The royal healer stood up as soon as she heard the door creak open.
She bowed. "Your Highness."
Aiden didn't reply.
His eyes were fixed on Elliott's sleeping form, dazed and unreadable. The rest of the room didn't seem to exist. Time didn't seem to exist. Nothing moved. Not even him.
He didn't remember crossing the room.
One moment, he'd been standing by the door—
The next, he was by the bed, kneeling.
The sheets were soft beneath his forehead, silk against his skin. And warm—soaked with sweat. The fever had lingered for hours. It still hadn't fully broken.
He inhaled, deeply.
Not because the scent was pleasant. Because it was his. Because Elliott had been here. Because Elliott was still here.
The healer, noticing his action, seemed to misunderstand.
She tried to speak gently. "Ah—my apologies for the sheets, Your Highness. The attendants attempted to change them, but it wasn't advisable to jostle His Majesty in his current condition—"
Aiden held up a hand. Silencing her.
What, did she think he was disgusted by the state of the linens?
No.
No, Elliott was his.
His guardian.
His mentor.
His first safe place.
His only softness.
Mine. Mine. Mine.
The words slipped out. Whispered.
He didn't even realize he'd said them aloud.
The healer pretended not to hear. The attendants turned their heads, eyes fixed on the wall.
When he lifted his head from the bed, his face was wet—but the tears didn't fall. His breathing hitched. His fingers trembled as they curled into the sheets, too close to Elliott's hand. Yet still... not close enough.
He wanted to hold it.
To press it to his forehead the way Elliott used to do. To find something steady. But he couldn't bring himself to. The guilt was a weight pressing down on his chest.
Gnawing at the back of his mind like rot in the beams of an old house.
It's my fault.
If I'd been more careful. If I hadn't let my guard down. If I hadn't listened to his naive dreams of peace.
Elliott would still be here.
Awake.
Speaking.
Safe.
"You fool," he whispered, voice splintering in his throat. "You reckless, self-sacrificing—"
The words wouldn't finish.
Elliott's face looked too pale against the pillow. The freckles that once made him look boyish now seemed stark, almost ghostly. The healers had said he was stable. That he was healing.
But he looked—
Gone.
Aiden's hand clenched tighter in the sheets. White-knuckled. His nails dug into his palm until they left deep, crescent-shaped indents.
At some point, the healer stepped back, standing quietly near the door. Giving them some privacy. She'd seen this before—Aiden kneeling at the emperor's bedside after a fever, an illness, or exhaustion from working too long without rest.
But this time was different.
There was something in the way his fingers trembled when they hovered near Elliott's wrist. Something in the way his voice dropped into something raw and exposed.
"Come back," he whispered.
Not wake up.
Not please open your eyes.
Come back.
As if Elliott had gone somewhere unreachable.
As if Aiden couldn't breathe until he returned.
The healer looked away.
Her throat felt too tight.
Gods help them both.
No one really knew how much time passed after that.
Aiden didn't move. Didn't sleep. Didn't eat.
He knelt beside the bed like a carved statue, all marble lines and sharp restraint. His skin looked too pale now. Gaunt from the lack of sleep and food, dark circles carved beneath his eyes. But he didn't care.
Servants had tried to coax him to rest, to eat, to breathe. Each time, he refused.
He only had one condition:
He would rest after the people who had done this to Elliott gasped for breath just as violently as Elliott had.
After Veylar was found. After justice was dealt.
Which, in Aiden's eyes, was not justice at all. It was punishment. And it would be long. Painful. Final.
But until then—
He just stayed.
Still. Steady.
Almost, but not quite holding Elliott's hand.