They cornered Rythe two days later.
Not with swords, but with words.
The commanders. The captains. Even the junior officers.
They stood in the palace training yard, far from prying noble ears. The war was over, but the soldiers still moved like men on the edge of battle—tense, bristling, hungry for answers.
"We need to understand," one of the commanders said carefully. "Why did he lie?"
"He gave us the glory," another muttered. "But why?"
"You all saw what the hounds did. That wasn't us. That was him."
Rythe folded his arms, jaw tight.
"He said what he thought you needed to hear," he said.
"Then why didn't you stop him?"
Rythe's eyes turned cold. "If you want answers, ask him."
So they did.
By the time Aurean arrived in the courtyard—summoned without explanation—the circle had already formed.
Rythe stood at the center, surrounded by every man who had fought at the poisoned camp. The surviving army. The loyalists. Even the ones who had sneered when he passed in the halls.
Aurean's steps slowed as he saw the crowd.
The hounds moved in first, as always—parting the soldiers like sea through stone. Then came Aurean, dark-clad and expressionless, but every line of him taut with restraint.
"Speak," one of the younger officers said roughly. "We deserve that much."
Aurean looked to Rythe, who only gave him a nod. Not permission—just presence.
And so, Aurean stepped into the ring of men who hated him.
"I know what you all think of me," he began, voice low but steady. "I know what you say when you believe I'm out of earshot. I know the way your faces change when I walk past."
The courtyard was silent.
"I know how filthy you believe I am. How wrong I am. How unnatural."
Several men shifted uncomfortably. One muttered under his breath.
Aurean raised his chin.
"I know what you thought that night in camp—that I must have been part of the attack. That it was too convenient, too clean, that I wasn't poisoned. That the hounds chose me."
He took a breath. His hands were still.
"And you're right. The hounds listened to me. I trained them in secret, every night when no one would look at me. When no one would sit beside me at the fire. When you fed me scraps and called me pet behind your cups."
No one dared speak.
"I gave you the victory," Aurean said. "Because you would not have accepted it if it came from me. Because you would not have accepted that the thing you despised—"
He stopped.
Then continued, quieter.
"That the thing you despised is the reason you're alive."
His gaze scanned the circle, emotionless.
"So I told the emperor what he wanted to hear. I told the court a lie so you could all keep your heads high. Because the truth would make you choke."
No one moved.
Aurean looked at Rythe last.
"I did what I did because the truth won't change what I am in your eyes."
And then, without waiting for response or permission, he turned and walked away.
The hounds followed.
One by one, the soldiers broke apart. No one spoke.
And Rythe—still standing in the center—watched him leave.
And didn't call him back.
The world did not end after Aurean's words.
No one wept. No one protested.
No one apologized.
Instead, the camp returned to its rhythm with frightening ease. Orders were barked. Horses were brushed. Blades were sharpened. Meals were cooked.
And Aurean returned to his duties.
He rose before dawn. He scouted trails, fed and trained the hounds, sharpened gear, relayed messages. The same tasks he had always done. He completed them with quiet precision. No complaints. No delay.
But everything had changed.
No one jeered anymore. No one whispered openly behind his back. The stares that once lingered with suspicion now passed over him entirely.
Like wind over stone.
He was spoken to only when necessary. Not out of hostility, but detachment. A soldier might nod when passing him. A captain might give him a brief, clipped order. Then nothing.
He ate alone.
He trained alone.
He slept curled beside the hounds, who at least still leaned into him as if nothing in the world had shifted.
Varnak, ever perceptive, began watching the soldiers with narrowed eyes. One bark from him was enough to clear a path through the mess tent.
But Aurean never commanded it.
He accepted the distance.
Perhaps he even preferred it.
It was easier to bear than the weight of pity or the sharpness of suspicion. In indifference, there was no expectation. No demand to explain himself, no performance of gratitude for every scrap of tolerance.
Still, some part of him knew: this was not acceptance.
It was erasure.
And in some strange, bitter way… that made him feel more like himself than he had in years.
A shadow among soldiers.
A ghost among the living.
And so the days passed—unmarked by praise, untouched by cruelty.
Just Aurean.
Still here.
Still breathing.
But never quite seen.