The Vellurian palace, evening.
Gabriella was in the middle of a meeting when the doors to the council chamber burst open. A young healer stood there, panting. Her face was flushed, her breaths shallow and quick, strands of hair clinging to her damp forehead. But it wasn't exhaustion that struck Gabriella first—it was the unmistakable light in her expression. Relief. Joy. Hope. The girl didn't even need to speak; the hurriedness in her steps, the smile that trembled on her lips, told Gabriella everything she needed to know.
The queen mother was already on her feet before the healer managed to catch her breath.
"He... his majesty is awake!" the girl finally panted.
Gabriella didn't run—she never did—but there was a sharpness, a desperate urgency, to the way she swept past the council. Her usual measured, gliding steps carried something fierce now, a mother's restrained panic pulling her from ledgers and logistics to where her heart had been anchored for the past month.
She entered the emperor's chambers—though they looked less like a bedroom and more like a healer's den after weeks of medical watch. The air smelled faintly of tinctures and herbs. Bowls, cloths, and tonics were neatly lined along the side tables.
Elliott was propped against a mound of pillows, his slender body almost swallowed by them. His skin was pale, still fragile, but his eyes—his eyes were open. They weren't fully alert, still dazed from the weight of a month-long coma, but they were his.
One of the healers, lingering nearby, approached Gabriella at once. She bowed deeply.
"Your Highness, the emperor awoke only moments ago. His body has endured a tremendous ordeal, as you know..." Her voice dropped, quiet. "Too much stimulation may overwhelm him."
She didn't need to say the rest. Gabriella understood. Elliott shouldn't be flooded with truths, not all at once. The last thing he remembered was poison in his veins, betrayal in his court, and the shadow of war with Cyrus.
Gabriella exhaled, steadying herself. She nodded curtly, then moved to her son's bedside. Her hand found his right palm—damaged beyond repair by the poison, the skin forever marked by that greyish tinge. She cradled it gently, as though her touch alone could draw warmth back into it.
Elliott turned his head to look at her. His gaze flicked once around the room, searching for someone else. His lips parted faintly, but no name left them yet. When the healers explained he'd been unconscious for a month, he had believed them—but surely... surely Aiden would be here. If they had gone to announce his awakening, he had expected Aiden to burst in alongside Gabriella, unable to restrain himself.
But the chamber was quiet, and it was only his mother at his side.
He focused back on her, and in that moment, there was clarity in his eyes, a sharpening that cut through the haze of sickness.
"Mother," he rasped. His voice was dry, cracking from disuse. A cough wracked him, making his chest quake.
Gabriella immediately reached for the cup by his bedside, pressing it to his lips with a soft, urging tone. "Drink first. You're parched."
Elliott obeyed, though with reluctant patience, sipping slowly. The water soothed his throat, easing the rasp into something bearable. When he lowered the cup, his breath steadied.
"Mother," he said again, firmer this time. "They said... I have been unconscious for a month."
She gave a single nod. Behind her, the healers shifted, but Gabriella dismissed them with a meaningful look. They filed out quietly, leaving only mother and son in the room. She perched carefully on the edge of the bed, her hand smoothing over his blanket though it didn't need adjusting, her touch impossibly tender.
Elliott's next words were urgent, the question that had burned in his mind even through the fog. "The poison... Elara...?"
"Dealt with," Gabriella said at once, her tone carrying finality. That matter was closed, sealed. "She was sent by Cyrus to kill you. She nearly succeeded. But that shadow of yours intervened just in time." An almost wry smile tugged faintly at her lips.
At the mention of Aiden, Elliott's heart lurched. His dazed mind sharpened further, racing now. His gaze swept the chamber again, frantic. Surely he'd simply overlooked him. Aiden was always there. Always. His breath caught, a silent dread already building.
"Where... where is Aiden?" he asked, the words trembling with fear. His face, which had been regaining a hint of color, paled once more.
Gabriella hesitated. The healer's advice lingered in her mind—don't overwhelm him. Don't reveal everything. She tried to offer a careful reassurance.
"He is not hurt," she said softly, evasively. "But... he is not here right now. He is occupied with another task."
