Infuriating. Unshakable.
“Fine,” Aerion muttered, turning away with a swirl of velvet, his voice still jagged. “Brood, then. See if I care. You’ll come when I call.”
Clyde didn’t follow. He only watched as Aerion sat back down by the fire, goblet in hand, shoulders stiff with defiance.
But in the quiet that followed, Aerion’s eyes flicked to Clyde again, quick and unguarded—like a man furious at himself for needing the very thing he mocked.
Aerion spent the day walking the camp like a lord visiting his gardens, velvet cloak sweeping mud, his laughter too loud against the hush of weary men. His boots sank into frost-soft ground, his rings caught the grey light, and everywhere he went heads turned. Some bowed. Others only stared, suspicious or awed.
Clyde trailed him at first, quiet as ever, but Aerion would not let him fade into the background.
“You’ll explain, won’t you?” Aerion murmured, voice pitched for Clyde’s ears alone as they passed a group of young soldiers fumbling through spear drills. “Otherwise I’ll be forced to invent my own stories. And you know how scandalous I can be.”
Clyde exhaled through his nose, but he obeyed.
He gestured to the open field where men drove their spears into straw dummies until their arms shook. “Morning and dusk—every day. The young ones need routine, or they’ll fall apart when the real killing starts.”
Aerion arched a brow, smirking at a boy no older than sixteen. “They already look like they’ll fall apart if the wind turns too sharp.”
“Which is why we drill,” Clyde said, steady.
They moved on, past rows of patched canvas where a smoky tang lingered. Inside one tent, men coughed and groaned. A healer’s voice cut sharp commands while apprentices scrambled with bowls of steaming broth.
“The medic tent,” Clyde explained. His tone didn’t change, but Aerion saw the shadow in his eyes. “Frostbite. Infection. Wounds that won’t close. The healers do what they can.”
Aerion paused in the doorway, surveying the scene. His usual smirk faltered, but he forced it back with practised cruelty. “Efficient,” he said, though the word rang hollow.
They walked again. Past the makeshift kitchen—a line of soldiers holding dented bowls, stew ladled thin from a cauldron. Clyde nodded toward it. “Boar, if the hunters find it. More often oats and roots. Not much, but enough to march.”
Aerion plucked a spoon from a startled soldier’s hand and dipped it into the pot without asking. He sipped, wrinkled his nose, then raised his voice so all could hear. “You call this stew? I’ve seen thicker perfume. If this is what keeps you upright, I’m twice as impressed you haven’t all collapsed!”
Laughter rippled down the line, weak but real. Aerion returned the spoon with a flourish and patted the soldier’s shoulder as if to soften the jest.
And so it went, all afternoon. Aerion mocked the tents, compared the latrines to catacombs, declared the camp’s ale could strip paint from stone. But beneath the barbs, he listened. He asked names. He pressed hands to shoulders. He leaned in when men muttered about shortages, about rations cut thin, about the fear they wouldn’t survive the next skirmish.
By evening, the men were whispering among themselves that Lord Aerion was a strange, sharp creature—half-peacock, half-iron, but theirs all the same.
That night, back in Clyde’s tent, the mask slipped.
The campfires burned low outside, their glow leaking faintly through canvas, but inside it was just shadows and the weight of want that had gone unanswered too long. Aerion pressed him down against furs and canvas, robes falling open, mouth crashing to his with a hunger that tasted of wine and longing.
It was not a kiss meant for courtiers, sharp and cruel for show. It was messy, bruising,real. Aerion kissed like a starving man, teeth catching lips, tongue pushing deep, fingers fisting in Clyde’s tunic until the seams strained.
Clyde tried to be careful. His hand rose to Aerion’s shoulder, to slow him, to keep the reins in place. But Aerion shoved it away, straddled his hips, and ground down hard enough to drag a groan from Clyde’s chest.
“Don’t you dare hold back,” Aerion whispered against his mouth, voice ragged. “Not from me.”
He bit at Clyde’s throat, sucking marks into scarred flesh, nails dragging down his chest until Clyde hissed. Aerion’s robe slipped off one pale shoulder, the firelight from outside painting him like a figure from a fever dream—messy hair, swollen lips, eyes burning like sapphires.
Clyde couldn’t fight it anymore.
With a low growl, he flipped Aerion onto his back, covering him, his weight pressing him down into the furs. Aerion gasped, legs already spreading, robes falling open to bare him completely.
“Gods, yes,” Aerion moaned, arching up as Clyde’s mouth latched to his chest, sucking hard around a nipple, teeth scraping until Aerion writhed. His cock was already hard, flushed and leaking, pressed between their stomachs. Clyde’s hand wrapped around it, stroking once, firm and rough, and Aerion nearly came from that alone.
“Don’t stop,” Aerion begged, voice high, broken. “Fuck, Clyde—don’t you dare stop.”
Clyde’s mouth trailed lower, across Aerion’s ribs, down the taut line of his stomach. He knelt between his lord’s spread thighs, pushed them wide, and looked up once—grey eyes catching Aerion’s.
