The letter reached Aerion three weeks late, stained with mud at the corners and creased as if it had been folded too many times in too many hands. He shut himself in his chambers the moment the courier placed it in his palm. No servants. No chamberlain. No interruptions.

The fire burned high in the hearth, throwing gold across marble and velvet, but Aerion barely felt it. He broke the seal with his thumb, unfolded the page, and read.

The stars look brighter here, though the nights are darker. Perhaps because there are fewer lamps to fight them. I thought of you when I saw them.

He read the words twice, his lips parting as if they’d cut him. Then a third time, slow, deliberate, the ache in his chest swelling with each pass. His hand trembled. He pressed the parchment to his mouth and cursed under his breath.

The keep was warm. The wine sweet. The silks soft.

And none of it mattered.

Not without Clyde.

He flung himself onto his chaise, half-buried in cushions, staring at the painted ceiling. The words ran through him like poison, making him restless, unsteady. He wanted to scream. He wanted to laugh. He wanted Clyde back where he belonged—silent, infuriating, close enough to touch.

Instead, he reached for parchment.

His hand hovered a long time over the page. When he began to write, the ink came fast, sharp strokes cutting into the white.

You’re infuriating. And I read that twice. Three times, if you must know. I’d blame boredom, but that would be a lie.

I wore red at court yesterday. You’d hate the cut. Too much collarbone. Every lord stared like I’d grown wings. I imagined it was you instead. It didn’t help. In fact, it made it worse. You’ve ruined my fun. Do you know that? The chase used to thrill me. Now every smile feels hollow, every touch an insult to the one I want.

The court whispers that I should be choosing a bride. They prattle about alliances, heirs, stability. As if I am some broodmare to be led into a pen. I laugh at them, of course. I tell them I will wed only if the stars fall from the sky and the rivers run with gold. But at night, when their voices are gone, I wonder if you’d laugh too or if you’d tell me I was a coward for hiding behind my sharp tongue.

Do you dream of me, Silent Hound? You must, to write of warmth in a place like that. Tell me the truth. Tell me more. Because I can’t stop thinking of you. It’s infuriating. I catch myself listening for your silence in the halls, expecting to turn and find you there. I pace at night like some restless animal, and all I hear is your voice—too few words, too heavy, lodged like a stone in my ribs.

What else do you dream of? Do the stars look like my jewels to you, or my eyes? When the fire burns low, do you imagine me beside you? Or do you try not to?

Write again. I command it. If the ink freezes, carve it into bark. If your hand shakes, bleed it onto the page. But answer me.

—A

He stared at the page afterwards, jaw tight, chest rising and falling too quickly. Too little, too much, all at once. He wanted to burn it, as he had others. But this time, he didn’t.

He sealed it with wax, pressed his signet deep, and gave it to Heston.

When the door closed, Aerion sagged against the chaise, head tilted back, eyes burning with something he refused to name.

It was ridiculous. He was ridiculous. To be tethered by ink and parchment, to let a soldier’s words undo him more thoroughly than any blade.

And yet, when he lay down that night, Clyde’s letter stayed beneath his pillow.

As if the knight’s eyes might follow him into sleep.

The letter had taken a month to reach him. By then, the edges were frayed, the parchment softened by too many hands, the wax cracked and barely clinging. The faint trace of Aerion’s perfume—sweet, sharp, decadent—was nearly gone. Clyde held it to his face anyway, breathing deep, searching for what lingered.

He waited until nightfall to read it.

The camp had gone quiet, fires low, men lost to dreams or drunk on them. His tent glowed dim with a single lantern, smoke and frost thick in the air. He sat on his cot, sword balanced across his knees, and unfolded the page.

Aerion’s voice leapt up from the ink with every line. Sharp, mocking, too much collarbone, not enough shame. But beneath it, threaded through every word, was longing so raw it bled through like spilled wine.

Clyde read it once. Then again.

By the third time, his hands shook.

He pressed the parchment to his mouth, against his cheek, down the length of his throat. He lay back on the cot, the letter held above him and closed his eyes. Aerion’s words slid through him like heat, like hunger, and he let them strip him of control.

His free hand went to himself, already hard, straining against his breeches from the first reading. He tugged the laces loose with rough fingers, breath coming harsh, and wrapped his fist around himself.

The first stroke wrenched a groan from his chest—raw, low, too loud in the stillness. He bit down on his lip, then shoved his arm between his mouth and the crook of his elbow, muffling the sounds before they could carry through the camp.

He worked himself with merciless efficiency, palm dragging over the swollen head, the slick slide of precum easing his grip. His hips bucked into his hand, rough, needy, every movement sharper as Aerion’s words replayed in his head.

You’d hate the cut. Too much collarbone. Every lord stared. I imagined they were you. It didn’t help.

Clyde gritted his teeth and stroked harder, faster, imagining Aerion in that damned robe, smirking at him from across the hall, vibrant blue eyes daring him to look away. He pictured Aerion’s lips, mocking, wrapped around him instead of his own hand, that sharp tongue dragging over his cock, those venomous words turned to whimpers.

His breath broke. His fist tightened, rhythm faltering as pleasure coiled low and unbearable. He ground his teeth, arm pressed so hard against his mouth he tasted blood.

When release came, it tore through him brutal and unstoppable. His whole body shuddered, hips jerking up off the cot, seed spilling hot over his stomach and chest. He bit down hard to stifle the cry, strangled it into the fabric of his sleeve, but the violence of it still wracked him, left him trembling.

The letter was still clutched in his hand, crumpled, damp now with sweat where his fist had clenched it tight. He pressed it against his chest, holding it there like it was Aerion himself, like he could keep him in his arms through ink and paper alone.

The silence after was worse.

He had thought it would ease him, burn the ache from his blood, quiet the drumbeat of want. Instead, it left him emptier, hollowed out, body shaking as his throat closed around something too sharp to breathe.

Tears stung his eyes, spilled hot down his temples into his hair. Harsh, soundless sobs tore through his chest until his ribs ached with the effort.

For Aerion’s voice. For his absence. For the agony of wanting what he had sworn he could never take.

He did not write back. Not that night, nor the next.

Better silence than truth too heavy to send across the miles.

So, he folded the letter with care despite the wrinkles, tucked it beneath his pillow, and lay back on the cot, eyes burning, heart raw.

And he dreamed—dreamed of sapphire eyes, a venomous smile, and a hand that had somehow become his only salvation.