Elliott stared at her, disbelief widening his eyes. Panic surged, breaking through the fragile composure he had. "That does not reassure me in the slightest, Mother! Where is he?" His voice cracked, sharp with desperation. He tried to push himself upright, his weakened muscles protesting, trembling under the strain. "Busy in another task, you say? There is no task in this world that would keep him from rushing to me the moment he heard I'd awoken. I know him! The last thing I remember—he was running towards me—" His words broke. His eyes went wide with dread. "Did the poison get him too?"
His hand clenched tightly around Gabriella's. "Is he hurt? Please, Mother, tell me the truth!" His voice was raw, pleading, panic flooding every syllable.
Gabriella's heart clenched. She could see it—the way his fear was overwhelming him more than the poison ever had. She sighed, her thumb brushing over his hand in a steadying motion. She weighed her options. The healers had warned her. But she knew her son. He was too lucid to be soothed with vague comforts. If she tried to lie, if she tried to stall, he would only torment himself, worry until he collapsed again.
She released a slow, deliberate breath, steadying her words before she spoke.
"He's not hurt, as I said," Gabriella began, her voice even but softer than before. "And he is busy in some other business. The reason he couldn't rush to you is because... he is not here."
Elliott froze, confused. He stared at her, worry tightening in his chest, fading into confusion. His mother would not lie to him—certainly not like this. His eyes searched hers, desperate, imploring, needing truth.
"The situation evolved after you were attacked," she continued carefully. "The information we inferred earlier was incomplete. Wrong. You must have noticed—I was lukewarm about Carlson's assumed legitimacy in those last days. I had another candidate in mind. And that day, I confirmed it."
She laid it all out for him, piece by piece. Slowly, carefully, like feeding drops of medicine to a frail patient. She started with Raphael Winston's confession, then the investigation, then the truth she had uncovered. She watched as Elliott's face shifted, his expression flickering between disbelief, shock, and the dawning realization that the boy he had kept by his side for years was not just Aiden Lancaster but James Corvette—the lost lunar heir.
She told him of the coup. Of the reveal. Of how James—had stood before Altheria draped in silver and deep blue, midnight hair framing a face the people could not deny, legitimacy blazing in the touch of an ancient relic. She told him of how the court had turned, how the people had risen, how Cyrus had fallen at last.
Elliott listened silently, takin in each word. He didn't interrupt, not once. But Gabriella saw the way his hands trembled faintly against the blankets, the way his lips parted slightly as though to speak, then faltered, waiting for her to continue.
When she finished, the chamber fell into a heavy silence. The air seemed to still around them. Elliott's lips parted again, yet for a moment, no words came.
And then, when his voice finally broke through, it wasn't about politics. It wasn't about victory or the enemy's death or the fate of two empires. His voice was soft—small, even—and his eyes were wide, almost childlike in their desperate fear.
"Is... is Aiden okay?" he asked, his tone trembling. "In Altheria... he's all alone there... with all that—" His voice cracked, breaking into something rawer. "Is he safe?"
Gabriella almost pitied him, for just a heartbeat. Her son saw the boy through a lens so different from her own. She saw Aiden as an ally, as a soldier, as a fellow strategist. She weighed his strengths, acknowledged his flaws, but did not fear for him—because logic told her there was nothing to fear. Aiden was not a fragile figurehead to be crushed beneath Altheria's weight. He was capable. He was hardened.
But Elliott... Elliott thought of him with a lover's heart. To him, the worry was not pointless, it was not foolish—it was the most rational thing in the world. Because to him, Aiden was not a prince, not a general, not even a king. He was just Aiden. His Aiden.
Gabriella's voice softened further, almost tender. "He is securing his throne. His coronation is pending. There is much to do in Altheria. But do not fret yourself—he is more capable and tougher than you think." She hesitated, then lifted a small stack of letters she had carried with her. "He sent these. Letters. In every one, his first and last concern has been you. Always you."
Elliott sank back into the pillows, the strength leaving him as he exhaled. The weight of everything pressed down on him—news of victory, of Cyrus' death, of survival itself—but none of it settled as heavily as the absence beside him.
Yes, the war was over. Yes, the empire was safe. But the cost, even if temporary, ached like something torn from his chest. He looked at the space at his side, at the chair where Aiden had once sat night after night, refusing to leave him. That space now felt emptier than it ever had in his life.
The room was full of light, but to Elliott, the absence of that one presence made it unbearably somber.