Chapter Text
The room did not feel empty.
That was the first thing Aerion noticed when his eyes opened.
The air itself seemed wrong, heavy with a cloying sweetness, thick with a warmth that pressed in on him, a sensation both unfamiliar and deeply, disturbingly intimate.
He did not move.
His gaze drifted to the canopy above, its patterns blurring in his vision.
Then his body caught up.
The ache came slowly. Deep. Spreading.
His fingers curled into the sheets. They were crumpled beneath him—not smooth, not ordered. Disturbed.
This was not rest. His jaw tightened. It did not yield.
He exhaled, slow and controlled. “No..” The word scraped out of him.
His eyes dropped. The sheets were tangled, twisted—used.
Wrong.
Aerion shut his eyes briefly, squeezing them tight against the onslaught of fragmented memories. Not whole recollections, not in any coherent sequence, but enough. Enough to paint a vivid, damning picture.
A corridor, dimly lit by the flickering sconces. A surge of fury, hot and consuming. A hand, impossibly large, impossibly rough, catching his wrist with an unyielding grip. A voice, low and insistent, devoid of mockery, devoid of fear, commanding an attention he had not intended to give.
And then, the heat. Gods, the all-encompassing, consuming heat that had risen within him, a tide he had fought against, then succumbed to with a shocking, desperate abandon.
Aerion inhaled sharply, and the scent hit him again, stronger now that he was fully aware, unmistakable in its musky sweetness, something that curled low in his chest and coiled tighter the longer he allowed himself to acknowledge its pervasive presence. It was the scent of rut, of spent passion, of a potent alpha, and it clung to him, to the bed, to the very air of the room, an undeniable testament to the night’s events.
“No,” he said again, more firmly.
The world tilted enough that his hand came out instinctively to steady himself against the polished bedpost, fingers tightening around the carved wood, his breath hitching once in irritation more than weakness, a sharp gasp of annoyance at his own body’s uncooperative state.
“I am not—”
He stopped.
The room answered him with absence.
His head turned. The other side of the bed—
Empty.
Cold.
Untouched.
Aerion stared at the pillow, too long.
Then his lips curved slightly—something sharp, something dangerous.
“He left.”
“That oaf dares,” he muttered, his voice a low growl, rising to his feet, his posture straightening out of sheer, ingrained habit, pride forcing structure where his body would have preferred something less rigid, something to ease the soreness that radiated from his hips and the tender ache between his thighs. “He dares to touch me, to take me all night long, to knot me with such primal ferocity that I screamed his name, and then vanish as though he has done me a kindness by departing before I woke.”
“You think yourself clever.”
A faint smile touched his lips—cold, humorless.
“You think you can leave.”
Silence answered, a mocking, empty echo that only served to fuel his rising fury.
Aerion’s expression hardened, his eyes narrowing to slits of dangerous violet. “You will not.”
The courtyard churned beneath the triangular walls of Ashford, all motion and muted urgency.
Orange banners hung from the round towers, stirring lazily in the late light.
Men moved. Horses stamped. Voices carried.
Aerion barely noticed it. He did not need to search long. There was only one man in Ashford large enough to stand out even among the throng of knights and soldiers, one man whose presence refused subtlety, whose sheer size and commanding posture made him impossible to ignore even when one very much wished to do so.
And beside him— Aerion’s lip curled faintly, a sneer of utter contempt. Of course. The boy. His younger brother, Aegon, stood near the horses, smaller and darker, speaking with an irritating kind of excitement,a sight that grated on Aerion’s nerves even on a normal day, let alone this one.
“Leaving already,” he muttered.
The words tore from him before he could stop it—
“Stupid oaf!”
Both of them turned simultaneously, their movements synchronized in a way that further infuriated Aerion, as if they were a unit, a pair, a bond he had no part in.
Aegon looked irritated.
Duncan—
Duncan hesitated.
That was enough.
Caught, almost guilty.
Good.
