Evening settled over the courtyard behind Rythe's quarters, the torchlight casting flickering gold across the flagstones as soldiers loitered after drills. Weapons were cleaned, armor stacked, and stories passed around over tankards of watered wine. The warmth of firelight could almost lull one into peace.
Aurean moved silently through them, his posture rigid but precise, clearing the sparring gear laid out from earlier, performing his duties without a word, as he always did.
But silence didn't keep wolves at bay.
Tallen stepped into his path.
The omega was radiant in a way only someone privileged all his life could be—silver clasps on his tunic, hair perfectly styled despite the heat of the day, and a cruel smirk curling his lips.
"Well, well," Tallen said, voice just loud enough to draw the attention of nearby soldiers, "the ghost of the war returns. Still fetching and folding like a loyal little shadow."
Aurean said nothing. He bent to pick up a training pike.
Tallen clicked his tongue mockingly. "You know, I was away during the border campaign. Tragic, really. I missed the... spectacle."
He circled Aurean, eyes gleaming. "But I heard stories."
Aurean froze.
"I heard that even when your heat broke during the mission, Prince Rythe couldn't bring himself to touch you. That instead of claiming you—like any red-blooded alpha would—he tied you to a tree."
Murmurs rippled among the soldiers.
"Buckets of cold water, wasn't it?" Tallen drawled, leaning in, his words oiled with mockery. "While you were dripping, begging, reeking of need. How humiliating. To be that unwanted, even in heat. An omega rejected by his own instincts."
Laughter now. Cruel, thin-edged.
Aurean didn't move. He didn't speak.
Tallen wasn't finished.
"I wonder," he mused, voice lilting, "was it your scent? Too filthy? Or did the prince simply find the company of real nobility more... satisfying?"
His meaning was clear.
From the stone balcony above, Rythe stood, arms folded. His face was unreadable.
Beside him, Lareth watched the scene as well.
Below, Aurean straightened.
He turned to Tallen, meeting his gaze fully—something heavy and unreadable behind his golden eyes.
"If I'm filth," Aurean said softly, "then I must commend your taste. You've spent a great deal of time wallowing in it tonight."
Gasps. A few soldiers stiffened.
Tallen's smile cracked.
"You don't belong here," he hissed. "You never did."
"I know," Aurean replied simply, and walked away.
The soldiers parted for him like water.
The chamber was still.
Aurean knelt before the brazier in Rythe's private antechamber, his hands methodically polishing the prince's armor with cloth and oil. The flickering glow of the coals cast sharp lines over the curves of steel, dancing in silence around him. He hadn't lit the lanterns. The dimness suited him.
He was still damp from rinsing off in the servant's quarters—a harsh, cold rinse that had done little to scrub away the memory of Tallen's words, or the stares.
He didn't cry.
Not because he wasn't capable, but because he had grown used to enduring where others expected breaking. He had learned long ago that pain carried more weight when it was buried beneath silence.
His fingers worked slower now over the pauldrons. The cloth trembled in his hand.
Even when you were in heat, he couldn't bring himself to touch you.
He exhaled quietly, setting the piece aside.
How strange it was, to feel both shame and a twisted sort of relief. He'd lied for Rythe's sake. Shielded his pride. Endured the jeers. But Rythe had stood there, watching, silent.
He had let it happen.
Aurean looked down at the back of his hands. The bruises from the last spar still bloomed faintly there, fading like everything else he held onto. The scars were older.
He remembered what it had felt like during the war—when the hounds had circled around him with teeth bared, not to threaten but to protect. When the sound of Rythe's voice carried command and heat in the same breath. When survival had brought them close enough to blur the lines between roles.
But now, there was only the chill of routine.
Aurean stood, stiffly. He crossed to the basin in the corner, dipped his hands in the cold water, and stared at his reflection.
His face was the same as always—sharp, elegant, too beautiful for a servant but not enough to be spared contempt. His eyes were what gave him away, always: too watchful, too old.
"Filth," he whispered.
Not with self-pity, but with a bitter familiarity. As if it were a name he wore like skin.
And still, even now… something inside him clenched at the thought of Rythe's silence. Not the soldiers, not Tallen—but his silence.
He shouldn't have cared.
He did.
Aurean turned away from the basin and resumed his work, moving with that same cold, mechanical precision that had always kept him safe.
But something inside him had cracked tonight.
And though he didn't cry, the fire in the brazier hissed sharply—as if reacting to the weight of something unseen, unspoken.
The door shut behind him with a quiet click.
Aurean did not turn. He remained kneeling by the hearth in Rythe's quarters, shoulders straight, posture still, as if nothing had changed—except everything had.
Rythe stood by the door longer than necessary. Watching.
The soft light from the oil lamp caught the edge of Aurean's jaw, that unflinching curve of control even in stillness. The brazier's warmth cast slow, flickering shadows across the room, and for a moment, Rythe couldn't speak.
"I dismissed the others," he said finally.
No response. Aurean only moved to fold a cloth more tightly around the sword he'd been cleaning.
"Say something," Rythe said—quieter this time.
Aurean's voice came soft and level. "What would you like me to say, my lord?"
Rythe flinched, almost imperceptibly. The title landed heavier than a slap.
"You know I didn't—"
"But you didn't stop it either." Aurean stood now, slowly, wiping his hands on the rag before placing it neatly beside the brazier. "I served your quarters while your lover publicly degraded me in front of your men. You stood by."
"Aurean—"
"I defended your name. I lied for you. I killed for you." His voice stayed even, cold. "If you came here to thank me, don't. I expect nothing. That is the only reason I have survived this long."
A beat of silence.
Then Rythe crossed the room in three long strides, catching Aurean's wrist before he could walk away. Not forcefully, but firmly—desperate for an anchor.
"Why?" Rythe demanded, the words low and rough. "Why would you say what you said to the soldiers? About the tree. About… me."
Aurean's eyes met his, unreadable.
"Because your shame matters more than my truth."
The words lanced cleanly through the space between them. Rythe's grip slackened.
Aurean stepped back, his hand sliding free.
"You have someone you can touch," Aurean added, tone cutting like glass. "Let him fight your battles. Let him speak your truths."
Rythe's jaw tightened. "He is not—"
"No," Aurean interrupted. "He is everything I'm not allowed to be."
They stared at each other.
One proud and wounded. The other restrained, cold—and exhausted.
"You said once that pain and death were all you could offer me," Aurean murmured, turning away at last. "You've made good on both."
He began to gather the rest of the armor. "Now, if that's all, I still have duties to attend to."
But Rythe didn't move.
He stood in the quiet, watching the man he once took to war, once kissed in shadows, once stripped of pride and kept tethered in duty—slip further out of reach, even while standing a few feet away.
And for the first time in years, he didn't know how to take someone back.