Aurean sat on Rythe's bed long after he had gone, the faint trace of his scent still lingering in the room, mingling with the memory of his broken voice. His mind was a storm—memories he had tried to bury clawed their way up, mixing with the image of Rythe's scarred hands, the tremor in his voice, the way he had fled as if Aurean's presence was a punishment in itself.
It would have been easier to cling to anger. To tell himself Rythe deserved the weight he carried, deserved every haunted night, every shiver of guilt. But Aurean's heart… it betrayed him.
He rose and crossed to the couch where Rythe had been sitting earlier. The papers he had been working on lay abandoned, one corner slightly crumpled from his grip. Aurean ran his fingers over the spot, as though he could still feel the echo of the man's warmth.
The ache in his chest grew heavier.
He thought about leaving—slipping away before Rythe returned—but something in him refused. It wasn't pity. It wasn't forgiveness. It was something far more dangerous: the realization that he still couldn't ignore Rythe's pain, no matter how deep the wounds between them ran.
By the time Rythe returned, well past midnight, Aurean was still there—sitting in the dim candlelight, eyes fixed on the door.
Rythe stopped at the threshold when he saw him.
For a long moment, neither moved. The only sound was the faint crackle of the candle burning low beside Aurean, its light painting his face in shifting gold and shadow.
"You're still here," Rythe said quietly, as if the words might disturb the fragile stillness between them.
"I couldn't leave," Aurean replied, his voice low, almost reluctant.
Rythe's eyes lowered, guilt pressing his shoulders down. "You should have. I don't deserve—"
"Don't," Aurean cut in, sharper than he intended. "Don't tell me what I should or shouldn't feel. You think I came here out of pity? That I stayed because I feel sorry for you?"
Rythe's gaze flickered up, raw and unguarded. "Then why?"
Aurean swallowed hard, feeling that dangerous truth swell in his chest. "Because I don't like seeing you like this. And I hate that I still care."
Rythe's breath caught, his jaw tightening as if to keep his emotions from spilling. He took a tentative step closer, then stopped, as though afraid the distance between them was the only thing keeping him from falling apart.
"I meant what I said earlier," Rythe murmured. "I'll stay out of your life if that's what you want."
Aurean's eyes didn't waver. "And I meant what I'm saying now—I'm not ready to decide that. Not yet."
The air between them felt heavier than any battlefield they'd stood on.
Rythe nodded once, slowly, almost in surrender. Without another word, he moved to the couch across from Aurean and sat—not close, not touching, but near enough that the candlelight could reach them both.
And for the rest of the night, neither spoke. They simply sat, two men caught between the ruins of the past and the pull of something neither dared name.
Aurean woke to the pale wash of dawn spilling into the room.
For a moment, he thought he was alone—until he noticed the shape slouched in the armchair near the window.
Rythe was half-asleep, head tilted back, one arm draped over the armrest, the other hanging limp at his side. The light caught on the lines of his face, softening the hard angles that battle and grief had carved into him.
Aurean's gaze drifted lower—and stilled.
The loose collar of Rythe's tunic had fallen open in his sleep, revealing the jagged edges of old scars. Thin white lines, puckered burns, deep ridges—stories carved into flesh, each one screaming of wounds survived, not healed.
Some were new. Fresh enough to still be raw.
Aurean's throat tightened. He remembered the one from last night, the sharp red cut he'd glimpsed when Rythe moved too quickly. Now, in the daylight, it was worse—angry and unhealed, as though Rythe had never given it time to close.
Without meaning to, Aurean took a step closer.
Rythe stirred, his eyes blinking open to meet Aurean's. For a heartbeat, they just looked at each other—Aurean unable to hide the concern in his expression, Rythe caught between shame and the instinct to turn away.
"You should get that treated," Aurean said quietly.
Rythe gave a faint, humorless smile. "I've had worse."
"That's not the point."
Something flickered in Rythe's gaze—something that looked dangerously close to gratitude—but he didn't answer. Instead, he sat up straighter, adjusting his tunic as if covering the marks would erase the moment.
"Breakfast should be ready by now," he said, his voice carefully neutral. "I'll bring it to you."
And just like that, he was moving toward the door, retreating before Aurean could decide whether to stop him.
After breakfast, Aurean returned to his estate.
Thankfully, no one suspected anything—or at least, no one voiced it. There were no curious stares, no hushed whispers. It helped that both last night's supper and this morning's breakfast had been brought to him directly by Rythe himself.
Rythe hated people lingering in his bedchamber, even more so strangers or attendants. No one dared intrude, and Aurean suspected that was as much for Rythe's comfort as it was to shield him from idle court gossip.
Once home, Aurean dismissed his attendants and retreated to his bath. Warm water filled the marble tub, scented faintly with crushed herbs. He sank into it slowly, letting the heat wrap around him, as though it could wash away the heaviness lodged in his chest.
The steam curled around him, blurring the edges of the room, but it couldn't blur the images burned into his mind—Rythe's voice breaking under the weight of guilt, the haunted look in his eyes, the scars, the fresh wounds.
Aurean closed his eyes and leaned back, allowing himself to float in the warmth. Yet no matter how he tried to surrender to it, the tide of emotions from the night before rose again—pain, confusion, pity, and something else he dared not name.