Inside the palace
The palace courtyard was bathed in soft moonlight. Torches flickered along the walls, their glow breaking the shadows but never quite banishing them. Guards stood stiff in their armor, knights patrolling with measured steps, the whole courtyard alive in its stillness, as if holding its breath for the man waiting in the center.
Leaning against a marble pillar, dressed in pale night robes that made him look half like a ghost, stood Elliott. His gaze never moved from the direction of the gates. He was pale, thinner than usual and wrapped in a thick robe to guard against the cold night air, though every now and then, a passing breeze still managed to make him shiver.
The healer beside him wrung her hands, her expression twisted with worry. "Your Majesty, I must insist— you are not recovered, and standing out here in the night air is—"
"I'm fine," Elliott mumbled, brushing her off. His voice was low, distracted. "I understand your concerns."
It was the same answer he'd been repeating for hours now. He understood. He just didn't care.
His eyes flickered once more to the gates, his fingers curling into the folds of his robe. "They should be back by now," he muttered. His lips pressed tight, then parted again, whispering almost to himself. "I hope they're alright..."
The healer tried again, her voice gentle and careful. "Prince Aiden and Lady Gabriella are capable of taking care of themselves—"
"I know." Elliott cut her off, but there was no sharpness in it. Just a trembling, restless worry. His eyes didn't move from the gates. "But I can't be sure. You... you wouldn't understand."
The healer sighed, her breath clouding in the night air. Some time passed in silence, the kind of silence that presses heavy on the chest. Finally, true to her cause, she attempted again. "Your Majesty, please, let us go inside. You can wait by the fire. The night air—"
Elliott exhaled, slow and shaky. His fingers tightened against the pillar as if he could draw strength from the cold surface. "Just... fifteen minutes more. I'll just wait fifteen minutes more here."
The healer bit back her protest. His tone- soft, pleading- it was impossible to argue with. And how could she protest, when he asked like that? She bowed her head instead, opting to stand behind him quietly, though her nervous glances never truly ceased.
And so, Elliott waited. He looked every bit the image of a spouse standing vigil by the door, waiting for a husband gone too long, praying the enemies wouldn't take him before he came home. His body was frail, but his stubbornness rooted him in place. He couldn't rest. Not until he saw Aiden walk back through those gates.
Then, at last, as if the gods finally took pity, the gates creaked open.
Elliott's breath caught.
Aiden entered first, Gabriella close behind with their small entourage. And there, under the moonlight—Aiden still held the moon-forged sword, its blade streaked in drying blood. Elliott's heart lurched violently when he saw it. Worse than that- his eyes darted to Aiden's shoulder, catching the fresh bloodstain there. A wound. He'd been cornered. He hadn't come through untouched. Elliott had prayed and prayed that he would. His chest clenched so tightly it hurt.
Gabriella looked as she had when she left- untouched, steady. But Aiden....Aiden was hurt.
And then their eyes met.
Aiden froze, only for a moment, and then, his expression shifted into one of understanding. Elliott's pale face, the faint tremor in his stance, the stubborn set of his jaw- all of them painted a clear picture. He hadn't gone to sleep. He hadn't rested like he was told. He'd been waiting. Waiting the whole damn night, out in the cold, too worried to sleep, too afraid to breathe until he returned.
Aiden's face hardened, the tension snapping through his jaw. Before he did anything else like removing his cloak, or seeking treatment for his own wound, before he even let himself feel the smallest relief— he strode forward, eyes locked on Elliott.
"What are you doing out here?" His voice was rough, edged with fear disguised as anger. "You're injured. You shouldn't be out of bed-"
He never finished. He didn't even make it halfway across the courtyard when the shadows stirred again. Where the torchlight faltered, where the moonlight did not touch, the dark itself moved. It didn't walk or run. It flowed, stretching out of nothing like spilled ink across stone.
Three of them. Again.
And this time, Carlson was nowhere nearby.
Yet they came.
For Aiden.