Moonlight spilled into Rythe's chambers, casting silver shadows across the marble floor. The prince stood by the tall arched window, clad in black, his shoulders tense as he gazed into the darkened gardens below.
Then it came—the subtle shift in the air. A scent—familiar, sharp, intoxicating—rolled in like a memory.
"How did you get past my guards?" Rythe asked quietly, his voice barely more than a whisper. He didn't need to turn. He already knew.
Aurean's pheromones had hit him like a ghost of another life.
"I have my ways," came Aurean's calm voice behind him. "Besides… I tried to kill you once in this very room. Remember?"
A beat.
Rythe turned slowly.
And stopped breathing.
It had been three years since he'd seen Aurean. Three long years since that broken, bleeding figure had vanished from Ardan, taking with him every last echo of mercy Rythe believed he had buried. But the man standing before him now was… transformed.
Hair black as the void flowed down his shoulders, shimmering as it caught the light. His silver eyes, once dulled by grief, now gleamed with unflinching confidence. His skin was unmarred—no scars, no bruises, no remnants of the torment he'd endured.
Aurean looked like power incarnate.
And Rythe—he felt like a beast in the presence of something divine.
"You've been avoiding me, Prince," Aurean said coldly.
Rythe didn't deny it. He only watched, as if trying to memorize a vision he was not worthy of seeing.
Aurean took a step forward, arms loosely folded.
"I even got an apology from your family," he continued, his voice measured. "But you, Rythe… you're the one I've been trying to see since I came back. Yet, every door I knock, it's one excuse after another."
Rythe's throat tightened. His eyes flicked over Aurean again—alive, healthy, fierce. A far cry from the broken shell he'd left behind.
A bittersweet ache twisted in his chest.
"I thought… seeing me might bring back memories of everything I put you through," Rythe said at last, voice thick. "And I didn't want you to relive that pain."
A sharp laugh left Aurean's lips. Cold. Bitter.
"You don't want me to go through pain? That's rich… coming from you, Prince."
Rythe dropped his gaze.
"I'm sorry, Aurean," he said, softly at first, then firmer. "I know no apology will ever be enough, but I am. I am truly sorry."
And then—to Aurean's shock—Rythe sank to his knees.
No pride. No defense. Just raw, undiluted remorse in his eyes.
Aurean froze.
The sight brought a storm surging in his chest—confusion, fury, disbelief. A part of him wanted to tell Rythe to get up. But that part was drowned by a flood of everything else: the pain, the betrayal, the humiliation, the loss.
And before he could stop himself, it all came spilling out.
"I hate you," Aurean snapped, his voice trembling with suppressed rage. "I hate what you did to me. I hate that you broke me. I hate that you made me carry your child only to watch it be killed before it even drew breath!"
Rythe's jaw clenched, but he stayed kneeling, head bowed.
"You stole everything from me. And I want you to feel that emptiness a thousand times over. I have someone now. A lover. Someone who sees me—who loves me. And he is ten times the man you ever were."
Rythe still said nothing.
Aurean's voice cracked. "I will never forgive you. Never. You don't deserve it."
He turned to go.
At the door, he paused and glanced back with frost in his eyes.
"Rhaellis asked me to tell you… the omega blades will arrive with the shipment. That's why I've been looking for you. That was the message."
He took one last look at Rythe, still on his knees.
"No one will ever love you," he whispered bitterly.
Then he turned—
"You should've killed me that night," Rythe said, so quietly it almost wasn't heard. "When you had the chance."
Aurean froze. His fingers curled into fists. His back rose and fell once.
But he didn't turn around.
And without another word, he disappeared into the night.
He didn't see the tears.
He didn't see Rythe, still kneeling, weeping in silence—the moonlight catching the drops as they slid down his face, like penance from a soul already damned.
The night air outside Rythe's wing was crisp and still, but inside Aurean, there was a storm.
He walked quickly down the corridor, his footsteps echoing too loud against the stone. His heart was hammering, throat tight, lungs burning—not from the climb, not from the walk, but from the sharp ache in his chest.
He made it back to his estate and into his room.
He closed the door.
Locked it.
Then stood there. Frozen.
He wasn't sure how long he stayed that way—back pressed to the cool wood, staring at nothing. His fists trembled at his sides, unclenching and curling again, over and over like they couldn't decide what to hold on to—anger or grief.
"Why did I go?" he whispered to himself.
He should've left things the way they were. He had said everything, hadn't he? Told Rythe he hated him. Told him he'd never forgive him. Told him he had someone else even though there is no one. Told him what he deserved.
So why did it feel like none of it was enough?
He let out a harsh breath and paced to the window, yanking it open. The wind rushed in, tousling his dark hair. He leaned out, pressing his palms to the windowsill, looking out into the night sky that mocked him with its calm indifference.
"He was kneeling..."
The words slipped out again—broken, almost in disbelief.
"He was kneeling. Rythe. The warrior prince. On his knees."
He closed his eyes. But the image wouldn't go away. That look in Rythe's eyes. The voice stripped of armor. The silence he held, taking everything Aurean threw at him and never once defending himself.
It made it worse. So much worse.
Because he had wanted to hate him. Needed to. It was the only thing keeping his heart from splitting wide open.
But now… he couldn't stop shaking.
He stumbled to the edge of the bed and sat down, burying his face in his hands.
He should feel satisfied, shouldn't he?
He finally got to say everything he'd carried for three years. Everything that twisted and chewed through his soul every time he dreamed of blood and chains and soft words that turned to knives.
But all he felt was tired.
So, so tired.
Tears stung his eyes, and he hated them for coming.
"You should've killed me," Rythe had said.
It rang again and again in his ears. Soft. Hollow. Like a confession given at the gallows.
And for a split second—just a second—he had wanted to go back into that room. Just to hold his face in his hands and scream at him until he wept harder. Or kissed him. Or hit him.
But he didn't.
Because he didn't trust himself anymore.
He lay back on the bed, arms sprawled, eyes to the ceiling.
The tears slid silently now, streaking down either side of his face. Unchecked. Unspoken.
And he whispered into the dark:
"I still loved you. Gods help me, I did. And I hate myself for it."
The room said nothing.
The night remained cold.
But somewhere, deep inside, the walls he had built began to crack. Just a little.
Just enough for the pain to start bleeding through again.