Rosethorne.
His family name.
The one never mentioned in court. The one no one dared to speak aloud. The one that hung heavy with history, sharp like a blade, buried but never dulled.
Only Elliott ever dared bring it up in front of him.
And even then—only once.
There were rumors. Whispers passed in closed chambers, in hushed tones that died at the edge of corridors. Rumors that Elliott—especially Elliott—avoided speaking of again.
Aiden had never pressed. He saw how uncomfortable it made Elliott, how his expression shuttered, how his jaw clenched. And so, Aiden let it go.
Or at least, he told himself he had.
That night, when Elliott had deflected again—soft voice, guarded eyes—Aiden had lied to himself. He'd said it didn't matter. That not knowing was fine.
"I have you. That's enough."
And it had been. It is.
Elliott is everything to him. This letter—this cursed, tempting thing—didn't change that.
But now, holding it in his hands, reading that name in ink as cold as it was deliberate—
He realized just how not over it he was.
He wanted answers.
He needed them.
And no amount of denial could change that.
All those times in his childhood when the questions had crept in like shadows under his door—Why his parents? Why them? What happened?—he had buried them. Choked them down like bitterness on his tongue. But now, someone was offering him the truth.
On a platter.
And gods, he hated how much he wanted it.
Even when every part of the message screamed trap. Even when the timing reeked of manipulation. Even when his gut twisted with instinctive mistrust.
He still wanted it.
He had burned the first letter.
Getting sentimental over something like this—something so clearly calculated—was foolish. Weak. Dangerous.
The flames crackled as they devoured the delicate paper. The firelight danced across his face, licking up the ink until it vanished, line by line, into smoke.
The letter was gone.
But the words remained.
Like smoke. Like memory.
The most pressing question clawing at his thoughts was: who had sent it?
Aiden wasn't a fool. The timing was too convenient. Just as tensions with the Southern Empire hit their peak. Just when the Empire teetered at the edge of war. Just when Elliott lay injured and Aiden held the reins of power.
Why now?
Why only now?
It didn't sit right. None of it did.
He told himself it didn't matter.
His parents had died when he was two. He hardly remembered them—just flashes, maybe. A lullaby that faded too quickly. A vague scent that lingered in dreams he couldn't recall upon waking.
It didn't—shouldn't—matter.
Not enough to justify the spiraling thoughts. Not enough to make him consider reckless things. Not enough to—
He cut himself off. It did. And he hated that it did.
He wished it didn't.
But he couldn't lie to himself anymore.
And he couldn't just walk away. Not now. He was the regent of an empire. Everything depended on him. He had to be present for every emergency. Every decision. Elliott was in no shape to rule.
He didn't have the luxury of chasing ghosts.
The place mentioned was near the western border. A day's ride, at least. Two days, there and back, even with no rest. Two days he couldn't afford. Not with the empire this fragile. Not with Elliott still recovering.
And yet—
The letter.
That cursed, perfect trap.
It hadn't just offered information. It knew what to offer.
Answers.
It was too suspicious. The timing. The wording. The silent delivery. Everything about it pointed to danger. A setup. Aiden didn't need to be reminded of how many enemies he had. It could've been anyone—southern spies, exiled nobles, internal traitors.
And the odds that it was some benevolent truth-bringer, willing to give him clarity for no reason?
Zero.
Only an idiot would fall for this.
And yet—he kept thinking about it.
He repeated all the reasons he should ignore it. That it was a distraction. A manipulation. That he had a war to fight. A country to lead. That Elliott needed him.
He had too much to lose.
But when morning came, and he stood quietly over Elliott's sleeping form—watching the soft rise and fall of his chest, listening to the familiar rhythm of his breathing—
He found himself wondering again.
What if?
----
Three days passed.
And gods, the thought would not leave him.
He tried. Truly. He threw himself into war strategy, council meetings, resource allocation, and troop formations. He made decisions with brutal precision. There was no shortage of urgent matters to occupy his mind.
And still—
That one thought clung to him like a shadow.
What if it's real?
What if the answers he always wanted were just within reach? What if he missed the only chance he'd ever get?
What if paranoia cost him the truth?
By the third day, Aiden found himself scanning his surroundings without meaning to. His eyes would linger a moment too long on corners, windowsills, shadows behind doors. He had all letters addressed to him sorted through twice. Thrice.
He could feel the aides glancing at him with unease.
He didn't care.
No matter how much he scolded himself later, no matter how much he reasoned, whenever he left or entered a room, his gaze lingered.
Searching.
Waiting.
There was no specific meeting point on the first letter.
Which meant a second letter would come.
That had always been the plan. Whoever sent the first note wanted him to stew in anticipation. To unravel with curiosity. To want it so badly that when the second arrived, he wouldn't hesitate.
And the worst part?
It was working.
Too well.