Still, he paced. From window to hearth, from chaise to mirror, restless steps tracing lines across the same stretch of rug until the pattern blurred. He muttered curses at the council, at his father, at the assassin who dared strike at him in his own hall. But each word rang hollow in the empty chamber.
And still…
He dreamed. Not of the knife’s glint, nor of the masked figure vanishing into chaos. Not even of the pain in his knees as he knelt on marble, his hands pressed to blood.
No.
He dreamed of Clyde’s eyes.
Grey as stormed steel, unflinching even as his body faltered. Eyes that never left him, even when the knight’s breath grew ragged, even when crimson spread across his side in widening circles.
They had not looked at the assassin. Not at the guards. Not at the exits.
Only at him.
Aerion cursed himself for remembering it. Cursed the way those eyes haunted the edge of his thoughts, slipping past his armour of laughter and silk. He told himself it was nothing—mere irritation, the residue of panic.
And yet, when he closed his own eyes, he saw them again.
Unflinching. Unyielding.
Fixed only on him.
On the third day, Aerion dressed simply. No jewels. No paint. Just a slate-gray tunic, loose at the collar, and soft boots that made no sound in the halls. He didn’t tell anyone where he was going.
He reached Clyde’s quarters in the west wing—modest rooms carved from stone and shadow, far from the noble suites. A single guard stood outside, who nodded and stepped aside.
Aerion knocked once.
No answer.
He knocked again, louder.
A pause.
Then, a low voice: “Enter.”
Clyde sat at the edge of his cot, shirtless, one arm bound across his chest, his side still stained with fresh healing salve. His skin was littered with old scars—some long and clean, others jagged like lightning. A tapestry of violence, worn without shame.
Aerion hesitated in the doorway. Then entered.
The room was spartan. A cot, a trunk, a washbasin. No books. No paintings. No warmth. Just a whetstone on the desk and a sword resting across his lap, as if he’d rather die than be caught unarmed.
“You’re alive,” Aerion said, folding his arms.
Clyde gave the slightest nod.
Aerion’s eyes dropped to the stitched wound on his side. The skin was black-blue around it, angry and swollen. Aerion winced despite himself.
“I didn’t thank you,” he added stiffly. “For… shielding me.”
Clyde said nothing.
“You lost a great deal of blood.”
Another pause. “I’ve bled more.”
Aerion took a step closer, frowning. “Gods, do youeveraccept gratitude like a human?”
