They stayed in silence for some time.
Even the lighthearted banter didn't erase the tension that lingered. It clung to the edges of the room, thick and unspoken. Not because of Veylan's betrayal, or Elliott's gnawing sense of unease. No. It was something else entirely.
A crime buried deep in the history of the empire.
A tragedy so heavy, so haunting, that no one dared speak of it.
Not even in whispers.
Aiden shifted slightly. The air between them had changed again—cooler now, with more weight. He turned his head, gaze resting on Elliott. His eyes were dark, searching. "And… the rumors?"
Elliott didn't bother pretending. He didn't try to play dumb.
He knew exactly which rumors Aiden meant.
The ones no one voiced.
The ones that flickered like shadows behind closed doors.
"I don't know," Elliott replied finally, his voice quiet, but honest.
"You… don't?" Aiden didn't mean to sound skeptical. But it came out that way regardless—low, taut.
Elliott exhaled a breath he didn't realize he was holding. "No. I don't. Not for sure."
Aiden held his gaze for a long, unreadable moment. Then, wordlessly, he looked away.
The guilt ached sharp in Elliott's chest. He knew he had been only ten. Realistically, he couldn't have done anything. But logic didn't dull guilt. It never had. "…I'm sorry."
Aiden didn't acknowledge it. "It doesn't matter," he lied, the words clipped and brittle. "It was… a long time ago. They're just ghosts of the past. I don't remember them."
His grip on Elliott's waist tightened—not painfully, just possessively. Elliott couldn't find it in himself to protest.
"I have you now," Aiden murmured. "That's enough."
"You're always enough for me."
And against all odds, both of them drifted off to sleep.
Maybe it was the exhaustion.
Maybe it was the silence.
Or maybe it was just the fact that they were together—that somehow, despite all that had happened, they could still find peace in each other.
---
Aiden woke early the next day.
And for the first time in days, he had actually slept.
A full night's rest had done wonders. The dark circles under his eyes had lightened, some color had returned to his cheeks. And, of course, Elliott's sharp remarks about his disheveled appearance still echoed in his head.
So when he entered the court that morning, he was... composed. Regal. Groomed.
His hair was brushed back neatly, his robes were fresh—crisp folds in dark navy, clasped at the shoulders with silver brooches. The military boots polished. His gloves clean. He moved like a blade sheathed in velvet—dangerous, sharp, but controlled.
Meetings were wrapped early. By lunch, Aiden was back at Elliott's bedside.
The rest of the day passed without much incident. Elliott had woken around noon, drowsy and aching, dosed with another measure of poppy milk to dull the pain. He drifted in and out of sleep, and yet—every time he opened his eyes, there was Aiden.
Adjusting blankets. Mumbling orders to staff. Reading missives. Drafting responses. Even attending to state affairs from the room's corner. He didn't leave unless he absolutely had to, and if he did, it was for a conversation that couldn't happen within Elliott's earshot.
Aiden's presence was a constant. A steady, grounding warmth.
---
It was almost night now.
The first thing Elliott noticed was the quiet.
No rustling healers. No murmuring advisors. No hovering attendants.
Just the gentle crackle of the hearthfire and the soft, rhythmic scratch of a quill on parchment.
He turned his head slightly on the pillow. And there—there was Aiden.
Sitting at a small temporary desk near the bed.
And oh, what a sight he was.
Dressed in a deep midnight-blue doublet, the silver embroidery catching the candlelight in glints of frost. His hair, freshly washed earlier, had since grown tousled from his habitual fingers running through it—slightly messy, slightly wild. Regal, but untamed. The kind of look that wasn't styled so much as owned.
Elliott had the sudden urge to reach out and smooth it, but at the same time… he couldn't help but think the look suited him.
Aiden's brow was furrowed in sharp focus, eyes narrowed slightly as he scanned through what appeared to be a stack of military reports. His quill moved with precise, practiced grace. The flicker of candlelight cast elegant shadows across his face—highlighting the clean angle of his jaw, the faint scar that traced his temple -just barely visible through the strands of hair, the way his long lashes brushed against his cheeks when he blinked.
Gods.
He looked…
Like an emperor.
And not the hesitant one Elliott had been. No. Aiden looked like the idealized version. The kind sung about in future ballads—chiseled from myth and legend, fierce and unwavering.
He looked like the kind of ruler who didn't beg to be obeyed. He simply was.
The way he held the quill with authority, the steady poise of his posture, the commanding silence that radiated from him—it painted a picture of someone meant for power.
This wasn't the orphaned boy Elliott had taken in.
Not the reckless teenager who once challenged half the court to duels for insulting Elliott's hair.
Not the younger man who used to sneak in through the balcony just to avoid early lessons.
No.
This was a sovereign.
A prince who ruled even in silence. A blade dressed in velvet.
A storm wrapped in silk.
And, perhaps most startlingly of all… he wore the role like it had always been his.
Elliott watched him in stillness, heart tightening just a little.
'How ironic', he thought. 'I'm the one with royal blood. And yet…'
He needed titles to hold power.
Aiden just had it.
Just like that.
--