The palace was silent as Aiden moved through the halls. He moved through them no longer as the Vellurian crown prince — but as a person already halfway into another life. His grief had been swallowed by vengeance. He had a single, razor-sharp purpose now: Altheria. Cyrus's throat.
Aiden stood outside Elliott's chambers. The air around him was thick with the scent of healing herbs and a silence so profound it felt like it held his breath. The door was closed, but the smell of medicine and the soft shuffling of healers still filtered through. His hand clenched at his side. He knew, behind that door, was Elliott — hanging between life and death, every breath uncertain.
He was already dressed for travel. He would leave soon. He lifted his hand as if intending to push the door open; it trembled slightly. He wanted to open it. He wanted to see Elliott. He wanted to rush to the blonde's side, gather him in his arms and kiss his forehead, murmur frantic reassurances in his ear. But he couldn't. He wouldn't go in; he refused to. Gabriella's words rang in his head. All the vengeance and fury her words invoked — all that could be undone in an instant.
Aiden was afraid to go in because he feared his resolve might waver if he saw Elliott's pale face. He feared he would only want to stay there forever.
The grief wasn't gone — it had been painted over. It was still like quicksand, one Aiden wasn't sure he could escape if he took even a single step inside. If he stepped into the room, if he saw the blond hair stark against the white pillows, the gentle features slack and unconscious, the neck and clavicle still bearing the marks from the morning that felt like years ago now — he feared all the anger would drain away. It would be replaced by worry and a despair so deep and complete it would chain him to Elliott's bedside forever. He would kneel, hold the other's unharmed hand and he would just... wait. Pray, maybe. He wouldn't care what happened outside those four walls. He would let the entire world burn and watch the flames from the window.
He knew he could not afford that. He couldn't afford any of that. Not for Elliott's sake. The only way to truly protect him was to make sure no more threats ever reached him. Cyrus had to die. And James was the only one who could make that happen.
His fingers went to his right hand, to the heavy signet ring he wore. It was engraved with the Lancaster crest — suns cradled within a crown of swords. It was the seal of the crown prince of Velluria, the ring Elliott had placed on Aiden's finger years ago. One Aiden had used countless times.
It had been one of his most cherished possessions. It was a symbol of the life and role he'd been given — and, subsequently, of the love he had found there. It didn't just signify a position; it signified their bond: the emperor and his heir, the monarch and the protector.
It had turned out to be a lie.
He was never meant to be the Vellurian crown prince. He was not even from this empire. He was the last son of a murdered line, and his destiny, as it turned out, was not to be prince or consort in an sunlit court. No. What awaited him was a homecoming to an empire he had been fighting against just days ago, taking as his own the people he had seen as enemies until a few days before. It wasn't going to be pretty. He wouldn't simply be "given" his right; he would have to claim it through massacre and blood.
With a final, wrenching pull, he slid the ring off his finger. The skin beneath the band was pale — a permanent imprint of the identity he was shedding. The metal, now in his palm, felt heavy, maybe with the weight of the life he was leaving behind.
He loved Elliott more than life itself. That would never, ever change. But the nature of that love had to. His love could no longer be that of a protector waiting for the next attack. It had to be that of a king eliminating the threat at its source, not waiting for it to strike. He clenched his palm into a fist around the ring and walked away from Elliott's door.
He didn't look back.
---
Stars dusted the quiet night. The black sky above was inky and endless, the atmosphere wrapped in a kind of anticipatory trance — as if the heavens themselves were holding their breath, waiting for what was to come. The preparations had been hasty but efficient, every step carried out with the sharp urgency of inevitability. A handful of the most loyal and skilled knights were assembled — the ones chosen to deliver Aiden to their contacts in Altheria. Messages had already been sent ahead.
'Change of plans. The heir arrives. Now.'
Aiden — no, James — stepped into the courtyard. The nightly breeze brushed against his skin, unhurried, a stark contrast to the feverish determination burning in his chest. He should have felt ready. He had sworn himself to this path. Yet, as the moment to depart arrived, his steps faltered.
It all hit him at once — like a bucket of cold water poured over his head.
