It had been about an hour of Aiden just sitting on the steps of the throne, silent. His gaze was blank, staring at nothing at all.
Initially, no one dared to approach—both out of fear, and a sense that the regent needed time to think. The court had long since scattered, the Grand Admiral had left. Only a few commanders remained, standing like silent sentinels in the corners of the great hall.
The vast chamber was quiet now. Empty, but for the echoes of what had transpired. Light streamed in from the high windows, golden and pale, illuminating the polished marble. Dust hung in the air. It felt sacred, suspended in the hush of aftermath.
Commander Lira stepped forward.
She was one of the few who could.
A good acquaintance of Aiden's, she had served the empire for ten years. She and the prince were well acquainted—on friendly terms, even. She had seen many, many things in the courts of emperors.
Yet she had never seen a man look at a throne like it was a shrine.
"Your Highness," she began carefully.
When Aiden gave her a small nod, just barely perceptible, she continued. "The healers say the Emperor is stable. He may briefly wake soon."
Aiden's hand, which had still been resting along the armrest of the throne, stilled.
"Soon," he repeated, gently.
The word sounded almost uncharacteristic after the rage he had displayed earlier. Too soft. Too raw.
Lira felt herself hesitate.
"They say he may drift in and out of consciousness for some days," she added. "But he is out of danger."
A pause. She didn't know if she should say what came next, or if she would be overstepping. But she said it anyway.
"...You should rest too, Your Highness. You can only avenge His Majesty if you are in a functioning condition yourself. You've been awake for—"
Aiden turned to her. His expression was unreadable. He cut her off.
"I'll rest when he wakens. When—"
A pause. The name seemed to catch in his throat, almost painful to say. Yet he pushed through.
"When Elliott wakes."
The change was small. Insignificant, maybe. But Lira noticed it.
The way his voice fractured on the name.
This entire time, Aiden had only referred to the emperor by his title—His Majesty. As if reducing Elliott to a role, a position, would lessen the pain. Even if just a little.
But now, the name slipped through.
She saw it.
His tone. His voice. The way his fingers curled in the air, as if reaching for something—or someone—who wasn't there.
Oh.
She had always known the prince was devoted.
But this?
This wasn't devotion.
It was possession.
Aiden didn't notice the way her face changed at the realization. Didn't notice the way her gaze shifted, softer now, but edged with something close to fear.
He was too busy staring at the throne. At the empty space. The same thoughts swirling endlessly through his mind, like a storm he couldn't quiet.
The sight and the thought—both troubled him deeply, yet he could neither tear his eyes away nor let his mind think of anything else.
"He shouldn't have drunk the wine," he mumbled.
As if to himself. As if he didn't realize the words had escaped.
Lira blinked. "Your Highness?"
Aiden's head snapped up to her, suddenly.
His eyes were wide, almost frantic.
"I told him," Aiden continued, not even seeming to hear her. "I told him they would try something. After the boar during the hunt, I knew—I knew they would try again. I told him—"
His voice cracked.
"I should've tasted it first. I'm not allergic to saffron. I would've noticed the taste. I would've stopped him. I would've—"
A shuddering breath. He couldn't go on.
Lira's breath caught in her throat.
If her earlier realization had been a hypothesis—this was proof. Cold, irrefutable truth.
Because those weren't the words of a prince to an emperor.
They were the regrets of a man drowning in love.
The emperor still hadn't woken.
He lay nestled in silken bedding, his skin too pale, his breaths still too shallow.
The room was quiet, dimmed by drawn curtains, save for a single golden beam of early morning light cutting through the air and resting on the side of his bed.
The healers had retreated after confirming his condition was stable. Only the head healer remained now, seated in a nearby chair, her chin nearly resting on her chest as she began to nod off.
She had been here all day and through the night, with no change in the emperor's condition.
Then—
Thud. Thud.
Heavy footsteps echoed in the corridor beyond.
She startled awake instantly, sitting upright with wide eyes.
The prince—no, the regent—must be approaching.
And heaven help her if he walked in and saw her dozing.
The door opened.
Aiden stood there, flanked by two commanders who remained at the entrance.
His knuckles were split, caked with dried blood—a gift from the wall he had punched in rage earlier.
Elliott would have chided him for that.
In your fury at others, why do you hurt yourself? he used to say with a sad smile on his lips as he wrapped Aiden's wounds himself.
But there was no Elliott here now. No quiet reprimand. No gentle hands.
And that realization—stung more than the pain in his fists.
Veylar is still free.
The thought alone turned his vision red.
He needed to punch something again. But the hunt was underway. Knights were searching. Until they dragged the bastard back in chains, Aiden had nowhere to place his rage.
Nowhere but here.
With Elliott.
He took a shaky breath and stepped inside the room.