The rest of the day passed in a flurry of war preparations.
By the time Aiden returned to Elliott's chambers, the palace had begun to settle into a hushed stillness. The older man was asleep—not unconscious, this time, just resting, his breathing slow and even. The sight made something unclench in Aiden's chest.
He stepped inside without a sound.
Careful not to wake him, Aiden eased himself into the armchair beside the bed. The only sounds in the quiet atmosphere were the soft footfalls of the night patrol echoing down distant marble corridors. The moonlight filtering through the tall windows pooled silver across the tiled floor, bathing the room in soft luminance.
He sat in silence.
Time passed unnoticed, slipping by like water between fingers. At some point, around midnight, Aiden began to nod off, his eyelids heavy with exhaustion. His chin dipped to his chest more than once before he caught himself with a soft jerk.
He could almost imagine Elliott scolding him—"You'll ruin your back, sitting like that all night"—if the man were awake and watching. The thought coaxed a small, involuntary smile from his lips.
Suddenly, he didn't want to sleep in the chair anymore.
Aiden slid down to the carpeted floor beside the bed and leaned gently against the mattress. The soft quilt that spilled over the edge carried Elliott's familiar scent—warm, faintly spiced, uniquely him. Aiden inhaled deeply, comforted.
His eyes were half-lidded as he waited for sleep to come.
But it didn't.
Despite the fatigue etched into every limb, his mind refused to quiet. Thoughts spun endlessly—of the Southern Empire, the war, the blood still fresh from his last orders, the future, the court, Elliott's recovery—everything. In court, he could silence them. Out-think them. But here, in the stillness, they screamed.
'What to do...' Aiden wondered, staring blankly into the dark. His body begged for rest, but his thoughts wouldn't allow it.
Whenever he struggled to sleep, Elliott would run his fingers through his hair—slow, soothing strokes—and that always worked like magic.
Aiden's gaze drifted to Elliott's hands, limp at his side.
An idea flickered.
Carefully—carefully—Aiden reached for one of them. The warmth of Elliott's palm was immediate. Reverent, almost shy, Aiden guided it up, resting it gently on his head. The touch didn't stir the sleeping emperor.
Better.
A small, satisfied smile curled at Aiden's lips. The weight of that familiar hand against his hair was grounding. Calming. Comforting.
And finally, his thoughts began to still.
He drifted off to sleep there on the floor, beside the bed, beneath the weight of a touch that had always meant peace.
It was dawn when Aiden stirred awake.
A sudden gust of cold air swept into the room, ruffling the edge of his cloak. He blinked blearily, the chill biting into his skin as he snapped to attention in an instant—muscle memory, instinct. His first thought: Reflexes. Always reflexes.
"What the—?"
The tall French windows were open, curtains fluttering inward like ghostly arms reaching from the morning mist. Aiden's eyes narrowed.
That was strange.
He remembered—distinctly—that the windows were shut last night. Not latched, perhaps, but certainly closed. He would've noticed otherwise. Wouldn't he?
He stood, rolling the tension out of his neck. First, he stepped to the bed and pulled the blankets up to cover Elliott more snugly. The air had turned sharp, and he'd be damned if Elliott caught a chill.
Then he walked to the windows.
The latch was undone. Not broken, just...left loose. No sign of a forced entry. No shattered glass. Just wind.
The first flicker of alarm ebbed slightly. It must have been left unlatched by mistake.
He was just about to close the windows and return to Elliott's side when something caught his eye.
On the floor, right beneath the open frame, lay a letter.
Aiden froze.
It hadn't been there last night.
The envelope was a simple ivory white. No wax seal. No crest. No signature. Just a single line written in elegant, unfamiliar handwriting:
"For Aiden Rosethorne."
Not Prince Aiden Lancaster. Not Your Highness. Not Regent.
Rosethorne.
Aiden's stomach turned.
He bent down and picked it up. His fingers trembled, just barely. Inside was a single note—short, with no preamble, no postscript. Just a message.
The truth of the Rosethorne massacre can be yours.
Ask, and it will be given.
If you wish to know, meet me at the given place on the night of the full moon.
On the back was an address. A remote location near the western border.
Aiden stared at the note, its paper soft in his grip.
His eyes locked on a single word.
Rosethorne.