"Nothing?" Rythe asked, reclining in the solar chamber as the firelight played across his knuckles.
His guard, Captain Lareth, didn't flinch. "Next to nothing, my prince."
Rythe's eyes narrowed. "He was called heir. That's a title. I know the Veldar line. There are older siblings. Why him?"
Lareth hesitated, then pulled a scroll from his belt. "According to sealed records, the boy's great-grandparents—Duke Alric and Duchess Selaine—favored him. Called him their 'silver-eyed legacy.' When they died, they bypassed Halric's first son and named Aurean heir to their personal estate and ancestral lands."
"Against Halric's wishes?"
"Quietly. Legally. And irrevocably."
Rythe leaned forward. "So that's why he was marked as heir. Not because of Halric, but in spite of him."
Lareth nodded. "Yes, my prince. But there's more. No staff at the Veldar estate would speak of him. They know his name, but nothing of his life. No records. No journals. No tutors. It's as if he lived in a shadow."
"Or a cage," Rythe murmured.
When Rythe entered the kennel, he found Aurean sitting cross-legged, a strip of linen wrapped around his forearm. The hounds parted for Rythe without a sound.
"You heard," Rythe said.
Aurean didn't rise. "Everyone heard."
Rythe tossed a pouch of dried meat to the largest hound, who caught it with a snap of his jaws. "Does it sting?"
Aurean looked up. "It confirms what I always knew. That I was never a son. Only a tool."
Rythe studied him, then crouched. "Tools don't survive the pit. You did."
"Because I had to."
"No," Rythe said. "Because you refused to die. There's a difference."
Their eyes locked again. The tension was tangible—wound tight between them.
Before either could speak again, a commotion rose near the kennel gate.
A young hound trainer, barely more than a boy, was being shoved by one of Rythe's men.
"You don't speak for the prince, slave," the guard barked.
"I wasn't speaking for him," the boy snapped. "I was speaking for the hounds. They won't let you touch him again."
The guard reached for his whip—
—but the alpha hound growled, stepping protectively in front of Aurean.
Rythe raised a hand.
Silence fell.
His gaze drifted from the hound… to Aurean… to the boy.
Then, very quietly:
"How curious," Rythe murmured.
And suspicion flared behind his silver eyes.
The interrogation chamber was smaller than most rooms in the keep, with stone walls close enough to muffle sound but wide enough to feel oppressive. Torches flickered along the perimeter, casting a low orange glow over the polished iron chair and the single wooden bench.
Rythe stood with arms crossed, gaze fixed on the hound trainer.
"You spoke out of turn," Rythe said coolly, though there was no real anger in his voice—only calculation.
The boy—Garren, no older than nineteen—stood at attention, his hands clasped behind his back, eyes forward like a soldier before his commander.
"I did, my prince," Garren replied. "But I won't apologize for it."
Rythe tilted his head. "No? And why is that?"
"Because the hounds trust him. And I trust them."
"A man trained to kill a prince now sleeps among beasts bred for war—and you think that's safe?"
Garren didn't flinch. "They would tear him apart if he were a threat. They haven't. He treats them with respect, never flinches, never raises his voice. He doesn't try to dominate them. He… listens."
Rythe's gaze narrowed. "And they listen back."
"Yes, my prince."
Rythe moved closer, folding his arms behind his back as he studied the boy. "You're not speaking as a handler now. You're speaking as someone who admires him."
Garren hesitated, then nodded. "I suppose I am. Not because he's noble. Because he's not."
There was a silence between them—heavy, but not hostile.
Rythe turned toward the door, voice low. "Keep watching him. If that loyalty shifts from the hounds to you… I want to know."
Garren bowed. "Of course, my prince."
But Rythe didn't miss the protective glint in the boy's eyes as he left.
And it made something uneasy stir in him.
The sky outside the kennel had turned gray with dusk.
Aurean sat near the far wall, brushing his fingers gently through the fur of the alpha hound as it rested its massive head in his lap. The other hounds were curled nearby—closer than usual, as if forming a living barricade around him.
The door creaked open.
He didn't turn. He didn't have to.
"I thought you'd come," Aurean said, voice even.
Rythe stepped inside, gaze sharp. "You're building something."
Aurean shrugged. "I'm surviving."
"With beasts," Rythe said. "With loyalty you haven't earned."
"No." Aurean met his eyes. "With loyalty that was never asked for. That's why it matters."
Rythe was quiet for a moment.
"I spoke to the boy," he said. "He believes in you. That's dangerous."
"I didn't ask for it."
"No. That's what worries me."
Rythe stepped closer, his tone low. "You unsettle people, Aurean. Even caged, you gather loyalty. If you were less broken, I'd say you were dangerous."
"I am dangerous," Aurean said calmly. "But not to you—unless you push me."
They stood like that, shadows framed in flickering torchlight. Neither moved.
Aurean didn't blink. Rythe didn't breathe.
Then Rythe stepped back. "The court wants to see you again. Publicly."
Aurean looked down at the hound's head still resting on his thigh. "Let them."
Rythe hesitated, as if he might say something else. But then he turned and left, his boots clicking against the stone floor.
And behind him, the alpha hound growled low—not in warning.
In promise.