It began with a single glance. His eyes caught the stone archway at the far end, the one that led to the rose gardens. And with it came a memory, unbidden and sharp. An alcove tucked away, veiled in vines, with a view that looked like it belonged in a painting. That had been their sanctuary. They'd had afternoon tea there almost every day the weather permitted. Elliott would always bring reports with him, neat stacks of parchment he intended to review — but somehow, almost without fail, the papers ended up forgotten. His attention would drift, and he'd laugh or tease or speak to Aiden instead. And Aiden, pretending to be equally invested in the conversation, always found his eyes lingering instead on the sunlight playing across Elliott's warm face. Or on how his laughter sounded better than the sweetest of songs.
The rose gardens were only the first memory. They opened the floodgates. The study came next. Elliott's study — the place where Aiden had left the signet ring behind. It was as if he could still see the desk, the shelves, the way the emperor's presence filled the room even in silence. He remembered how often he'd found himself there, not always for duty. Sometimes it was an excuse, a flimsy pretext to report something minor, but most of the time... it was just because he needed to see him. He needed to hear Elliott's voice, see his steady eyes, remind himself that this was real.
James' gaze flickered to the opposite end of the courtyard. That pathway led to the training grounds. His chest tightened. He'd grown up there, hadn't he? A scrawny, uncertain boy who had become something more within those walls. The training grounds had been both punishment and sanctuary. So many nights, when the palace slept, he'd crept back there. He'd trained until his arms burned, until his knuckles split open and bled, until his legs gave out beneath him. He'd driven himself mercilessly, desperate, almost frantic. Not for glory. Not even for himself. But because he needed to be strong enough to protect the beautiful, kind emperor who had given him a home when he had nothing else.
His eyes rose, finally, to the balcony in the center. The one he knew by heart, the one that led to Elliott's chambers. The windows were closed now, but soft light glowed from within, the silhouettes of healers shifting about. Aiden's heart twisted painfully. He remembered the countless times he and Elliott had stood together on that very balcony. Sometimes speaking in low voices, sometimes just watching the stars in silence, wrapped in the rare luxury of peace. Sometimes it was enough simply to exist together, side by side.
Each memory was like a noose around his ankles, tugging, pulling, trying to drag him back inside. Back to the comfort of familiarity, back to Elliott's side. This wasn't just a palace he was leaving behind. This was his home. The only home he had ever truly known. Every corridor, every corner carried echoes of a life he had built around Elliott. A wave of nostalgia and homesickness so sharp it nearly stole his breath crashed over him, and for a moment — leaving didn't seem possible anymore. He wasn't just leaving a palace. He was leaving his home. His heart.
His eyes squeezed shut. A shuddering breath wracked through him, the sting of tears burning behind his eyes. His fist clenched tight. No. He couldn't fall apart now, swept in those thoughts. Not here.
He wasn't leaving to abandon Elliott. He was leaving to protect him. To ensure the peace Elliott craved so desperately would finally be his. He wasn't walking away to erase their afternoons, their laughter, their quiet evenings together. He was walking away so those moments could exist again, unthreatened, untouched by poison or blades in the dark. He was leaving because James had a duty. But more than that — this was the ultimate act of Aiden's love.
The sound of heels clicking against gravel pulled him from his spiral. He opened his eyes. Gabriella emerged from the palace entrance, a cloak wrapped tightly around her shoulders against the chill. She didn't look like the fiery provocateur from the crypt right now. In the silver glow of moonlight, her face seemed weary, softer.
She stopped in front of him, her gaze settling on his glassy eyes. Her own softened, just a fraction.
"...The healers say his color is better. He's expected to pull through. The fever's receding — he'll be out of danger soon." Her voice carried none of its usual sharp edge.
Aiden hadn't asked, but she knew. She knew the question had been gnawing at him. The words were a balm of raw hope, the first flicker of light he'd allowed himself since the evening. His throat tightened. He nodded once, unable to trust his voice without breaking.
"I will be with him," Gabriella continued, her voice gentle but firm. "Every moment. I will not leave his side. He will be fine. I swear it."
It was a vow. One he hadn't dared ask her for. But she gave it anyway.
Aiden gave a sharp nod. Gratitude, deep and aching, flickered across his expression. Her words didn't erase the agony of leaving, but they dulled it, made it just bearable enough.
She reached out, resting a hand briefly on his arm — a rare gesture of comfort. "Go," she said softly. "Do not worry for him. Do your duty. I will worry enough for us both. Return not as a lost prince, but as a king who has claimed his rightful place."
It was all he needed. All the reassurance, all the steel his resolve required. He nodded, one final time. Then, witho
ut a backward glance, James left.
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AN: he's leaving guys 🥹