Ives finally set aside the documents he had been studying for hours and rubbed the bridge of his nose. The sun was sinking; the candles barely helped. He was no longer young, and his already unreliable eyesight would only suffer more from such strain. For a moment he thought of resting, but dismissed it. Arien would arrive soon. He had to meet him. He looked tired — older than his years — but that could not be helped. His husband would endure it.

The alpha stepped outside just as the familiar carriage appeared in the distance. He inhaled the salty sea air and thought of the north. Home. He longed to return. Yet as the carriage drew nearer, unease crept into his chest. Something was wrong. A quiet instinct warned him that the improper rumors had reached Arien. The moment his husband stepped down, Ives knew he had been right.

The omega was furious.

Ives offered his hand, but Arien slapped it away and went straight inside without a word. Ives should follow. He needed to speak with him. Now.

But before he could move, Alian leapt from the carriage and claimed his attention. He had not seen his son in so long. The boy had grown — taller, heavier — yet just as talkative. For a second, Ives glanced toward the doorway where Arien had vanished. He needed to speak with him soon. The first thing he would say — that he had missed him.

The first night they shared by mutual consent was not the last.

Weeks later, Ives woke again in his husband’s chamber — only to meet the scandalized stare of a servant who had come to clean. Before, there had been only whispers about why the lord visited his spouse’s rooms.

Now the whole castle would know.

It did not matter.

Ives looked at the quietly breathing Arien beside him and slipped a hand beneath the blankets, brushing over a bare shoulder and down his side.

A hoarse, sleep-heavy but irritated voice answered:

“My lord. It’s morning. Don’t touch me. Not again.”

“I’m not asking for that,” Ives said calmly. “Well… not only that. Let’s move into the marital bedroom. Together.”

For a moment, he feared the fragile peace between them would shatter.

But Arien only muttered, “Fine. Now let’s sleep.”

Ives smiled and wrapped his arms around him from behind.

When Vetis heard of the move, he nearly fainted. In horror, he asked whether the young lord was with child — since they usually shared rooms only in such cases. The poor servant almost wept, convinced Arien must have conceived by someone else. Ives quickly calmed Vetis down. 

Alian was surprised too when he saw servants moving things from both his father’s and his papa’s rooms into the shared chamber.

“Is someone coming to stay with us?” he asked.

“No, little star,” Ives said gently. “Your papa and I will live together now.”

The boy didn’t understand why his parents were moving in together. He grew upset, thinking he wouldn’t spend as much time with his father anymore — or sleep beside him. Arien was very firm about that. Still, like any child, Alian came to visit their new chamber.

Ives welcomed him warmly. Arien did not.

“You won’t sleep here,” Arien said immediately. “You have your own room. You shouldn’t sleep in the lord’s bed.”

“But I can play with Father, right?”

“Yes, you can.”

Arien went back to his book, though he kept watching the servants and telling them where to put things. When Alian began to fall asleep, Ives picked him up, kissed him softly, and carried him to his own bed. When Ives returned, Arien was already wearing a robe. Arien had long, strong legs. He was beautiful — truly beautiful — and Ives felt drawn to him, even more after the nights they had shared. The scars didn’t matter to him; he hardly noticed them. Still, Ives forced himself to look away and stepped closer.

“You could have been softer with Alian.”

“And you are too soft with him,” Arien replied calmly, crossing his arms. “He needs to understand he won’t sleep with you anymore. You should be stricter. We don’t need Alian here. Or… you don't like me?”

“I like you so much, Arien,” Ives said quietly. He placed his hands on Arien’s hips and pulled him closer, breathing in his scent. “You’re beautiful. Nothing can change that. Maybe only your temper.”

“My lord!” Arien warned sharply. Ives only laughed and kissed the tip of his cool nose. “Careful with your words.”

His teasing didn’t hide the warmth he felt. Sometimes Ives was almost embarrassed that, at his age, he could still be so easily moved by feelings.

He might have enjoyed this slow healing of their marriage, but news of rebellion darkened everything. Once again, like years ago, he had to deal with traitors.

If there had been rebels in the north, they disappeared quickly. Or rather — they moved. In his letters, Milosh wrote that Thibault barely slept from stress and work. Ives tried to comfort him, though he himself often couldn’t sleep. His eye would twitch; his breathing grew heavy.