Duncan said something to him, then started forward. “Idiot,” the boy snapped, though it wasn’t entirely clear who the insult was meant for. Aerion, however, chose to assume it was directed at Duncan. It pleased him immensely to imagine his younger brother, usually so reverent of the brute, expressing such disdain.
Aerion straightened, lifting his chin, letting every inch of him settle back into the precise, regal shape of a prince, every fiber of his being radiating a dangerous, icy pride.
“Where,” he demanded the moment Duncan was within reach, his voice cutting cleanly through the space between them, sharp as Valyrian steel, “do you think you are going?”
Duncan stopped a step away, his massive frame looming over Aerion, casting him in shadow. He was close enough that Aerion could feel it again, that irritating, instinctive awareness, that powerful, animalistic recognition that his body seemed far too eager to remember, far too eager to react to. Aerion ignored it, forcing it down with a vicious self-discipline.
“And why,” he continued, not allowing a pause, not allowing Duncan the space to respond before pressing further, “did you think it acceptable to abandon me after taking my maidenhood, after knotting me deep within my heat, after promising me the world in the throes of your rut?”
Duncan blinked once, his expression unreadable, a mask of weary patience.
“You were asleep, my Prince.”
The sheer simplicity of it. Aerion stared at him, then let out a disbelieving laugh, a sharp, brittle sound devoid of any mirth. “Asleep,” he repeated, the word dripping with scorn. “And that, in your meager mind, granted you leave to vanish like a thief in the night, to slink away as though you had committed some unspeakable act rather than experiencing a moment of profound, animalistic connection?”
“I wasn’t—”
“You were,” Aerion cut in immediately, stepping closer, forcing Duncan either to give ground or stand firm, and when the larger man did the latter, it only sharpened the tension further, like a bowstring drawn taut to its breaking point. “You left without permission, without explanation, and without so much as a parting word, and you expect me to accept that as… what? Consideration? A chivalrous act of self-preservation?”
Duncan didn’t answer immediately.
Aerion stepped closer.
“You left..that’s the insult.” he said.
“I thought it was better.”
“For whom?”
“For you.”
From behind them, Aegon’s voice rang out again, shrill with impatience. “Dunk! Are you coming or not? The sun will be down soon, and we have miles to cover!”
Duncan glanced back.
“Wait.”
Then to Aerion again.
“You shouldn’t be out here.”
Aerion went still, his entire body rigid with indignation. “You presume,” he said, his voice dropping, softening into something far more dangerous than open anger, a silken threat, “to tell me what I should be doing, you low-born brute?”
“You’re hurt, my Prince. You’re still pale, and your scent is… still too strong for you to be out here.” Duncan’s gaze swept over him, lingering for a fraction too long on his hips, his eyes betraying a flicker of memory that made Aerion’s own body hum in reluctant response.
“I am not weak,” Aerion retorted, his voice trembling slightly, betraying the very vulnerability he sought to deny. “And my scent is none of your concern, especially not after you wallowed in it all night like a rutting beast.”
“I didn’t say you were weak, my Prince.”
“Then do not imply it, Hedge Knight, with your solicitous tone and your lingering gaze. I am a Dragon, not some fragile flower to be coddled.”
Their gazes locked, a silent battle of wills playing out in the bustling courtyard. Something shifted between them, subtle yet undeniably dangerous, a spark of something volatile.
“You weren’t in a state to—”
“Finish that sentence carefully,” Aerion said softly.
Duncan held his gaze.
Aerion’s eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. “Ah,” he said softly, a cruel smile touching his lips. “So you do think me incapable, a mere plaything of my heat, my desires stripped of agency.”
“That’s not what I said,my Prince.”
“It is precisely what you meant, you oaf.”
“It isn’t.”
“Then say it plainly, Hedge Knight,” Aerion pressed, stepping even closer now, until their bodies were almost touching, the lingering heat of his omega pressing against the solid, unyielding alpha before him. “Say that you took advantage of a prince who could not think clearly, whose body betrayed him to your primal instincts.”
Duncan’s expression changed, and now he looked almost offended, a flash of genuine hurt in his usually stoic eyes. “I didn’t take advantage of you, my Prince. You came to me. You begged.”
