The door had long since closed behind Aurean.
And still, Rythe remained on the floor.
The tears had stopped falling some time ago. Not because the pain had passed, but because something inside him had given out—gone still, like a song abruptly ending mid-note.
Aurean's words circled him like ghosts.
"I hate you."
"I'll never forgive you."
"No one will ever love you."
He repeated them silently, over and over, until the sounds in his mind became dull echoes—until even the hurt began to feel distant. Detached.
The fire had gone out, and the cold crept in unnoticed.
He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so hollow.
Not even in war.
Not even in the aftermath of the betrayal.
Because even then, he had Aurean—his memory, his scent, the feeling of him breathing beside him. He had the hope, however faint, that one day they might stand in the same place again. That there might be something left to salvage.
But now?
Now he had nothing.
Not even hope.
He didn't know how long he sat there on the cold marble floor, hunched over with his back against the wall, his arms limp at his sides. The darkness outside slowly lightened, and faint golden rays began to creep in through the window, painting long shadows on the wall.
It was nearly morning when she appeared.
A soft shimmer in the air, and then—Seris, cloaked in her usual calm.
Her presence didn't startle him. Nothing could, anymore.
"I've found something," she said quietly, kneeling before him. "Another primordial artifact. Like the Orb."
He didn't move at first. Didn't speak.
But then, slowly, with effort, Rythe rose to his feet.
His limbs ached from sitting so long, his heart felt like it had been put through a thousand battles in a single night—but he stood.
Said nothing.
And walked to the small desk in the corner.
He sat, picked up a quill with steady hands that didn't match the storm inside him, and wrote a short note in his sharp, familiar script:
Lareth,
There's something I must see to. I'll be gone for a while.
Everything is fine. Do not worry.
—Rythe
He folded it, sealed it, and left it on the desk.
Then he moved to the far side of the room, where a lockbox lay hidden beneath a loose stone. From it, he retrieved the Soulsteel blade, wrapped in ancient cloth. His hands lingered on it, not in reverence, but in quiet resignation.
He turned back to Seris.
"I'm ready," he said simply.
No anger. No questions.
Just that.
Seris gave him a long, unreadable look, then stepped forward and placed a hand on his arm.
In a whisper of magic and wind, they vanished into the veil of realms.
And the room was silent once more.
Empty.
Just like the man who had left it.
For days after that night, Aurean tried to forget.
Tried to drown himself in the duties he'd taken on, in the carefully managed chaos of empire work, and in the calming routine of the tea garden where Astrid often waited with a warm smile and endless questions about Virelia.
But even in laughter, he couldn't stop thinking about Rythe.
The image of him on his knees.
The rawness in his eyes, the way his voice trembled when he said "You should have killed me."
It haunted Aurean in quiet moments. And no matter how much he reminded himself that he hated Rythe, that Rythe deserved everything and more, the guilt kept creeping in like a poison he couldn't purge.
He hadn't meant to say all those things.
Not like that.
Not while Rythe was on the floor, silent, broken.
It had shaken him, more than he admitted to anyone.
And so when two days turned to five, and five became two weeks, and Rythe still hadn't been seen anywhere in the palace, Aurean's unease began to take shape.
At first, he'd assumed Rythe was avoiding him again.
But after the tenth excuse from Lareth and the fifth time palace staff whispered that "The prince is in council" or "He's training" when there were no such sessions—he knew something was wrong.
On the fourteenth day, Aurean returned to the wing Rythe stayed in—not hidden this time, but with purpose.
He walked the familiar corridor and knocked softly. No answer.
He waited. Knocked again.
Silence.
So he pushed open the door.
The room was quiet. Too quiet.
No warmth from the hearth.
No trace of armor, weapons, or clothing strewn in his usual careless way.
Aurean stepped inside, heart thudding against his chest. Then he noticed it—a note on the desk, sealed with Rythe's personal insignia.
It was addressed to Lareth.
Aurean hesitated only a second before picking it up.
The words were brief. Unemotional.
"There's something I must see to. I'll be gone for a while.
Everything is fine. Do not worry."
—Rythe
That was it.
No explanation. No location. No goodbye.
A coldness settled into Aurean's chest as he folded the note and stared around the room again. The bed hadn't been slept in. The air was stale.
He didn't just leave the room.
He left Ardan.
Aurean's throat tightened, and he slowly sat on the edge of the bed—his body moving before his mind caught up.
He's gone.
He should have been glad. Maybe even relieved.
But instead, he felt something crack inside him.
The last words Rythe had said before he left came crashing back like a final blow:
"You should have killed me that night."
Aurean pressed a hand to his chest, breath caught, eyes burning.
Why didn't I?
Because deep down, despite it all—he never truly wanted Rythe dead.
And now he was gone.
Aurean had told himself he wanted Rythe to suffer.
But he hadn't expected it to feel like this.
Like a hollow victory that left a bigger wound behind.
Like loss.
And for the first time in years, Aurean cried.