Three months earlier, the king had sent him to the southern lands. Even there, Ives worked constantly, rebuilding his network of informants with care. It was there that he met a young ambassador’s son, who eagerly offered to help him. Ives had brought several northern servants south with him. Apparently, they were the ones who carried embellished, distorted stories back home.

And those rumors had reached Arien.

After leaving Alian in the kitchen with the warm-hearted cooks — who happily fussed over the “charming northern boy” — Ives went to his chamber.

Arien was already there. He stood by the window, staring out, lips tight with anger. In the air lingered the faint scent of fading heat. His cycle had nearly passed, yet he hadn’t stayed behind to rest. He had come here.

“I’ve never trusted ambassadors’ sons,” Arien said coldly, without turning. “So tell me, my lord.”

“I wonder what exactly you’ve heard,” Ives replied lightly. “That I’m about to marry the boy? Or that we’re expecting a child?”

He laughed softly and stepped behind him, sliding an arm around his waist.

“It’s all nonsense. Every word of it. I missed you.”

He began undoing the clasps of Arien’s doublet, breathing in the last trace of sweetness. He hadn’t meant to pull him into bed so soon — but something restless stirred in him.

Arien caught his hand.

“I’ve just arrived. I’m dirty and tired. And I haven’t taken the tincture.”

With a quiet sigh, Ives stepped back, pressing a brief kiss to his temple.

When their marriage began to mend, another question had arisen — what to do during heat. Arien had made it clear he would not risk pregnancy, and Ives agreed. The memory of him pale and nearly dying after the miscarriage was enough.

He would never force him again.

Arien took a special tincture and refused closeness if he missed it. Ives respected that.

“Are there apothecaries here?” Arien asked.

“There should be. I’ll send someone. Just tell me what you need. Rest.”

Arien nodded and went into the corridor, instructing servants to bring in the trunks and prepare chamber for Alian — far from theirs. Ives suppressed a smile and deliberately looked away. He needed focus. Arien’s arrival must not distract him.

Recently, Rymaris — the ambassador’s son — had brought troubling news. There was strange movement in the mountains near the city. People came and went in secret — strangers and locals alike — carrying sacks. Sometimes food. Sometimes something else.

“Weapons could be hidden in those sacks,” Rymaris had said, eyes gleaming. The omega loved danger. Ives’s mission excited him — perhaps too much.

Sometimes that eagerness unsettled the alpha.

Ives met with his informants — street children, the elderly, the jobless, those the city overlooked. The shadow network stirred to life. Reports followed: two alphas had been seen near the outskirts. Not southerners. Not merchants. Not nobles.

Then they disappeared into the mountains.

Ives ordered the area watched. After hearing every account, he sketched a rough map of the terrain. Soon, he would have to go there himself — quietly.

He returned to his chamber exhausted, eager to put everything on paper while it was fresh. But Arien was there. Already changed for bed, he sat at Ives’s desk under several candles, drawing. He had taken up drawing half a year ago. Ives noticed the talent at once and offered to hire a master from the capital.

“I’ll learn myself,” Arien had cut him off. “And don’t look. It irritates me.”

So Ives kept his distance.

He rarely saw the finished works, but when he did, they were beautiful — especially the landscapes. People less so. Arien guarded them carefully. Once, by accident, Ives found his own portrait. He looked younger than he felt. Stern. Tired. Yet there was softness in his gaze. Calm. It stirred something warm and unexpected in him.

He hadn’t noticed Arien approach until the portrait was snatched away.

“Who allowed you to touch what isn’t yours?”

“I apologize,” Ives had said, smiling despite himself. “You’re very talented.”

That only angered Arien. He had driven him out and sulked for nearly a week. Since then, Ives did not interfere. Now he should probably announce himself. But he glanced anyway — Arien was drawing the sea and mountains. In an instant, Arien turned, shielding the page.

“I didn’t expect you so soon.”

“Did you think I was walking the shore with Rymaris?” Ives asked lightly — and regretted it at once.

Arien’s frown sharpened; a vein pulsed at his temple.

“I’m sorry. Bad joke.”

For a moment, Ives thought he would be sent out again. Instead, Arien stood abruptly.

“If I hear that again—”

“You won’t,” Ives promised, pulling him close.

The faint sweetness still lingered in the air. Arien did not allow kisses on his lips — everything else, however, was permitted. In candlelight, Ives had learned every shift of breath, every quiet sound that meant pleasure.

“I took the tincture,” Arien murmured. “Your servants barely understood me, but they prepared it.”