“No?” Aerion tilted his head slightly, studying him with an intensity that bordered on invasive, his voice quieter now, almost thoughtful in its cruelty, a low purr of dangerous amusement. “Then perhaps you would explain to me why I woke alone, my body still singing with your knot, my heat still raging from your absence, with only the lingering scent of your rut as a cruel reminder of your presence.”
Silence. Again. Again that hesitation, that infuriating, almost imperceptible pause before Duncan could formulate a response.
Aerion’s lip curled, his patience snapping. “Coward,” he said softly, the word a whisper of pure venom.
Duncan exhaled slowly, a long, drawn-out sigh, as though forcing patience back into its precarious place. “Come inside.” he said instead, reaching out.
“I will not be dragged like some common whore into your bed, Hedge Knight,” Aerion hissed, flinching away from the touch, though his body craved it with a shameful, desperate longing.
“Then walk,” Duncan replied, his voice calm, unflappable.
A pause.
Aerion turned first.
“Do not mistake this for obedience,you lumbering oaf” he said.
“I don’t,” Duncan replied, falling into step beside him, his long strides easily matching Aerion’s more delicate pace.
Behind them, Aegon shouted something else, impatient, annoyed, unmistakably irritated by the delay. Aerion did not bother to listen, his focus remaining fixed, forward, on the room, on the answers he would drag from Duncan if it was the last thing he did.
The corridor was quieter on their return.
Or perhaps it only felt that way.
Thick stone walls pressed close on either side, the air cooler here, dimmer.
Tapestries of fruit and flowers softened the space—bright, almost cheerful—an absurd contrast to the tension coiling between them.
Aerion’s footsteps echoed anyway.
Duncan said nothing.
Aerion noticed.
That alone was irritating.
“You grow silent now,” he said at last, “when you were not so restrained before.”
Duncan didn’t answer.
Aerion glanced at him.
“Have you lost your voice,” he went on, “or only your courage?”
“I’m choosing my words,” Duncan said.
“How considerate.”
A few more steps.
Then Duncan stopped.
Aerion took one more before turning back, irritation sharp.
“If you intend to halt—”
“I didn’t leave to insult you.”
Aerion went still.
“Then explain it,” he said, quieter now.
Duncan met his gaze.
“Staying would’ve made things worse.”
“For whom?”
“For both of us.”
Aerion stepped closer.
“You presume a great deal.”
“I know how people talk,” Duncan said. “And I know who they’d blame.”
“They would say nothing I could not silence.”
Duncan shook his head.
“That’s not how it works.”
Aerion’s gaze sharpened.
“It is when I decide it is.”
A pause.
Duncan exhaled slowly.
“Not everything bends for you, my Prince.”
Aerion held his gaze.
“Everything bends,” he said quietly. A faint smile touched his lips.
“Or it breaks.”
Silence stretched between them.
Duncan looked away first.
“We should go inside.”
Aerion let out a soft breath.
“Yes,” he said.
He turned.
“Before your concern becomes any more tedious.”
The chamber was as he had left it.
Untouched.
Unchanged.
And yet—different.
Aerion stepped inside.
Duncan followed, his presence filling the doorway, making the room feel smaller.
The door shut behind them.
A soft click.
The lock.
Duncan paused, his head turning sharply towards the sound, his brow furrowing in a mixture of surprise and concern. “That isn’t necessary, m’ lord,” he said, glancing toward the door briefly before looking back at Aerion, his eyes questioning.
Aerion did not turn immediately. He stood with his back half-angled, one hand still resting lightly against the polished wood of the door, as though feeling the lock settle into place, as though ensuring it had taken hold, that their privacy was absolute.
Then, slowly, he faced him, his posture regal, his gaze unwavering. “I decide what is necessary, Hedge Knight,” he said, his voice quiet, controlled, though the control felt thinner now, stretched tighter, closer to snapping, like a fine thread drawn too taut.
“You were leaving,” Aerion said.
Not a question.
“Yes, m’lord.”
