Still reeling from what had just happened, Calien strode toward them, his steps deliberate but his voice low, almost a whisper.
"I know we've all had our… differences," he began, eyes sweeping over each face. "And I know you siblings are still furious at me for the way things turned out between Rythe and me. But you all have to admit—at the end of the day, I would never hurt him." His jaw tightened. "I know you don't trust me. I know some in my family defected. But look at me—here I am, in here with you. After touching the soul blade, no less. Surely that proves I don't mean harm to the empire. All I'm asking is for someone to tell me what's going on."
"How do you know my blade is a soul blade?" Aurean's voice cut through the chamber, cold and sharp.
Calien's gaze slid to him, irritation flickering in his eyes. "You do know I'm an emissary of this kingdom, yes? I've seen more than you think. I've stood beside Rythe on the battlefield. I am not innocent—nor am I ignorant."
"We thank you for your concern, Calien," Astrid began, her tone polite but edged. "But we are at war. And that's all you need to know."
Calien gave a short, bitter laugh, the sound devoid of warmth. "So… I can't be in your so-called inner circle, but the man who once tried to kill your brother—a prince of Ardan—is welcomed as one of you?"
"Calien." Maleus' voice was sharp enough to still the air. "I think you should leave."
Calien gave a mocking little bow, the ghost of a smile on his lips, then turned on his heel. They watched him cross the chamber and drop into a chair beside Tallen.
"What are they doing together?" Vaela muttered, her brow furrowing. Then her lips curled into a sly smirk. "Are they about to form a club named Rythe's Exes?"
After Calien left, the air in the chamber seemed tighter, heavier. Everyone sat on edge, eyes flicking to the door every few moments, as if expecting it to splinter again. But for Aurean, the danger outside wasn't what gnawed at him.
It was Calien's words.
They replayed in his mind over and over, burrowing deep—the man who once tried to kill your brother…
For truly, he had tried to kill Rythe. And Rythe had never let him forget it. More than once, Rythe had told him—that he should have finished the job. Aurean had been so caught up in his own anger, his own hunger for revenge, that he had let himself forget the truth.
He had started this.
He knew he had always been a tool in his father's hands, and deep down, he had known that his father was using Prince Kael the same way Kael was using him. They both wanted Rythe out of their path. And still—still—he had taken the offer to kill the prince, knowing full well that striking down Rythe would plunge the empire into ruin.
He could have said no. He should have said no. But instead, he'd wanted to prove himself to a father who would never see him as anything more than a convenient weapon.
Yes, he had suffered. The loss of his unborn child had broken something in him, and Rythe's humiliation of him had been salt in an open wound. But the bitter truth—one that now burned like acid—was that all of this could have been avoided if he had simply turned down that mission.
This endless, vicious knot between him and Rythe… he had tied it himself. He had known of the plan to remove Rythe, to end his life, and he had set out to do it. And now, years later, Rythe was the one walking the edge of death—choosing it—because of the guilt of what he did to Aurean.
And Aurean… Aurean had been too busy hating him. Hurting him more. Even cursing him.
A sharp pain lanced through his chest, and he clutched at it, breath catching, as if the weight of that truth was something physical pressing down, pressing in.
They had stayed in the fort for three days—or perhaps longer. Time had lost all meaning. The constant dim light filtering through the narrow slits in the stone walls gave no clue of day or night, and fear blurred the edges of each passing hour.
Every day brought something new to keep their hearts in their throats: the mournful howl of something pacing just beyond the walls, the faint scrape of claws on stone, or a shriek so sharp it seemed to split the marrow in their bones. At times, an eerie, keening wail would rise from nowhere and everywhere at once, curling cold fingers down their spines until gooseflesh prickled across their skin.
No one laughed anymore. Conversation was scarce and quiet, words clipped and weighed, as if speaking too loudly might draw unwanted attention.
"This is madness," Rhalia whispered one evening as a long, piercing cry tore through the stillness.
"At least none of those things have tried to get in since the first one," Serin murmured.
Aurean sat apart, leaning against the wall, his gaze unfocused. Every cry outside, every sound that crept too close to the fort, pressed heavier against his chest. The unease that had been gnawing at him since Calien's words had not eased—it had only deepened.