape into the empty chamber. The taste of iron filled his mouth.

He collapsed back against the pillows, chest heaving, damp hair clinging to his temples. The ceiling spun above him, painted cherubs staring down with their eternal, mocking smiles.

Aerion dragged a trembling hand over his face. His lips parted, a whisper escaping like a confession into the dark.

“Dangerous man…”

And still, the silence answered him.