Aerion studied him in silence.
Too calm.
“And you thought,” Aerion continued, tilting his head slightly, studying him with an intensity that bordered on invasive, as though trying to pierce the layers of his composure, “that you would do so without informing me, after the intimacy we shared, after you had knotted me and claimed my maidenhood?”
Duncan hesitated, a brief, almost imperceptible pause. “I didn’t think you would wish to be disturbed. You were sleeping soundly, exhausted from… from the night’s events.”
“No,” Aerion interrupted, a soft, almost amused sound escaping him, though it carried no real humor, only a chilling disdain. “I imagine you did not think at all, Hedge Knight. Your kind rarely does, preferring instinct to intellect.”
Duncan’s expression hardened slightly, a subtle tightening around his eyes. “That isn’t fair, my Prince.”
“Fair?” Aerion echoed, and this time there was laughter, though it was sharp, edged, almost brittle, a sound that scraped rather than charmed. “You speak to me of fairness, you who left me aching and confused, my body still trembling from your rut, my mind reeling from your sudden disappearance?”
“I meant no insult, my Prince.”
“And yet you managed one.”
“You take liberties in the dark,” he said softly, “and in the light, you flee them. Without a word, after… after you took me with such raw, unbridled passion that I thought I would surely shatter into a thousand pieces, after you filled me with your knot until I cried out for more, after you promised me—" He stopped, the words catching in his throat, not because he lacked them, but because too many pressed forward at once, a torrent of raw emotion threatening to overwhelm his carefully constructed composure.
Duncan noticed, of course he did. His voice softened slightly, a deep, resonant rumble of concern. “Aerion—”
“Do not,” Aerion snapped, though the sharpness faltered at the edges, something else slipping through beneath it, something less controlled, more raw, a desperate tremor. “Speak my name as though you have the right to it, as though you have earned the privilege of such intimacy after treating me with such callous disregard.”
That gave Duncan pause, a longer, more significant one this time. “You asked where I was going,” he said instead, redirecting, careful, deliberate, his voice a steady anchor. “I told you. King’s Landing.”
“With him,” Aerion said, a faint sneer returning as he gestured vaguely toward the outside, toward where Aegon Targaryen waited, no doubt pacing impatiently, his youthful energy chafing at the delay.
“Yes, my Prince.”
“And you intend to serve my uncle, the honorable Baelor Breakspear, the very man who chose to champion a hedge knight over his own blood, over the honor of his House?”
“I gave my word. I swore an oath.”
Aerion’s lip curled, his expression a mask of withering disdain. “Of course you did,” he said, his tone dripping with quiet contempt. “The honorable hedge knight, so eager to bind himself to oaths that cost him nothing, that elevate his lowly station, that make him seem more than the common brute he truly is.”
Duncan’s expression flickered, a momentary flash of something akin to pain or anger crossing his face, quickly suppressed. “That oath costs more than you think, my Prince. It binds me to a path I did not foresee, to a life of service that demands sacrifice.”
“Does it?” Aerion stepped closer still, until the space between them was little more than breath, until he could see every minute shift in Duncan’s expression, every flicker of restraint, every muscle tensing in his jaw. “Does it cost you this, Hedge Knight? Does it cost you the memory of my cries, the feel of my body beneath yours, the taste of my desire?”
Duncan didn’t answer. His gaze dropped—briefly—to Aerion’s lips.
That was enough.
“You would leave,” Aerion said quietly, “as though it meant nothing.”
Duncan’s jaw tightened.
“It didn’t mean nothing, my Prince.”
“Then why go?”
A pause.
“Because staying—”
“Would make things worse.”
Aerion’s voice sharpened, though it never rose.
“You believe that?”
“I do.”
“For whom?”
Duncan looked at him then. Properly.
“For you.”
Aerion let out a short breath.
“For me.”
The words were flat.
Cold.
“You presume much, Hedge Knight. You think I require protection from you, from your crude affections, from the consequences of my own desires?”
“You deserve better than this,” Duncan said.
“Better than what this would bring.”
