Grief.
It undid him more than fury ever could.
“Do not call me that,” Aerion said, voice breaking on the words. “Not now.”
And then he was gone.
The tent flap whispered shut behind him, leaving only the ghost of his warmth in the air, the scent of him still clinging to the furs. Clyde sat frozen, the lie heavy in his mouth, burning on his tongue, eating at him from the inside out.
He wanted to chase after him. To rip the words back, confess the truth—that Renn’s eyes lingered, yes, but Clyde’s never had.That the only closeness he had ever wanted was the man now walking away from him with tears in his eyes.
But his legs wouldn’t move. His oath held him down heavier than any chain. He would protect his lord, no matter the cost.
For the first time in years, the knight who had faced blades and arrows without flinching bowed his head into his hands and shook.
The mask was cracking. The lie was bleeding him dry.
And Aerion was gone.
Aerion left with the wagons, riding at their head in silence. The road stretched cold and grey beneath his horse’s hooves, wheels groaning behind him, banners snapping in a bitter wind. He did not look back at the camp.
His face was pale as bone, carved into stillness, but inside his chest every word Clyde had spoken was an arrow still lodged, still bleeding.
By dusk, Valemont’s colours had vanished over the hills.
That evening, Renn crept into Clyde’s tent.
The boy moved like a shadow, nervous, uncertain, shoulders hunched as though he carried guilt on his back. His eyes were red, rimmed from tears hastily wiped away. He paused just inside the flap, watching Clyde in silence before murmuring, “You shouldn’t be alone.”
Clyde sat on the edge of his cot, elbows braced to his knees, head heavy in his hands. The maps lay untouched on the table. His sword leaned in its scabbard, useless. The single lantern in the corner cast long shadows, making the tent feel cavernous.
He didn’t answer.
Renn took it as permission. He stepped closer, knelt beside him on the furs. “You did what you had to,” he whispered, as though offering absolution Clyde had not asked for.
Clyde let out a breath, ragged, but did not lift his head. His body felt carved of stone, heavy with silence, too tired even for anger.
Renn’s hand hovered, then settled lightly against Clyde’s. His fingers were tentative, trembling, the touch more plea than comfort.
Clyde didn’t pull away.
He didn’t move when Renn leaned closer, breath warm at his jaw. He didn’t flinch when lips hovered near his cheek, unsure, hopeful.
He didn’t move at all.
Because if he moved—if he spoke—the truth would come spilling out, and the lie he had crafted to save Aerion from himself would shatter.
So Clyde sat in silence, still as stone, while Renn’s hand tightened around his, and his heart beat only one name.
Not Renn’s.
Never Renn’s.
Chapter fifteen
The Duke is Dead
The chamber smelled of sickness.
