There was a hesitation—a pause, as though the servant wondered if they had misheard—but then footsteps hurried away.
Aerion lingered by the mirror, staring at the polished stranger that stared back. He tilted his head, lips curving into a private, dangerous smile.
Part curiosity.
Part rebellion.
Part boredom.
And entirely his choice.
For the first time, it occurred to him: he could simply go.
Aerion halted halfway across the courtyard and turned sharply on his heel, eyes narrowing at the dull gleam of Clyde’s armour beneath the cloak.
“No,” he said, voice sharp as broken glass. “Absolutely not.”
Clyde raised a brow. “My lord?”
“You’ll draw too much attention,” Aerion said, flicking his hand as though the very thought offended him. “Might as well bring a trumpet and announce me to the entire town square. You’ll change. Something plain. Common.”
Clyde’s mouth pressed into a line. For a moment, Aerion thought he might refuse, just stand there, immovable stone. But then, with infuriating calm, Clyde inclined his head. “As you wish.”
Aerion clicked his tongue, the smirk returning. “Of course it is.”
Clyde turned, striding across the yard toward the west wing, where the barracks crouched like a shadow beneath the keep’s walls. Aerion stood still, considering; he could go without him. Leave him behind, taste this freedom alone. But the idea settled uneasily.
No, he thought, tugging his cloak tighter. The dog must have his leash.
The barracks smelled of leather, oil, and the faint, unshakable musk of men packed too tightly together. Aerion wrinkled his nose. He rarely crossed this threshold; it felt too far beneath him, too rough, too real. But he sauntered in after Clyde, letting his eyes rove the spartan space with disdain.
“Charming,” he drawled. “I can see why you’re so desperate to leave it. Four walls, one cot, a trunk, and a sword. It’s practicallya palace. Remind me, is the straw mattress included in your knightly oath, or is that just a perk?”
Clyde didn’t answer. He set the helm down with deliberate care, unbuckling his pauldrons, the scrape of metal filling the small room.
Aerion leaned lazily against the doorframe, watching him strip the armour piece by piece, until the knight was left in nothing more than a linen shirt and trousers. Plain, rough-spun, but suddenly and alarmingly human.
Aerion tilted his head, smirk curling sharper. “Better. I’d almost mistake you for a man, not a hound.”
Clyde glanced up, his grey eyes steady. “Almost?”
“Don’t get ideas.”
The streets of Valemont had been reborn.
Garlands of marigold and ivy hung from every eave, lanterns bobbed from ropes strung between windows, and ribbons whipped like banners in the spring wind. The air was thick with roasting meat, sugared nuts, spiced cider, and the smoke of fire-breathers who exhaled plumes of gold. Jugglers tossed knives, children darted with painted masks, and every corner thrummed with the beat of drums and pipes.
Aerion slipped into the throng with the air of a man descending into another world. His hood was drawn, his tunic plain, yet nothing could hide him entirely. The golden fall of his hair caught stray sunlight like a beacon, and his eyes—sharp, bright blue—drew glances even as he smirked and swept past. He moved like a flame through oil, feeding the glances, drinking them in despite himself.
Clyde followed, one pace behind, silent as always. No cloak could disguise the breadth of his shoulders, the soldier’s bearing in the set of his stride. Where Aerion moved like a spark, Clyde was a shadow.
The crowd noticed. Women nudged one another, whispering behind their hands. Young men stared too long, caught between admiration and unease. Even hawkers, bold with ale and profit, faltered in their shouts as Aerion passed, as if sensing something untouchable beneath the plain clothes.
Aerion felt it, of course. He always did. He tilted his chin, lips curling into the faintest smirk, as though mocking the very idea that he could blend in. Yet his eyes were alive, darting everywhere; at the coloured glass pendants glinting on a vendor’s table, the sugared plums stacked in paper cones, the children dancing in circles while a fiddler played faster and faster.
He drank it all in like a man dying of thirst.
For a fleeting moment, he forgot himself. Forgot the keep, the council, the weight of his father’s hand pressing him into marble and velvet. Here, the air was sharp with spice and laughter, the cobbles uneven beneath his boots, the noise a thousand voices layered until it became something raw and human.
