The ball passed in a blur of silk, lights, and murmured courtesies. Though it was far from over, Aiden began to grow drowsy not long after eating. He was, after all, only eight years old.
Elliott noticed quickly—of course he did—and quietly slipped Aiden away from the ballroom, leading him to his chambers to rest.
Later that night, when Elliott came to check on him, he found the boy already asleep—but troubled. The blankets were twisted around him, bundled up near his chest. His small body was curled tightly, shaking softly under the covers.
Elliott approached with quiet footsteps, the faint candlelight flickering against the dark velvet drapes. He gently peeled the blanket back. Aiden was curled in a fetal position, his face buried in a pillow, brow furrowed, sweat beading on his forehead.
"Oh, dear..." Elliott murmured softly, easing the pillow away. The child's face was tense. His features were scrunched in discomfort, breath shallow and uneven.
"Aiden?" Elliott called gently, tapping the boy's cheek. "Dear, can you hear me?"
Aiden's eyes flew open. For a few moments, his gaze was wild, disoriented, breath coming in sharp, panicked gasps—until his eyes focused on Elliott.
"Oh..." he panted. "It's you."
"Mm. Me," Elliott said gently, easing down onto the mattress. He hooked his arms beneath Aiden's small frame, lifting him into his lap. At that age, Aiden still fit easily in his arms.
"A nightmare?" Elliott asked softly, already running a soothing hand through his hair.
Aiden nodded mutely. He leaned into the touch without thinking, his head resting against Elliott's chest. The steady rhythm of the older man's heartbeat was comforting, grounding him. Without realizing, his small fingers had curled into the fabric of Elliott's robe, as if afraid to let go.
But the thoughts hadn't gone away. Even with the warmth of Elliott's arms around him, the whispers still rang in his ears like echoes trapped in the grand ballroom walls.
"Elliott," he whispered, voice barely audible. "What... what did they mean? Earlier. About my parents..."
The hand in his hair stilled.
For a moment, Elliott didn't speak. He didn't even move, frozen in place like a statue. Aiden could feel the sudden shift in his posture—the quiet tension beneath his gentle grip. Like a bowstring pulled taut.
Then, finally, the hand resumed its motion. Still gentle, still careful—but faster now. Just a little too fast. As if to distract. As if to compensate. Aiden noticed.
A whisper came, eventually. Soft. But firm.
"It's just gossip, Aiden. Pay it no mind. The mindless chatter of the court."
"But—" Aiden started, wanting to ask more, to press further.
"Sleep," Elliott said simply, pulling the blankets higher around the boy. His other hand came up to Aiden's face, gently covering his eyes.
At the time, the gesture had seemed ordinary. Just a soothing way to help him drift back to sleep. But now—years later—Aiden realized it had been so much more than that.
The hand had never truly lifted.
Not when it came to this.
"Tomorrow will be better. I promise," Elliott whispered. "Just trust me."
And that had been the end of it.
Aiden never asked again.
He couldn't. Not with that hand still, metaphorically, pressed over his eyes. Not when the door had been so gently, yet firmly, closed.
—
Now, thirteen years later, Aiden stood in those same chambers.
He was twenty-one now. The regent. The empire itself bowed at his word. Armies moved at his command. Foreign envoys trembled at the weight of his voice.
And yet, as he stood here, he still felt like that small boy in Elliott's arms.
Still waiting for the hand to lift.
Still waiting for the truth to be revealed.
He looked down at Elliott, sleeping peacefully for once. The older man's face was serene in the dim candlelight. His breathing, steady and soft. Finally, some color had returned to his cheeks. His recovery had been slow but steady—and every step of it had been a relief Aiden had clung to.
But even now, with Elliott safe—Elliott alive—there was still a silence between them. One that had been forged long before war or politics ever touched their lives.
Aiden knew Elliott had his reasons. He always did. He lied to protect people. He kept secrets because he cared. And Aiden... he understood that.
But he didn't know if Elliott would understand this.
Because Aiden needed the truth now.
Not just as a man. Not just as a regent. But as a boy who'd been told to close his eyes and trust.
And for that truth—now offered, now dangling within reach—
Aiden would burn the world, if he had to.
He sat in silence for a while. The fire burned low, casting flickering shadows across the gold-trimmed chamber walls. The warmth did little to ease the storm inside him. His thoughts were sharp and endless.
Elliott slept on, unaware of the war raging behind Aiden's still eyes.
And God, Aiden hated him for it.