Aerion’s gaze hardened.
“I decide what I deserve.”
“Not this,” Duncan replied. “Not the cost of it.”
“You presume much.”
“I know enough.”
“Do you?”
Aerion let out a short, humorless laugh.
“Then tell me,” he said, quieter now, stepping closer, “what do you think this was?”
Silence.
Duncan didn’t answer.
That was mistake enough.
Aerion stepped forward, his body pressing against Duncan’s, close enough now that there was no space left at all, no room for denial, no escape from the undeniable truth of their proximity. Close enough that he could feel the lingering heat of him, the sheer physical presence, the intoxicating memory of it, and it made something in his chest tighten painfully, a desperate clenching that bordered on agony.
“Say it,” Aerion demanded, his voice barely above a whisper now. “Say what you think this is, you coward.”
Duncan’s hands came up then, slowly, carefully, his large palms settling on Aerion’s shoulders again, grounding, steadying, though whether it was meant for Aerion or himself was unclear, a desperate attempt to anchor them both in the swirling chaos.
“This is something that shouldn’t have happened .” he said, his voice rough, strained, thick with a deep, aching regret.
“You do not get to decide that, Hedge Knight,” Aerion said, each word precise, controlled, though the control was cracking further now, edges splintering under the immense pressure of his unleashed emotions. “You do not get to dismiss the reality of our shared passion simply because it inconveniences your meager sense of honor.”
“It wasn’t right . Not for you. Not for a Prince.”
“It was not wrong. It was primal. It was raw. It was everything I secretly craved.”
“It puts you at risk,” Duncan said.
“It puts you at risk, you fool,” Aerion snapped.
“Not me.”
His voice sharpened.
“My father would have your head before mine.”
“That isn’t how the world sees it.”
“I don’t care how the world sees it.”
The words came sharper than intended.
Silence followed—tight, close.
Too close.
Duncan’s voice, when it came, was quieter.
The question lingered.
Aerion stilled.
For a moment, he had no answer.
His mouth opened. Closed.
“…You left.”
The words came quieter now.
“Without a word.”
Duncan’s grip tightened slightly.
“I thought it would be easier.”
“For whom?”
“For both of us.”
Aerion’s jaw tightened.
“That was not your choice to make.”
“I know.”
A pause.
“That’s why I left.”
Aerion went still.
Something flickered across his face—brief, gone just as quickly.
“You think me a fool.”
“No,” Duncan said immediately. “Never that.”
“You think me weak, a mere vessel for your alpha urges, easily forgotten once your rut has passed.”
“I don’t, my Prince. I think you are the proudest, most infuriatingly stubborn man I have ever met.”
“You think I would forget?”
Duncan hesitated.
Aerion tilted his head faintly.
“That’s… optimistic.”
"I forget nothing," he added, "and I forgive even less."
The silence stretched.
Duncan didn’t move.
His hands were still there—steady, deliberate.
Aerion noticed.
He let it remain.
“Still thinking?” Aerion said at last, voice light, almost bored.
Duncan’s jaw shifted. “Trying to.”
A faint smile touched Aerion’s mouth.
“Must be rare for your kind.”
Duncan met his gaze, unimpressed.
“Then tell me,” he said, quieter now.
“What exactly do you want to hear?”
Aerion considered that. Briefly.
Several answers came to mind.
None of them suitable for polite conversation.
“You think this ends here,” he said instead.
“I think if I stay, it gets worse.”
“Worse,” Aerion repeated, faintly amused.
“Yes.”
A pause.
“For both of us.”
Aerion tilted his head slightly.
“And you’ve taken it upon yourself to prevent that.”
“Someone has to.”
Aerion let out a quiet breath—almost a laugh.
“How noble.”
Duncan’s jaw tightened.
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
Another pause.
Duncan looked at him carefully.
“You weren’t thinking clearly.”
Aerion’s expression didn’t change.
“No?”
A beat.
“I seemed quite decisive at the time.”
“You meant it. You meant that my omega nature made me susceptible, made me a victim of your alpha rut.”
