Elliott stirred.
The pale hands that had laid unmoving on the bed for countless hours trembled.
Aiden froze.
He didn't breathe. Didn't blink. Just stared—watching. Waiting.
Then came the gasp. The flutter of lashes. A sound, small and fragile, but unmistakable:
"A...iden?"
Aiden's breath caught.
For a moment, he couldn't speak, couldn't move. His and Elliott's hands remained mere millimeters apart, still not quite touching, when—
"...Aiden...?" the other wheezed, barely above a whisper. His voice was thin, shredded by the poison's damage. His eyes were half-lidded, unfocused, but his fingers twitched—weak, frantic, searching.
"...Aiden, plea—please... are you alright—?"
Aiden caught his hand before the panic could set in.
Elliott's hands trembled in his grasp.
Instead of replying with words, Aiden pressed those shaking fingers to his own chest, over the frantic, thunderous beating of his heart.
"I'm here," he said, voice hoarse. "I'm right here. I'm fine, Elliott."
Elliott's brows furrowed slightly. His lips, chapped from dehydration, parted, trying to speak.
Aiden leaned in closer. His voice cracked under the weight of emotion, thick with words better left unsaid.
"Don't," he murmured, gently holding Elliott down as he struggled to rise. "Don't—please. Just lie down. Don't try to talk—your throat is still swollen."
But Elliott shook his head, weakly but stubborn. His fingers tightened around Aiden's.
"...Vey...lan...," he rasped. Just one name.
One word. But it was enough.
Aiden understood exactly what it meant. Even now, even lying in bed after barely escaping death—Elliott was still asking for mercy.
Still pleading for peace. Still asking him not to become the monster.
Aiden's jaw clenched. His voice dropped as he reached up and pressed a finger gently to Elliott's lips, as if touching something sacred. Like the older man was made of porcelain—fragile and precious.
"Shh. Don't try to talk. Please. I'll handle it."
But Elliott shook his head again, more insistently this time.
"No... war..." he whispered, rasping like dry leaves in the wind.
Aiden's teeth ground together.
Seriously? Even now?
The fury burned beneath his skin. Not at Elliott. Never at Elliott.
But at the request.
"Veylan poisoned you—" he began, furious.
"...Proof... first..." Elliott breathed, fading already.
The words were soft, but they landed like hammers.
His eyes fluttered. Just talking had drained what little strength he'd regained. His voice was almost gone now.
"Swear it..." he murmured, eyes slipping shut.
Aiden bristled.
"Elliott—"
But Elliott didn't acknowledge him. Didn't even seem to hear.
"...On my... life..."
The words stopped Aiden cold.
Like a blade pressed against his throat.
He shook his head, breath catching. "No. I won't—you—don't be so cruel, Eli—you can't ask me to do that—"
But Elliott was already slipping.
Already unconscious.
His body fell limp again, breath deepening, falling back into uneasy sleep. His eyes closed, yet somehow, impossibly—he managed one last word.
"Swear..."
Aiden's breath came out ragged.
He stared at the man who had finally, finally woken—only to fall asleep again.
He wanted to refuse.
He wanted to scream.
But then he felt it—Elliott's fingers going slack in his own.
And just like that, the fight drained out of him.
Aiden bowed his head, still trembling with rage—but his hold on Elliott's hand remained gentle.
He pressed the older man's knuckles to his forehead, voice shaking.
"I swear," he hissed through clenched teeth. "I swear. But when we have proof—"
Elliott was already unconscious.
Aiden's oath hung in the air—unfinished, sharp, and unsaid.
But the meaning was crystal clear.
It was evening the next day when Veylan was caught.
His entourage had been intercepted at the southern borders of the capital, trying to flee into their empire under the cover of night. The knights moved fast. The entire capital had been locked down—gates sealed, roads barricaded, every traveler stopped and interrogated.
There was no escape. Not this time.
The doors of the throne room burst open, slamming into the gilded walls like thunder.
Two imperial knights marched forward, dragging Veylan between them.
Commander Lira followed close behind, having led the capture herself. She stood tall and proud, despite the tension in her jaw.
Veylan's once-fine robes were torn, stained with mud and blood. His wrists were bound with heavy iron chains that clanked with every step. The man who once stood smug among the court now looked like a ghost of himself—older, weaker, sweat beading on his pallid forehead.
The entire court was assembled.
The grand admiral had suggested dealing with the matter in the dungeons. Quietly. Discreetly.
But Aiden had refused.
No.
This would not be hidden.
This would not be a whisper behind locked doors, dismissed as something the regent handled out of spite.
He had sworn an oath on Elliott's life.
And every act of cruelty that followed—it would be fair.
Painful, yes. But fair.
Let them watch. Let them bear witness.
Let them remember what happens when they betray the crown. When they harm his emperor.
They wanted a gentle king?
Well, they had one.
And look what they did to him.