And found Clyde watching him—not with judgment, or duty, or even amusement.
Just quiet.
And something else Aerion refused to name.
Aerion did not go directly to dinner. He claimed a headache, sent the handmaidens away with a flick of his wrist, and locked the door behind him.
The fire in his chambers had been stoked to a golden glow, casting shadows across silks and cushions, glinting on the gilt edges of mirrors and the polished legs of tables. It should have been comforting, indulgent. But tonight, the air felt close, heavy, almost suffocating.
He shrugged off his tunic, letting it fall to the floor in a careless heap, and poured himself wine. Strong, red, bitter. He drank too quickly, the liquid burning down his throat.
Yet still, his mind circled back.
Not the assassin’s blade. Not the chaos in the ballroom.
Clyde.
Sitting shirtless on that narrow cot, a sword across his lap as though even half-dead he’d fight until dragged to the grave. His scars, a tapestry of every battle, every wound, every survival. The way he’d saidI swore an oath. To you.
The words should have pleased Aerion, should have fed his vanity. But instead, they lingered like a thorn beneath the skin.
And those eyes… storm-grey, unflinching, fixed on him even through pain. No mockery. No judgment. Just… something Aerion could not name, though he tried.
He paced the room, restless, dragging a hand through his hair until golden strands stuck wild. He muttered under his breath. “Infuriating man. Arrogant dog. Bleeds all over my floors, sits there like a statue carved of scars, and—” He broke off, jaw clenched.
The fire popped. Shadows leapt across the mirrors.
He sat at last on the edge of his bed, wine glass dangling from one hand, his other pressed to his own bare chest where the tunic had slipped. His pulse thudded beneath his palm, too quick, too loud.
It wasn’t love. Gods, he didn’t even believe in such nonsense. And it wasn’t gratitude, either—he had given his thanks, however grudgingly.
So why couldn’t he shake the image of Clyde’s quiet smirk, the weight of that gaze, the way silence had stretched between them like an unspoken vow?
Aerion drained the glass, set it down too hard, and lay back across the silks. He stared up at the carved beams above, willing sleep to come.
But when it did, his dreams were not of the ballroom, nor of his gowns, nor even of the council pressing marriage on him like a chain.
They were of storm-grey eyes and the ghost of a voice saying:I swore an oath. To you.
Dawn bled pale and reluctant across Valemont Keep, light slanting through narrow windows to gild the marble halls in washed-out gold. The great house stirred slowly, servants whispering through corridors, their steps muted as though even the stones were unwilling to wake.
Aerion stirred earlier than his habit, the silk sheets restless beneath him, dreams of storm-grey eyes still clinging like cobwebs. He lay for a moment, staring at the carved beams above, scowling at the tightness in his chest. Then, with a sharp motion, he threw the covers aside and rose.
He dressed quickly—too quickly—into a robe of deep violet velvet, pulling the sash around his waist hard enough to bite into his ribs. The fabric shimmered faintly, but it was nothing like his usual dazzling excess. No jewels, no kohl, no paint across his cheekbones. The handmaidens blinked at his haste, at his stripped-down state, but before they could fuss with combs or powder he snapped a hand through the air.
“Out,” Aerion said, voice like glass. “I don’t need an audience to breathe.”
The door shut behind them, and the room was silent. Aerion pressed a hand briefly to the sash, drawing in a long breath before he strode out.
The hall beyond was cool and still, shadows stretching long over the stone. And there he was.
Clyde.
Already there.
As though he had stood vigil all night, wound or no wound. His uniform was plain, dark, stretched taut where bandages bound his chest beneath. One arm hung stiff at his side, but he did not lean, did not falter. His sword was belted as always, its weight sitting at his hip as naturally as his shadow.
Aerion halted in the doorway, eyes narrowing to slits. “You,” he said, voice curling like smoke, dangerous in its softness. “What are you doing here?”
