The torches hissed as they lit the stairwell, flames dancing against walls slick with age and neglect.
Rythe moved like a storm held in check—every step rigid, his jaw clenched so tight it ached. Lareth walked silently beside him, his own torch casting grim shadows on the stone as they descended into the bowels of the palace—a place meant for forgotten prisoners, traitors, and ghosts.
And now… Aurean.
The door to the cell groaned as Lareth forced it open.
The stench hit them first—old blood, damp earth, and something acrid, wrong.
Then they saw him.
Aurean, curled near the far corner of the cell, barely recognizable beneath blood-matted hair and torn garments. Shackles dangled uselessly from one wrist where he'd clearly fought to break free. His skin was fever-pale, and his breath came in shallow, wheezing bursts. Blood pooled beneath him, soaking into the stone.
"Gods," Lareth whispered, his voice cracking.
"Aurean," Rythe breathed, crossing the cell in two strides and falling to his knees beside him. He reached out, fingers trembling for the first time in years. "Aurean—look at me."
Aurean stirred.
He opened his eyes slowly, as if from a dream—or a nightmare—and focused on Rythe's face. Then… he smiled faintly.
"You… came," he whispered.
"I'm here. I'm here now," Rythe said. "Lareth, get a physician—"
"No."
The word was soft but firm. Aurean pushed himself up slightly, flinching in agony, and reached out a trembling hand to Rythe's tunic.
"Don't send for anyone."
"You're bleeding—"
"I know," Aurean interrupted, swallowing hard. "I… I'm miscarrying."
Rythe froze.
"What?"
"I was pregnant," Aurean whispered, the words barely audible. "From… from that night. From your rut. I didn't realize it until it was too late. The pain, the sickness… the bleeding—it's not from their torture, or not only. I'm losing it. I've already lost it."
Lareth staggered back in silent shock, his face paling.
Rythe's world tilted.
A child.
His child.
Dying beneath him in a pool of blood.
"I'm so sorry," Aurean continued, his voice cracking with guilt and exhaustion. "I should have… taken precautions. I never meant to trap you or shame you. I didn't even know until it was already…" He winced, pain blooming across his face. "Please. Don't call the physician. If word spreads… they'll ask questions. They'll use it against you. I won't let them."
"You're not… a weapon," Rythe said hoarsely, trying to steady his voice. "You're not something to be used."
"I am, Rythe," Aurean whispered, leaning his bloodied forehead against Rythe's shoulder. "That's all I've ever been. Let this pass quietly. Please. Don't let them see me like this."
Rythe didn't speak.
He couldn't.
His arms wrapped around Aurean wordlessly, one hand pressing against the omega's torn back, the other resting—gently, helplessly—over the place where a life once began.
The silence wrapped around them like mourning.
Lareth stepped out into the hallway, his face tight with fury and grief.
And down in the shadows of the palace, a secret bled into stone—forgotten by the world above, remembered only by the broken few who bore its cost.
The bathwater steamed gently in the silver basin, its surface barely rippling under the flicker of lanternlight. The chamber Rythe had brought Aurean to was a forgotten room in the lower wing—once a healer's quarters, now kept sealed and unused.
He had carried Aurean here himself, cloaking him under a travel cape and moving with swift, silent steps. Lareth had cleared the way. No one had seen them.
And now, Rythe knelt by the basin, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hands trembling as he dipped a soft cloth into the warm water and wrung it out.
Aurean lay on a cot beside him, barely conscious, his body too weak to protest the movement, the touch. His skin was a map of bruises and blood, the worst of it hidden between his thighs—where the miscarriage had torn through him in silence and pain.
Rythe swallowed hard and reached for him again.
He worked slowly, gently, wiping away blood, cleaning torn skin. Every time Aurean flinched or let out a quiet whimper, Rythe's jaw clenched. His heart pounded so violently in his chest he thought it would shake apart.
"I should have known," Rythe muttered under his breath as he rinsed another bloodstained cloth. "I should've felt something was wrong. I shouldn't have left you behind."
Aurean's lips parted, but no sound came. His eyes fluttered open for a moment, dazed and glassy.
"You're safe now," Rythe whispered, brushing hair away from Aurean's face with a tenderness he had never allowed himself to show. "They won't touch you again. I swear it."
He cleaned the wounds carefully—burns from restraints, darkened bruises around his ribs, and long lashes from whips that had broken the skin. And yet, what haunted Rythe most was the faint trace of blood still trickling from between Aurean's legs, proof of a life he hadn't known existed… and would never meet.
He placed clean linens beneath Aurean's hips, gently tending to the raw, battered flesh, wincing when Aurean sucked in a breath of pain.
"I'm sorry," Rythe whispered, throat raw.
But Aurean only shook his head weakly.
"No. Not… your fault."
The words barely came out. Rythe bowed his head beside the cot, pressing his forehead lightly to Aurean's arm.
"I didn't protect you," Rythe said, voice thick with shame. "I let them do this. I thought keeping my distance would keep you safe, but it only made you vulnerable."
Aurean's hand, weak and trembling, rose to brush against his hair.
"You came for me."
Rythe lifted his gaze slowly. Their eyes met—just for a moment—and in that quiet, in the flicker of torchlight and the scent of blood and water, Rythe saw something raw and aching in Aurean's face.
Not accusation.
Not bitterness.
Just pain… and loyalty.
"Sleep," Rythe murmured, adjusting the furs over him, checking the fever on his brow. "Rest now. I'll be here."
Aurean's eyes closed.
And Rythe stayed there—silent, watchful—guarding what was left of the fragile life that had clung, stubborn and quiet, through so much ruin.
