The room was small.
Spartan. Clean. A narrow bed, a chest for linens, a washbasin, and a single window that overlooked the inner courtyard—where light never quite reached.
It was the closest chamber to Rythe's own, but still a servant's room. A step removed from the warmth of royal favor. Not a punishment, not an elevation—just... proximity.
When Rythe carried Aurean in, he said nothing. He laid him gently on the bed and pulled the blanket over his frame, careful not to jostle the bandages he'd wrapped himself.
He stood there for a moment longer, looking down at the omega he had once sworn to break—and somehow ended up breaking with.
Then he turned, walked out, and closed the door behind him.
The lock didn't click.
Aurean resumed his duties three days later.
He moved through Rythe's quarters like a ghost. Precise. Silent. Impeccable.
But hollow.
He scrubbed armor that no longer bore blood. Folded tunics without a wrinkle. Attended to meals he barely touched. Brushed Rythe's hair before council sessions, his fingers steady—but cold.
He didn't speak unless spoken to. Didn't flinch. Didn't cry.
But the light that had once flickered faintly in him—the spark that had endured beatings, insults, chains and heat—had dulled to ash.
Rythe noticed it immediately.
He didn't speak of it, but Lareth did.
"You see it too," the guard said one morning as they trained in the yard, watching Aurean quietly bring out their water.
Rythe didn't answer.
"He's going through the motions," Lareth continued. "But it's like his soul's taken leave of him."
"He's recovering," Rythe said, jaw tight.
"No." Lareth turned toward him fully. "He's grieving."
Rythe's breath caught. He looked away.
The death of a child they'd never had the chance to hold. The betrayal of a father who called him nothing. The constant shame, the slurs, the poison in every glance from courtiers who still saw him as a traitor's pet.
And the man who once made him feel safe now said nothing at all.
That evening, Rythe stood outside Aurean's room.
He didn't knock.
He just stood there for several minutes, listening. Hoping to hear movement, a sigh, something alive.
But there was nothing.
The flame beside his room had gone dim.
And Rythe, for all his strength, could not bear to open the door.
The servant room was quiet.
Too quiet.
No clinking of armor. No voices in the adjoining chambers. No hounds outside the door. Just the whisper of the wind through a narrow window and the soft creak of wooden beams, like a body remembering pain.
Aurean sat on the edge of the bed, knees drawn up, arms wrapped tightly around them.
The linens he had folded earlier were still perfectly placed.
The pitcher of water Lareth had left remained untouched.
The room was pristine.
And he hated it.
Not for the simplicity. But because it didn't match the storm in his chest.
He had lasted through chains and cold, through lashes and jeers, through heat and hunger and the hollow ache of a body that once carried something now gone.
But this quiet?
This was worse.
It made him feel unseen.
Not hated. Not wanted. Just… forgotten.
He stood, walked to the washbasin. Poured water from the pitcher.
His reflection shimmered on the surface—pale, gaunt, sunken eyes and cracked lips. A ghost of a man who once stood proud at court. A shadow of the boy his grandparents had once dared to call heir.
He clenched the rim of the basin.
And then—
He slammed it with his fist.
The basin cracked with a sharp snap. Water sloshed onto the floor, onto his sleeves, over his bare feet.
His breath came in short, sharp gasps.
A sob wrenched from him, sudden and violent—like a knife pulled from a wound too old to bleed but too deep to close.
He covered his mouth with one hand, but it didn't stop the sound.
More sobs followed. Choking. Dry. Painful.
His knees gave out.
He sank to the floor beside the spilled water, arms wrapped around himself, shaking as months of silence finally screamed through the cracks.
He cried for the child he'd never know.
For the father who sold him.
For the prince who kissed him, used him, then locked him away without a word.
For the boy who was once meant to lead an estate, now reduced to a servant kneeling outside someone else's chamber.
He pressed his forehead to the cold stone floor.
"I'm tired," he whispered.
To no one.
To the walls.
To the ghosts.
"I'm so tired."
He didn't hear the door open.
But it did.
Silently.
Softly.
A pair of boots stepped into the room—worn, familiar, deliberate.
But the scene in front of them stilled their wearer completely.
Aurean did not lift his head.
He didn't have to.
He knew.
Even without scent. Without sound.
He knew Rythe had come.
But he said nothing.
And neither did Rythe.
Rythe stood in the doorway, unmoving.
The air was thick with the remnants of grief—salt, broken sobs, a cracked basin and spilled water across stone. But it was Aurean who drew his eyes and held them. Curled against the floor, trembling, silent now. Worn through. A blade dulled by too many battles, left to rust alone.
Rythe didn't speak.
He didn't call his name or ask him to rise.
He stepped inside the room, the door shutting softly behind him, and crossed the floor in slow, even strides.
Boots splashed lightly through the water.
Aurean flinched.
But Rythe only knelt.
Not beside him—not yet—but a short distance away. Close enough to be felt. Far enough to not crowd.
His gloved hands rested on his knees.
His sword was still strapped to his hip.
He didn't move to touch Aurean. He didn't know how.
But he didn't leave either.
The room held its breath.
For several minutes, there was no sound but the soft hitching in Aurean's throat, the last of the storm trying to quiet.
Then, Rythe finally spoke—low, rough, like gravel grinding under steel.
"I didn't know you were hurting like this."
Aurean didn't respond. He kept his eyes to the ground.
Rythe watched him. Something in his face—so rarely unguarded—bent. Not with pity. Not even guilt.
But regret.
He shifted forward slowly, until he was close enough that Aurean could feel the warmth of his body—not touching, but present. A silent shield.
Aurean's breath caught.
"I failed you," Rythe murmured.
That made Aurean lift his head, just slightly—eyes rimmed red, expression unreadable. "Don't say that," he whispered hoarsely. "Not when I'm the one who—"
"You didn't put yourself in that dungeon."
The silence that followed said more than argument ever could.
Aurean looked away again.
But Rythe didn't rise.
He sat there, silent, still, like stone carved into a promise: I won't leave.
After what felt like an eternity, Aurean leaned just slightly—barely—and his shoulder brushed Rythe's knee.
It wasn't an embrace.
It wasn't forgiveness.
It was just… a breath.
A moment.
A flicker of something that might have once been trust, or pain, or memory.
Rythe's hand hovered in the air for a moment before slowly, cautiously, it came down.
Not on Aurean's shoulder.
But beside it.
On the cold, damp floor.
Their fingers didn't touch.
But neither moved away.