Aerion’s lips curved, but there was no humour in it, only something brittle. “Then let me ask,” he whispered. His voice was low, sharper than it meant to be. “Do you want me?”
The words hung between them like lightning, raw and dangerous.
For the first time, Clyde faltered. Not much. But Aerion caught it: the barest shift of his jaw, the slow inhale through his nose, as though he were steadying himself against a blow.
Aerion stepped closer still, their breath mingling in the narrow space. “You’ve guarded me. Bled for me. Stared at me like stone stares at the rain. But you never answer. So, tell me, Hound. Do you want me?”
Clyde’s gaze locked on his, unflinching. Grey eyes, dark, holding more than silence this time. Something Aerion would not name.
At last, Clyde spoke. His voice was steady, but low enough that Aerion had to lean in to catch it.
“Yes.”
Aerion’s breath hitched, sharp in the cold air. The world narrowed; no court, no keep, no duty, no storm. Just this. Just him.
But before he could shape the moment into triumph or mockery, Clyde went on.
“Yes. But I swore an oath. And you—” His jaw tightened. “You play games. You offer smiles like coin, touches like treats tossed to a dog. I will not be that for you.”
The words cut deeper than Aerion expected, lodging beneath his ribs. His smirk faltered, his posture stiffened, but he forced a laugh, brittle and bright. “So, the hound bares his teeth.”
“Better that,” Clyde said evenly, “than let you put a leash on my throat.”
The silence after was heavier than any storm.
Aerion’s heart beat too fast, his fingers twitching at his side, aching to reach for something—his cup, his robe, his mask, anything to shield himself. But there was nothing here but the dark, the stone, the knight who refused to bow.
He stepped back first, chin tilting high to hide the tremor in his breath. “You’re insufferable,” he said again, though his voice was quieter this time.
Clyde sheathed his sword, the sound final, like a door closing.
And Aerion turned on his heel, silk robes whispering against the wet stones as he strode back toward the keep, heart thrumming, lips parted, breath caught on a single, terrible truth:
The Hound wanted him.
But not as a game.
Aerion slammed the chamber door shut with more force than he intended. The echo cracked through the silence, sharp as his heartbeat.
He tossed his robe across a chair, fingers clumsy, breath uneven. The torches hissed in their sconces, shadows stretching long against the carved walls, but for once, he felt caged by the grandeur. Too much stone. Too much silence.
Yes.
The word replayed in his head like a drumbeat. Steady. Relentless.
He paced, restless, one hand dragging through his hair, the other clenching and unclenching at his side. He wanted to laugh, to mock it, to strip it of meaning. He wanted to sneer at Clyde’s pride, at his refusal to bend.
But all he could hear was that steady voice, low and unyielding.
Yes.
Aerion sank onto the edge of his bed; silk sheets cool beneath his hands. His throat felt dry, his chest too tight. He tilted his head back, eyes closed and let the word coil through him again.
Yes.
Grey eyes.
Steady hands.
