The first thing Aurean noticed about Virelia was the color of the sky—vivid, endless, and kissed with gold as if the heavens themselves favored this land. Sunlight spilled generously over the capital, Aravale, where ivory spires and glass domes shimmered atop a landscape of lush gardens, vibrant markets, and elegant marble streets.
He was escorted by Mael and Varnak, who walked at his side like silent, loyal shadows. Unlike the cold steel and suspicion of the empire's capital, the air in Virelia smelled of jasmine and peace. For the first time in years, Aurean did not feel watched. He felt seen.
At the grand gates of the palace, he was received by a tall young man with delicate features and eyes like polished jet. The man wore robes of moon-silk and carried himself with easy confidence.
"You must be Aurean," the young man greeted, voice laced with warmth. "I am Prince Rhaelis, youngest son of His Majesty, Emperor Arcael Thorne. Welcome to Virelia."
Aurean bowed, unsure how deep a bow was appropriate.
Rhaelis chuckled gently and waved a hand. "None of that here. Rythe warned me you'd try to act like a servant."
Aurean blinked. "He… warned you?"
"He sent word ahead with very specific instructions," Rhaelis smiled. "We are to provide you with anything you desire—no restriction, no limit. His exact words were: 'Give him peace. Give him space. Give him whatever he wants.'"
Aurean felt something in his chest twist, but he said nothing.
They led him through vaulted halls filled with glowing crystal sconces and open windows overlooking floating gardens. The palace was a marvel—warm without ostentation, sacred without arrogance.
Soon, he stood in the heart of the Virelian court.
At the center of the chamber, seated on a throne of silverwood and star-forged stone, was Emperor Arcael—tall, broad-shouldered, his silver hair tied back, his golden eyes sharp with curiosity and amusement.
"So this is the infamous Aurean," the emperor said, rising to his feet. "You're quieter than I expected."
"Your Majesty," Aurean said with a respectful bow.
Arcael strode forward with a deep laugh. "You know, Rythe has been disturbing me for weeks about you. He wrote letters. Sent envoys. Even called in a favor I owe him from a battle six years ago."
Aurean looked startled. "A favor?"
Valien grinned. "He saved my life. Twice. And once, my daughter's. Never asked for repayment… until now. And do you know what he asked for?"
Aurean shook his head.
"Not a treaty. Not a favor. Not power or gold or alliance. He asked me to spoil you."
The emperor laughed again, the sound full of genuine mirth. "He didn't even bother disguising it as diplomacy. Just told me, and I quote, 'Give him freedom. Give him rest. He's earned both tenfold.'"
He placed a heavy hand on Aurean's shoulder, not as a monarch, but as someone who respected survival.
"So you're free here. No collars. No eyes watching. You belong only to yourself now."
Aurean was then taken to his quarters, though palace wing might have been more accurate.
The chambers stretched like an estate of their own: rooms filled with sunlight, tapestries of starlight silk, balconies that opened to private gardens and healing fountains. The bath alone was grand enough to host a banquet. Soft garments in Virelian tailoring were neatly laid out, far too fine for an emissary—these were robes fit for nobility.
"Rythe said you wouldn't know how to ask for comfort," said Prince Rhaelis, appearing once more with a wooden box in hand. "So he asked for you."
He opened the box, revealing a salve that shimmered with pale golden magic.
"Virelia is known for its healing arts. This salve—our best—is infused with elemental purity. It will erase scars, soothe pain, and restore the body. It's not just for the skin," Rhaelis added gently. "It helps the soul remember what it is to be whole."
He hesitated.
"Rythe told us… that you were injured. That you carry wounds you don't speak of. He didn't say more. He didn't need to."
Aurean took the box with both hands, throat tight. His fingers trembled slightly as they brushed the cool wood.
"He said to make sure you never feel broken again."
And with that, the prince left him alone in a sanctuary designed not to impress—but to heal.
Evening in Virelia fell like a soft sigh. The warm breeze drifted in through sheer curtains, scented faintly with lavender and sea salt. Aurean sat alone on the cushioned divan beside the garden-view window, the moonlight painting silver streaks across the marble floor.
The box had been tucked within his luggage, sealed with black wax bearing the royal sigil of House Damarion—Rythe's family crest. No one had mentioned it. Not the attendants. Not the prince. It had waited in silence, like a heartbeat under water, until Aurean found it beneath his robes.
His fingers trembled as he broke the seal.
Inside was a folded sheet of parchment—thick, expensive vellum. Rythe's handwriting, unmistakable, slanted and exact, filled the page.
Aurean,
By the time you read this, I hope the sunlight in Virelia has touched your skin and reminded you that life does not always have to bruise.
I could not say goodbye properly. Not because I did not want to—but because if I saw you, if I heard your voice again, I would have asked you to stay.
And I've done too much of that already. Taken your time, your silence, your dignity. I have stripped you of almost everything and still found ways to hold onto you, to keep you caged like a hound I refused to release.
But you are not a hound.
You are not a servant.
You are not mine.
What you are... is a storm I could not weather.
What you are... is the only person in my life I wanted to protect and failed.
In Virelia, you will find a chance to heal. They have no use for birth hierarchies or collars. They will see you as you are. Perhaps, in time, you will too.
Do not forgive me unless your soul finds peace in it. And if it never does... I will understand.
Live well. Live fully.
That is all I want now.
—Rythe
Aurean sat still long after the letter ended, eyes burning.
It wasn't the apology that undid him.
It was the restraint.
The quietness of it. The way Rythe had folded himself into the margins—not demanding affection, not claiming love, not even asking for hope. Just a wish: live well.
The letter shook in his hand as he folded it back carefully, pressing it to his chest.
And for the first time in years, the tears came not from pain—but release.