Clyde’s expression didn’t change. “I was placed here.”
Aerion scoffed, but the sound was hollow. “Placed. Yes. Likefurniture.” He swept past him, robes flaring. “At least furniture has the decency not to stare.”
Clyde didn’t reply.
And Aerion hated—hated—how much he wanted him to.
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 ofthe 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.
