They had set off for the temple immediately. The temple wasn't far from the Veyth mansion—only about twenty minutes until the great redstone monument would come into view.
On the way, Carlson finally broke the silence. His voice was low, almost a whisper. "What... what were those things?" He still looked shaken, his hands tight on his knees, voice unsteady.
"Shadows," Aiden answered flatly. "Cyrus' little pets."
Carlson blinked at him, as if the word itself didn't make sense. "Shadows?" he repeated, disbelief thick in his tone. "And Cyrus—you mean the Altherian king?"
Aiden nodded. "Yes. Cyrus. And they were headed for you."
Carlson just stared. He looked at the prince as though the other man was speaking a foreign tongue. If Cyrus was sending assassins into their empire, he would expect them to target the emperor, or maybe the prince himself—not him. Why him, of all people. He managed, "...what?"
"Yes. Headed for you. Sent by Cyrus." Aiden's tone didn't waver. "These shadows—they're blood magic. Made by a blood witch. They can track their target across the ends of the world. Normal weapons can't touch them—only relics with divine power. The only other restriction they have is that they can't cross the periphery of a solar temple. That's why we're headed there tonight, and that's why we intend to keep you there until we figure out further action."
Carlson blinked rapidly. It was a lot to take in all at once. His mind caught on the earlier point, the one that troubled him most. "I understand but... why would Emperor Cyrus target me? I'm... I'm just a merchant. The Myraethra has never had much involvement with Altheria either—I can't imagine what I could've done to spark such hatred."
Aiden's reply was cool, almost factual. "It's not about what you did. It's about who you are—who you are to him, by simply existing." He paused, watching Carlson carefully. "James Corvette. Are you familiar with the name?"
Carlson's brow furrowed. He hesitated, then nodded slowly. "...The last heir of the Corvette bloodline. He died a few weeks after birth."
"Believed to have died," Aiden corrected sharply. "Cyrus made sure that was what the records said, and what the world believed. But we've received word that Cyrus has recently uncovered the truth of what really happened. That infant—he didn't die. That night, he escaped. Into our empire, across the Aurelia river. He is alive. He is in the capital. And he is the last true Corvette heir—the greatest threat to Cyrus' reign. That's why he sent his shadows here. After you."
The words hung heavy in the air, and Carlson let out a faint, disbelieving laugh. "...You think I'm James Corvette? Me?"
Aiden's gaze didn't falter. He nodded once, steady, completely serious. Gabriella, meanwhile, was strangely silent. She seemed distant—deep in thought, her eyes unreadable.
Carlson shook his head, still refusing to accept it. "That's... absurd. My father was a merchant. You think he plucked me out of a river?"
"You were raised by the old guildmaster," Aiden said plainly. "That part is true. But that doesn't mean you were his by blood. I'd say it's entirely plausible."
"Yes, but—I had a mother." Carlson's voice sharpened, almost defensive. "My father never gave me a name, no. And I have no memory of her. But when I asked, he always spoke of her fondly. A foreign woman he met while traveling. He would've brought her home, but she died giving birth to me." He dragged a hand through his dark hair, frustrated. "I think I'd know if I were runaway royalty."
"Would you?" Aiden countered, leaning forward. "You've no memory of your birth or early life, by your own admission."
Carlson was forced to pause at that. Begrudgingly, he gave a slight nod. But still, his expression twisted with doubt. "Even so... why would my father lie to me?"
"Maybe the old guildmaster didn't have the heart to tell his young son the truth," Aiden said. "Maybe he couldn't bring himself to say you were found floating down a river. And he must haven't known who you truly were either. He never told you later in life either, did he?"
Carlson shook his head slowly. His disbelief was written all over his face. All of this—bloodlines, heirs, emperors—it felt too far-fetched, too impossible. All Aiden had was circumstance, pieces that seemed to fit but with no proof. Yet... the attack had been real.
"You don't have to believe me completely right now," Aiden said, his voice softening just a fraction. "But you saw what happened. You saw them. Would you rather stay at the temple for a suspicion... or take the risk of being hunted again?"
Carlson's mouth opened, then closed. He fell silent, his eyes lingering on Aiden's fierce, unflinching expression. For a moment, fear flickered in his gaze. Maybe he didn't believe Aiden's words entirely, but the memory of the shadows was still fresh, still clawing at his nerves.
"I... understand," he murmured at last. "I'll stay at the temple."
The carriage jolted slightly, then slowed to a stop. They had arrived.
