Morning light filtered through the silken curtains, painting soft gold patterns across the marble floor. The scent of lavender lingered faintly in the air, mingling with the distant murmur of attendants as they moved about the emperor's chambers.
Elliott's eyes fluttered open slowly. His movements were sluggish, but not strained—he felt rested, more so than he had in weeks. Recovery had been slow, but steady. The gauntness in his cheeks had faded, the color was beginning to return to his skin, and for the first time in days, he didn't feel like he was drowning in his own lungs.
An attendant approached quietly, helping him sit up and adjusting the pillows behind his back. Elliott blinked at the sudden rush of brightness, slowly becoming aware of the world around him.
And that was when he noticed it—the noise.
It wasn't loud, exactly. But it was there. The sharp, unmistakable sound of metal boots against stone. Armored footsteps, outside his chambers. More than usual. Too many. Too heavy, too regular. Definitely not the regular changing of the watch.
He accepted the glass of water wordlessly, taking a sip to clear the cottony haze of sleep. It helped—sharpened his senses. His brows furrowed.
At first glance, everything seemed as it should be. Yet the longer he sat there, the more the unease grew. If he focused—really focused—he could see it in the faces of the attendants. The stiffness in their posture. The way their eyes darted when they thought he wasn't looking. The quiet tension clinging to the air like fog.
And Aiden—
Aiden was there too.
He stood by the window, already dressed for court, the imperial blue and silver of his robes crisp and immaculate. His back was turned, gaze trained on the palace grounds below. He stood straight, shoulders squared—but something in his stance was off. Too rigid. Too still. A kind of stillness that wasn't calm, but coiled.
"...Aiden?" Elliott called, voice still rough with sleep.
"Mm," Aiden hummed.
He didn't turn. Didn't rush to his side like he usually did upon seeing him awake. His posture remained unchanged. The silence that followed dragged out, brittle and awkward.
"You should rest," Aiden said finally. His voice was tight, clipped.
Elliott frowned. That was the moment he knew something was wrong.
"What's going on outside?" he asked, cutting through the half-truths.
"Guards."
"So many?"
"Precaution," Aiden said without missing a beat.
A lie. Elliott knew it immediately. The tone was too flat, too carefully measured. Aiden's poker face had improved over the years, but not enough. Not with Elliott.
"I thought your chambers could use more protection," Aiden added, almost as an afterthought.
Elliott didn't buy it.
And Aiden wasn't talking. That more than anything sealed it—he'd learned stubborn silence from Elliott himself.
Elliott exhaled slowly through his nose, fingers curling into the sheets. He waited. Hoped Aiden would offer more. He didn't.
"And where are you going?" Elliott asked next.
"Court," Aiden answered—too fast.
Another lie.
Aiden had never been a good liar to him. Elliott had long since noticed the pattern: when lying, Aiden answered too quickly, as if he'd rehearsed it a hundred times in his head already. As if the truth might slip through if he hesitated for even a moment.
Elliott shifted, sitting up straighter. A dull ache flared in his chest—a reminder that he was still healing. He ignored it.
"Aiden," he said, his voice low and steady. "Look at me."
It wasn't a request.
Finally, Aiden turned.
He looked as he always did—composed, sharp in every line. The very image of imperial poise. Nothing about him should have raised suspicion.
But Elliott knew better. Because while Aiden's face was unreadable, his eyes—
Elliott's breath caught.
His eyes were haunted.
There was something frantic hiding behind that stillness. Something cornered. Something desperate. Elliott had seen that expression before—but not in a man. In a child. A frightened boy, cold and alone, newly orphaned and unable to sleep without a nightlight for weeks.
"Something's going to happen," Elliott said, mostly to himself.
"I can feel it."
Aiden's jaw tightened.
His grip shifted subtly on the hilt of his sword.
He stepped closer to the bed. Elliott instinctively moved over, making space beside him. But Aiden didn't sit.
He stood there for a long moment, eyes locked with Elliott's. "Don't worry yourself over nothing," he said at last. "Nothing will happen."
"You're lying," Elliott replied softly.
The silence between them was taut, drawn so tight it could snap at the slightest provocation. They stared at one another, as if daring the other to speak first. Neither did.
A knock broke the tension. A servant entered, carrying a tray with breakfast—steaming tea, honeyed oats, fresh fruit. Everything prepared to the physician's strict orders.
The tray was set gently on the side table.
There was only one plate.
"You're not eating?" Elliott asked, his voice quieter now.
"Already ate," Aiden said.
Another lie.
Elliott didn't let it slide this time. "Liar."
Aiden turned away without answering.
He walked over to the tray, lifting the teapot.
He poured the tea first, and Elliott noticed how Aiden's back was to him as he added sugar—or something else. The thought slithered in unbidden. No one in the room voiced it. No one dared.
Aiden returned, setting the tray gently in front of him.
"Eat," he said gently. His voice was soft, but it felt off. Too careful.
"Drink the tea first. It'll soothe your throat."
It was such a small thing. Too small. But Elliott's gaze caught how Aiden's eyes didn't leave the cup. Watching him.
Waiting.
He didn't want to. He wanted to ask more. To demand answers.
But Aiden looked tired. Not just physically—but soul-deep tired. The kind of tired Elliott had seen in battle-hardened veterans, not young men. The kind of tired that came from carrying too many secrets alone.
So he drank.
The tea was bitter.
He ate in silence. The food was fine, but the bitter taste lingered on his tongue like ash. His limbs felt heavier than they had before. His fingers slower to respond.
By the time he realized, it was already too late.
Aiden was at the door.
Elliott's head turned to follow him, blinking against the haze settling over his mind. His own calm mask had slipped into place, almost mirroring Aiden's.
"Aiden...?" he called, voice slurring ever so slightly. "You're not... staying?"
Aiden didn't turn around.
"I have duties," he said.
He was halfway through the door when he stopped. His next words were barely audible.
"I'll be back soon. Rest."
He said it was nothing. Just court.
But it sounded like a goodbye.
And then he was gone.
Outside the door, Aiden paused.
His hand was still on the handle, clenched so tight his knuckles had gone white. His forehead pressed to the cold gilded surface, chest rising and falling in ragged, uneven breaths.
He didn't move for a long moment.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. The words barely escaped his throat.
And then, before he could break, before he could hesitate—he walked away.