The change in camp was immediate and obvious. Riven moved his meager belongings into Barron's space, accepting the comfort of a friend's solidarity over the painful luxury of the shared space with the Prince.
To distract himself from the suffocating heartbreak, Riven buried himself in training. He was the first one up for training, the last to leave the study halls, volunteering for every extra class projects, drills, or simple chores he could find. He drove himself with a frantic energy, desperate to exhaust his body enough to quiet the scream in his mind that kept repeating the hurt.
A few days later, the quiet of the camp was disrupted once again. Vaelorian was back. He had spent the intervening time in the Imperial Palace, finalizing the formal declarations of his engagement and enduring a relentless schedule of meaningless royal duties—all manufactured by his father in an attempt to keep him from returning to the one place he truly wanted to be.
Vaelorian's faint hope of finding a way to talk to Riven—to explain, to apologize, to somehow bridge the gap he'd created—was dashed to pieces the moment he opened the door to their shared room.
The space was precisely as he had left it, except for one painful detail: Riven's belongings were gone. His shelve was stripped, the stack of books was missing and the faint, specific scent that Riven carried—something subtly floral—had vanished.
A cold dread filled Vaelorian. Riven had left the camp? He immediately sought out Commander Jacob Voss, finding the older man in his office reviewing campers rosters.
"Commander Voss," Vaelorian stated, his voice betraying none of the panic churning inside him. "I need to confirm the recent attendance of all campers. Specifically, Riven Ashbourne."
Voss scanned his roster. "Lord Riven? Yes, Your Highness. He is still on the grounds. Excellent attendance this week, actually. He moved rooms, though."
Vaelorian felt a sudden, sharp relief mixed with a fresh wave of pain. Riven was here, but he had actively moved out.
"Thank you, Commander. That will be all."
Vaelorian spent the rest of the day looking for Riven. He tried to time his walks through the common areas, attempting to 'accidentally' bump into the younger boy outside the mass hall, or simply catch him on his way to class. He found nothing. Riven was suddenly a ghost around camp the grounds.
Frustrated, Vaelorian finally decided to confront the only people he knew Riven would trust: his friends. He found Mira Lune, and Anya leaving class.
"Ladies," Vaelorian said, his tone deliberately polite. "Have you seen Riven? I was hoping to speak with him briefly."
Anya, the most composed of the group, offered a practiced, innocent smile. "Riven? Oh, no, Your Highness."
"We haven't seen him in hours." Mira Lune interjected quickly, flashing a discreet look at Anya.
Anya nodded vaguely. "Yes, we saw him last during breakfast. Maybe check the training grounds? Oh, wait. Have you checked you guys room?" Her wide, confused eyes were a masterclass in feigned ignorance.
Vaelorian felt a knot tighten in his chest. They're protecting him from me. He moved on to Barron, finding him cleaning his training equipment.
"Barron," Vaelorian greeted him, getting straight to the point. "I need to talk to Riven. Where is he?"
Barron stood up and bowed politely. "Sorry, Your Highness. I haven't seen him. Riven usually keeps to himself during free hours. Do you want to maybe leave him a message?"
The pattern continued into the evening's mandatory combat training. Vaelorian usually loved this time. Riven was a natural and always thrived on the challenge, especially when Vaelorian was involved. Vaelorian tried to single him out, hoping a sparring match would give him the necessary space to talk.
Vaelorian asked Riven to join him in front, making an effort to sound like a distant instructor. Riven, who usually raced in front of the class, instead stood rigidly in his place, his eyes focused on the ground.
"I'm not feeling well, sir." Riven replied, his voice flat and expressionless.
"A little training will do you good," Vaelorian pressed, desperate.
"With all due respect, sir, my knee is killing me. I will stick to watching today," Riven insisted, the use of the formal word 'sir' cutting Vaelorian deeper than any insult.
Vaelorian tried using telepathy, no answer. Riven was blocking him out. It didn't take Vaelorian long to figure out the truth. Riven wasn't merely avoiding him; he was actively, deliberately, ensuring they were ten feet away from each other at all times. And his loyal band of friends were acting as a highly effective human shield, offering misinformation, and blocking every attempt Vaelorian made.
The realization brought a heavy ache to the Prince's heart. While he was genuinely happy that Riven had such amazing, protective friends in his corner, he was simultaneously hurt and frustrated that he was the reason they saw the need to protect their friend this way. He had shattered Riven's trust so thoroughly that his entire social circle had mobilized against the future emperor.
After a week of futility, Vaelorian was once again summoned back to the Imperial Palace. This time, the pressure was immense; his father needed him to publicly tour the Sorverigen territory ahead of the Winter Solstice.
Before he departed, Vaelorian sat alone in his room—the empty, quiet room that used to hold Riven's presence—and wrote. He poured all the pain, the regret, and the impossible truth of his political cage onto a single sheet of heavy paper. He handed the sealed letter to Commander Voss, making the older man promise to deliver it only to Riven's hand.
Later that evening, Commander Voss tracked Riven down near the fire pit. "Lord Riven. The Prince requested I deliver this to you personally before his departure."
Riven took the envelope. He held it in his hand for a long moment, staring at the familiar, elegant seal. It felt like a stone. He knew its contents wouldn't change the reality: Vaelorian chose the crown over him.
Without even bothering to break the wax seal or open the letter, Riven walked over to the edge of the pit. He tossed the sealed letter onto a pile of glowing charcoal. The heavy paper curled, caught fire, and within seconds, only blackened ash remained. Riven watched it burn until the last glowing edge was gone.
"Vaelorian can go fuck himself," he muttered, the words a raw, venomous whisper.
With Vaelorian's departure, the tension slowly bled out of the camp. The barricade was lowered, and Riven's life went back to a semblance of normal. Well, as normal as it can get for a boy whose heart was still slowly being scorched to ash.