“Good.”

That night, Ives showed how much he had missed him — grateful their son’s chamber were far away. By morning, sunlight crept in. Ives woke almost content. Arien lay on his stomach, blanket pushed aside. Carefully, Ives traced a finger down his spine and kissed the mark he had left on his shoulder.

“Again?” Arien rasped sleepily. “You’re not twenty anymore. Take care of yourself.”

“I’ll survive.”

“I’m tired,” Arien muttered, turning away — though he opened his eyes.

Ives leaned down —

The chamber door burst open. He turned sharply, reprimand ready — and froze. Thibault stood in the doorway, still in his travel cloak.

“Your Majesty? What are you doing here?”

“I’ll deal with these rebels myself! Your letters take forever—”

Only then did the king notice Ives was in bed.

“Were you sleeping?” His gaze shifted — catching sight of long legs beyond Ives’s shoulder. His eyes widened, almost boyish. “You’re not alone?”

“He’s not! So out!” Arien snapped.

At the sound of his voice, Thibault went silent in shock — but he stepped back and closed the door. Arien shot upright, glaring at Ives.

“Why does he burst into your chamber like that? Do you have no pride at all? Actually — forget it.”

He rose and began dressing. When it came time to fasten the buttons of his doublet, his fingers trembled too much to manage. He was furious. Ives got up and stepped closer, gently moving Arien’s hands aside and fastening the buttons himself.

“Don’t be angry. I’ll speak with him.”

“Please do,” Arien replied sharply.

He left, slamming the door behind him. Almost immediately, it opened again — and Thibault rushed back inside. For a moment, the king simply stared at Ives. The lord dressed slowly, giving him time to compose himself. Only once he had pulled on his shirt did Thibault finally speak.

“You’re sleeping with Arien?”

“He’s my husband.”

“But you barely spoke to each other! You were always at odds.”

“And? Things have changed. You should be happy for me, shouldn’t you?”

Thibault looked unsettled. Yet something flickered in his eyes — a spark that Ives did not like at all.

“This has nothing to do with the rebels anymore,” Ives said at once, then more calmly added, “Let’s talk. You came here secretly, didn’t you?”

“Of course.”

The conversation moved where it needed to. Ives sensed a storm of questions on the king’s tongue, yet Thibault held them back — past carelessness had taught him restraint. He had come in secret, with only one trusted servant. Behind closed doors they spoke often now. Their suspicions deepened: rebels were likely hiding in the nearby mountains. Ives urged immediate capture, but in the south — already restless after Antarell — Thibault had too few loyal, battle-ready men. They agreed to wait for reinforcements.

Ives hated the delay. That same evening he resolved to send his husband and son back north. When he returned home, Arien was gone — out walking, the servants said. Unable to sit still, Ives went after him. A walk might steady his own thoughts.

In the market square he paused at a boy selling shell jewelry. After a moment’s hesitation, he bought two small pieces for Alian and a pendant for Arien. As he paid, something caught his eye.

A familiar cloak.

Arien stood in a distant corner — the very cloak Ives had once chosen for him draped over his shoulders. Someone stood beside him. Ives couldn’t see the man’s face. Then a chill slid down his spine.

Aidan.

The resemblance struck hard — painfully so — though doubt followed just as quickly. No… impossible. They soon parted. Arien walked toward home, a basket in his hands. Ives caught up with him near the house. For a fleeting instant, Arien looked startled — almost afraid. Then the usual composure returned to his face.

“I thought you’d locked yourself in with Thibault and grown roots,” Arien said, pulling the basket slightly closer to himself.

“No. I wanted to speak with you.”

Arien nodded, waiting.

“You and Alian will leave tomorrow. Back north.”

“Why?”

Ives glanced around. The street was quiet.

“It may become dangerous here. I want you safe. You’ll leave in the morning.”

Arien said nothing, but displeasure — and something like worry — flickered in his eyes.

“Let me carry that,” Ives offered, reaching for the basket.

Arien shook his head and even stepped back slightly.

“What are you carrying?”

“Buns.”

For emphasis, Arien pulled back the cloth. Inside were indeed buns — very similar to the ones served at court.

“You told me you didn’t like them,” Ives said. He remembered offering once to have some made from sweets Alian had brought, and Arien had refused. Said he disliked them.

“Did I?” Arien raised a brow.

He said nothing more. And, after that, barely spoke at all.