In the quiet room, the hounds Mael and Varnak lay curled just outside the door, unmoving. As if they too understood.
The tower study was silent but for the low crackle of the fire and the slow grind of Rythe's clenched jaw.
He stood by the tall, narrow windows, the early grey of morning pressing against the panes. One hand rested on the ledge, tight and pale, while the other held a goblet of untouched wine.
He hadn't slept.
Aurean was stable. Lareth watched over him now, and the hounds lay curled on either side of the cot like twin sentinels. The boy hadn't stirred much through the night. But the fever had broken. He would live.
But at what cost?
Rythe exhaled sharply, forcing down the sick twist in his stomach.
They had tortured him. Shackled him in a cell like some criminal. They had taken a vulnerable, pregnant omega and bled him under torchlight—under orders. And all of it while Rythe was across the border with Calien, arguing diplomacy while the most loyal soul he knew was bleeding and alone.
He hadn't known Aurean was pregnant. Hadn't thought he could be. And yet… part of him had known. Or feared it.
Part of him had ignored it on purpose.
He tipped the goblet to his lips but didn't drink. The taste of wine would choke him.
He thought of Aurean's voice, rasped and apologetic, "I should have taken precautions." As if the crime of conception was his. As if the death of that tiny, nameless life was his burden to carry alone.
And he had apologized to Rythe. Still bowed his head. Still looked at him with those eyes full of quiet, unshakable faith, even as blood pooled beneath him.
Rythe let out a low, guttural sound—half curse, half choked breath—and slammed the goblet onto the table. The metal rang and tipped, spilling wine across the surface.
He braced both hands on the edge, leaning over the mess.
This wasn't supposed to happen.
Aurean was meant to be his burden, his mistake—something to atone for, not something to feel. He had kept the boy at arm's length precisely so this wouldn't happen. So he wouldn't care. So his hands wouldn't shake when he thought of the pain carved into that too-slender frame.
But now…
Now there was a baby that would never be. A child he hadn't known he could want until the loss of it burned through him like ice.
And Aurean.
The way he had flinched under touch. The way he had curled toward Rythe's hands, even after everything. The way he'd whispered, "You came for me."
Rythe turned his face from the fire, pressing his knuckles to his mouth.
What was he supposed to do with this? What was he allowed to feel?
He was a prince.
A commander.
An alpha with duties etched into his very blood.
And Aurean… was a ruined thing. A political target. A scandal waiting to be exploited. A reminder of the one moment Rythe had lost control.
But he was also—somehow—the only thing that made Rythe feel like himself in months.
The fire popped behind him. His knuckles turned white.
He didn't know what scared him more—the way Aurean looked at him.
Or the way he was starting to look back.
The morning light was dim and golden through the drawn curtains of Rythe's private healing room — a place rarely used until last night.
Aurean blinked awake slowly, the ache in his body like heavy chains woven into his skin. He shifted slightly, and the movement drew an immediate voice.
"Easy."
Lareth, seated at the edge of the room, rose and moved closer with careful steps. "You're safe."
Aurean turned his head, wincing a little, but offered him a soft, exhausted smile. "Thank you… for finding me."
Before Lareth could respond, another figure emerged from the shadows of the corner, cloaked in silence and guilt. Rythe.
He said nothing at first, only watching him, jaw tight, eyes hollowed from sleeplessness. It was Rythe who had tended to him, Aurean could feel it — in the way his bandages were set, in the quiet that weighed between them.
"I'm sorry," Aurean whispered, voice hoarse.
"Stop," Rythe said quickly. Too quickly.
Aurean's eyes flickered, and for a moment, neither moved.
"I owe you my life," Aurean said, looking now to Lareth, then slowly back to Rythe. "And you both have it. Whatever is left of it."
"You'll heal," Lareth said quietly.
"Yes," Aurean nodded. "But… I fear there is something else I must say before either of you act."
He tried to sit up; Rythe was at his side in a blink, hands on his shoulders, steadying without pressure. "Don't. You're not ready to—"
"I must." Aurean's eyes were steady now, clear and raw with truth. "Please… don't confront the emperor or Prince Kael."
Rythe's expression shuttered, storm rising behind his gaze.
"I know it was them," Aurean continued. "I am not foolish. The timing, the secrecy, the guards who refused to speak. They want you to react. That's the point of this."
"You think I care about their trap?" Rythe growled, too low and harsh for the room. "They nearly killed you. Our—"
He stopped himself, breathing in sharply.
Aurean's gaze softened. "Yes. I know. And that's why you must not give them the satisfaction."
Lareth stood silent by the wall, eyes flicking between them.
"If you storm into the court, if you accuse them or lash out, they win. They want to provoke you. Make you seem unstable, too compromised to lead."
Rythe didn't speak. His jaw worked, and his hand flexed once at his side.
"If they think you don't care," Aurean whispered, "they'll let me go. They'll think I am of no value to you. That I failed as a pawn. And they'll move on."
There was silence then — thick and cold, stretched between three men and all that couldn't be said aloud.
"I won't be your weakness, Rythe," Aurean finished, his voice thin but certain. "So don't let them think I am."
Rythe finally met his eyes fully. There was something ragged there — a fury buried deep, and something far more dangerous beneath it. The tension of love unspoken. Of loss too sharp to name.
He reached forward and adjusted the edge of Aurean's blanket, tucking it higher, hiding the trembling in his hands.
"You should rest," he said.
Aurean leaned back without arguing.
As he drifted off again, Rythe stood and moved to the doorway. Lareth followed but glanced back once.
"What will you do?" he asked in a low voice.
Rythe's answer was quiet and hard as iron.
"Whatever they don't expect."