Aiden was the first to step down, his sword already drawn, ready in case another ambush waited outside the gates. He glanced back, motioning for Carlson to follow.
"A wise choice," he said.
----------
The high priest received them at the temple. His eyes went wide as he took in their grim expressions, the prince's bloodied shoulder, and the moon relic still wet, its silver edge stained with black, tar-like blood.
"Your Highness? What happened?" he asked quickly, his voice tight with concern.
Aiden finally chose to explain. His words were clipped, efficient, but by the end of the recount and the information about Cyrus and James, the older man's face was pale, his eyes widening further. "I understand. The guildmaster certainly needs to remain here, if that is the case—especially during the night, which is the shadows' time. The darkness gives them strength."
Aiden nodded sharply. "Prepare guarded quarters for him. He stays here until further notice. Both day and night."
The high priest bowed, grave and obedient. "It shall be done." He gestured, and a younger priest hurried forward to lead Carlson away.
As Carlson was escorted down the hall, he glanced back once at Aiden. His gaze was strange—it held no suspicion, no sly humor as was usually the guildmaster's habit, only something like bewildered acceptance. He had gone from merchant prince of the docks to possibly runaway foreign royalty hunted by creatures of nightmare—all in the span of an hour. Reality hadn't caught up to him yet.
The high priest turned again. "What about you, Your Highness? Shall I have accommodations prepared for you as well? It is rather late, and more than half the night has already passed. It will only be a waste of time to return now."
Aiden didn't even glance at Gabriella for counsel. His jaw was locked, his body tense. "No."
The high priest blinked. "No?"
"No," Aiden repeated flatly, as if the word itself was carved in stone. "We're returning to the palace."
The high priest hesitated, then bowed, not daring to press.
Gabriella, however, finally broke her silence. "Be reasonable," she said coolly. "He's right. It would be unnecessary trouble to go back now. And the shadows have seen you, Aiden. They know you exist. They could target you next—especially after you cut three of them down tonight. If you step out into plain sight while they're prowling the streets..." She let the implication hang.
"That's only a possibility," he shot back, voice low and edged. "You don't know for certain. And you're free to stay here if you wish. But I'm going back."
His stubbornness was obvious, almost burning. Gabriella studied him, her sharp gaze searching, and then her voice softened into accusation. "You're worried about Elliott."
At that, Aiden didn't even bother denying it. He couldn't. His silence gave him away, the truth written across every taut line of his body.
Gabriella exhaled through her nose. "Your worry is irrational. He is safe behind the palace walls. He has guards at all times. And if it's his health you're concerned about—healers already said he's out of danger. All he needs is rest. He's probably already asleep-"
Aiden cut her off before she could finish, his words quick, almost desperate. "You don't know that. He could be awake. Waiting. Hell- he is awake, I just know he is. He—"
He could be scared. He could be calling for me. He could need me.
I need him.
Those words never left his lips, but they burned in his chest like a brand. And he knew Gabriella caught them anyway.
Her eyes softened for just a fraction, then hardened again. She regarded him— the rigid set of his shoulders, the white-knuckled grip he had on his sword, the wild, almost frantic gleam in his eyes. That panic hadn't been there even when shadows tore into his flesh earlier tonight. No, this was different. This was about Elliott. Whenever Elliott was involved, Aiden's logic simply bled away, tossed aside.
Gabriella sighed, half-exasperated, half-resigned. None of her reasoning could sway him. He was drowning in a worry so fierce it blurred into obsession, and he would not be moved.
"You know you're taking a completely irrational and unnecessary risk, I hope?" she said at last.
"Call it what you want," Aiden replied, his voice steady, his expression unwavering. "I'm not spending a night away from him. Not now. Not after what happened today."
His eyes flicked toward the direction of the temple's inner sanctum—the very place Elliott had been attacked.
For a long moment, Gabriella just watched him. And then, slowly, something in her stance shifted. Not approval. Not even understanding. Just a weary acceptance, born from the knowledge that this was one battle she couldn't win.
"Very well," she said at last. "We will return to the palace."
Aiden's shoulders loosened a fraction, but Gabriella's voice cut in again, sharp as a blade. "But listen carefully. You keep that sword drawn at all times until we're back inside the palace gates. They've seen you. They'll come for you the first chance your guard falters. Do not hesitate to strike—not if you even feel the air shift wrong, or if you see the faintest shadow move."
Aiden's jaw tightened. He was already moving, already stalking toward the temple doors. His knuckles were white around the hilt of his blade.
"I never do," he muttered.