The fire burned low. The camp had gone quiet hours ago, the soldiers lulled into uneasy rest beneath stars veiled by windblown clouds. Only the occasional snort of a horse or the creak of leather disturbed the hush.
Rythe lay still beneath his cloak, his back to the fire, eyes closed.
He had not meant to fall asleep.
He never did.
Not these days.
But exhaustion crept in eventually. Sleep claimed him slowly, then all at once.
And with it, Aurean came.
He stood at the mouth of a forest, dusk spilling gold through the trees. There was the scent of woodsmoke and crushed herbs, and something softer—like the faintest sweetness of honey and heat.
Aurean was there.
Wearing no armor, just a loose linen shirt tied low on his hips. His feet were bare against the moss-covered earth. His hair shimmered in the amber light, unruly and damp, as though he'd just stepped from the river.
He turned.
And he smiled.
Not the cautious, practiced smile Rythe had grown used to.
This was the one Rythe had only caught glimpses of in the dark—when Aurean didn't think anyone was watching. The one he wore when speaking to the hounds, or when he thought of home, or when he wasn't being looked at like a problem.
"You're late," Aurean said, voice low and teasing.
"I didn't know you were waiting," Rythe heard himself answer.
"But I always am."
Aurean stepped closer.
There was no hesitation in his movement. No shame. No fear. Just the quiet confidence of someone who had nothing to prove anymore.
Rythe reached out without thinking.
Fingers brushed against warm skin—his wrist, then his side, then Aurean's jaw as the omega leaned into his palm.
"Why do you keep looking away from me?" Aurean asked softly.
Rythe didn't answer. Couldn't.
He was too aware of the smell of him—clean and wild and undeniably Aurean. Of the curve of his mouth, the slope of his neck. The heat between them wasn't that of shame or hunger this time. It was longing. Raw. Quiet. Steady.
Aurean leaned in and whispered:
"It wasn't just your rut, Rythe."
Rythe jerked awake.
His breath came fast, chest tight, heart racing beneath his tunic. The stars above had shifted—hours had passed.
His palm was clenched into a fist.
Varnak lay beside him, ears pricked. Watching.
Mael lifted his head from his paws, eyes gleaming faintly.
They knew.
The dream's warmth lingered like a brand.
Rythe swore softly under his breath and sat up, scrubbing a hand over his face.
He had to lock it away. Again. Push it down deep where it couldn't reach him. Where Aurean couldn't reach him.
But the scent from the dream still clung to him—his skin remembering what his mind tried to forget.
The sun had barely broken through the morning mist when the caravan took the mountain road.
Thin and winding, the path hugged the cliffs with treacherous arrogance, the kind that promised death with one wrong turn. Below, the ravine yawned wide, dark and deep, swallowing sound like an open mouth waiting to devour.
Rythe rode ahead, alert as always.
Calien trailed close behind on his dappled mare, dressed in polished riding leathers, making quiet conversation with one of the guards, laughter floating too easily for a mission meant to be discreet.
Rythe ignored him.
He kept his focus on the ridgeline above.
His instincts prickled.
A sharp whistle from the rocks above shattered the morning calm.
"Ambush!" Rythe shouted, sword drawn in one fluid motion.
Figures poured from the cliffs—bandits, assassins, mercenaries. It didn't matter which. They were fast, trained, and deadly. Dozens. Arrows rained down, followed by grappling ropes and flashes of steel.
"Defensive formation!" Rythe barked. "Protect the emissary!"
The guards closed ranks, shielding Calien. Rythe was already moving—cutting down the first attacker with brutal precision, twisting to deflect another blade aimed for his ribs.
They were outnumbered.
Badly.
The road offered little space to maneuver. The edge crumbled with every sharp motion. Horses screamed. One rider fell to his death below.
Blood, stone, sweat, chaos.
In the din, Calien called for Rythe—but Rythe couldn't afford to respond.
Instead, he fought like a man possessed, his sword finding flesh, his eyes never ceasing their scan for weak points and escape paths. But it wasn't enough. They were pinned. Trapped against the cliff.
And then—
A wolf's cry.
No—not a wolf. A memory.
A low, rumbling snarl in his mind.
Mael.
Varnak.
Aurean.
If he were here, he would've already known the terrain. Would've signaled the hounds. Would've slipped through the rocks and turned the flank before Rythe even gave the order.
Rythe could almost hear his voice—low, calm, guiding.
"Move now, before the next wave—"
Rythe cursed under his breath and broke formation, slicing his way toward a narrow outcrop above.
He grabbed one of the wounded guards, yanked him out of harm's way, then vaulted up a jutting rock for a better vantage. His instincts told him this was the control point—the place from which the enemy commander issued commands.
He was right.
A flash of silver. A blade to the throat. The enemy leader fell, gurgling.
With him gone, the attackers scattered like leaves in a storm.
The remnants fled. The quiet returned, broken only by pained groans and the smell of blood on dust.
Afterward, Rythe stood apart from the others, breathing hard.
His tunic was torn. His cheek bled.
Calien approached slowly, brushing off his cloak, eyes wide with adrenaline.
"That was… reckless. Impressive. But reckless."
Rythe didn't respond.
His thoughts were still far away, in another forest, beside another fire.
With Aurean.
Would Aurean have stayed quiet if Rythe had been struck?
Would he have walked away again, lips sealed, dignity wrapped like armor around bruises no one saw?
Or would he have knelt at his side, silent and devoted like he always did, offering water and bandages, never asking for thanks?
Rythe closed his eyes briefly.
And hated how much he missed him.
The courtyard was bathed in pale morning light, filtered through the lattice of climbing vines that clung to the southern wall. Servants moved with quiet purpose, sweeping fallen petals, tending to the small fountain that burbled with practiced calm.
Aurean sat alone in the corner of the herb garden, the basket at his feet only half-filled with lavender and rosemary sprigs. He had meant to finish his task and return to the kitchens. He had meant to stay invisible.
But something had shifted.
He looked up, his fingers pausing on a stem he hadn't cut.
The birds had gone silent.
A breeze stirred through the garden, cool despite the sun, carrying with it the scent of smoke that wasn't there. Not woodsmoke. Blood.
Aurean stood slowly, his chest tightening.
There was no call, no messenger galloping through the palace gates with urgent news.
No wounded soldier stumbling into the infirmary.
No reason.
And yet he knew.
He could feel it like a thread pulled taut across his ribs. A trembling in the air, like the earth had flinched.
Rythe.
His hands curled into fists at his sides.
He shook the thought off and bent again to gather the remaining herbs, but his fingers trembled slightly, and he dropped the shears. They clattered against the stone path, louder than they should have.
A passing maid glanced at him. He offered no explanation, only picked up the shears and left the garden in silence.
Back in his chambers, he moved mechanically—folding linens, tending to armor that was no longer warm from Rythe's touch, straightening the scrolls Rythe had left behind in haste before the journey.
The scent of him lingered in the room.
That only made the feeling worse.
Aurean sank onto the edge of the bed and pressed a hand over his heart.
There was no logic to it. No reason.
But something had happened.
And Rythe was at the center of it.
He exhaled through his nose, steadying himself. Then stood and lit the oil lamp by the door despite it being midday.
A quiet act. A small light.
For the one who wasn't there.