“I meant, that you were in heat, my Prince, and not thinking clearly. That the primal urges of your omega were overwhelming your reason.”
The words landed.
Aerion’s hand came up, catching histunic. He pulled his face down towards Duncan’s, their breaths mingling, hot and fast.
“I was thinking clearly enough, Hedge Knight,” Aerion said, his voice low, shaking now, “to know exactly what I wanted. I wanted your knot, your heat, your fierce, untamed alpha claiming me again and again until I could no longer think, only feel.”
Duncan went still.
“Aerion—”
“Don’t.”
Aerion’s voice sharpened.
“Don’t start pretending it was an accident.”
Duncan met his eyes.
“I’m not pretending anything.”
“Then stop speaking as though it was taken from me, as though I was a helpless maiden ravished by a brute!”
Aerion’s grip tightened slightly.
“Go on,” he murmured. “I’m listening.”
Duncan exhaled slowly, jaw set, like the words cost him something.
“It was real ” he said at last, his voice thick, raw, imbued with a profound, aching honesty. “Every moment of it. Every touch, every gasp, every desperate cry. It was real.”
The words landed.
For a moment, Aerion’s expression shifted—just slightly.
Then it was gone.
“Then why,” he said, quieter now, “are you pretending it shouldn’t have happened?”
“Because it puts you in danger.”
Aerion let out a soft breath—almost a laugh.
“It puts you in danger,” he said.
“Not me.”
Duncan didn’t move.
“That’s not how it works.”
“I don’t care how it works.”
Silence stretched.
They were too close.
Aerion could feel his breath now.
“Then what are you afraid of?”
Duncan held his gaze.
“What happens if I stay.”
A pause.
Aerion didn’t step back.
Neither did Duncan.
“And?”
Duncan’s hand shifted—just slightly—against his shoulder.
“We don’t walk away from it.”
The space between them felt thinner now.
Aerion’s fingers tightened in his tunic.
“Worse?” he murmured.
Duncan didn’t answer.
His gaze dropped—briefly.
Then back to Aerion’s eyes.
That was enough.
Aerion tilted his head, just slightly.
“And what does it become?”
Duncan’s grip tightened.
He didn’t step away.
For a moment, it felt like he might not leave at all..
“Stay,” he said, the word slipping out before he could stop it, something more befitting a Prince of the Realm. It hung there a raw, desperate plea from the deepest part of his omega soul.
Duncan’s expression changed. Something flickered there—shock, conflict. “Aerion—”
“Stay,” Aerion repeated, a raw, aching demand. “And do not speak to me again of what should or should not have happened, of what is right or wrong. Only stay.”
Duncan inhaled sharply, a ragged gasp. “You don’t mean that, Aerion. Not truly. Not once your heat has fully passed.”
“I do,Ser Duncan. I mean every word.”
“You don’t.”
“I do.”
The words slipped out before he could stop them.
That was… inconvenient.
“Stay.”
A pause.
Aerion exhaled once, as if annoyed with himself.
“It’s a simple request, Ser Duncan.”
Duncan’s grip shifted—tightening.
Just for a moment.
Something in his expression gave.
Aerion saw it.
He didn’t hesitate.
He moved closer—barely any space left between them now.
“Then stop pretending,” he said, low.
His fingers tightened in Duncan’s tunic.
“Stay.. and claim what you have already taken.”
Duncan’s breath caught.
He didn’t pull away.
Not yet.
Aerion could feel it—
the shift, the hesitation.
Close enough to matter.
Close enough that it would be easy—
And then Duncan stepped back.
The space returned all at once.
Aerion’s hand slipped from his grip.
“I can’t,” Duncan said, rougher now,his breath hitched, a sharp, ragged sound. His control slipped— Just slightly.
A pause.
“I won’t.”
His jaw tightened.
“ I am sworn to Baelor and my duty is also with Egg right now.”
Aerion went still.
For a moment, he said nothing.
“…You refuse me.”
Duncan didn’t look away.
“I’m doing what’s right.”
Aerion’s expression smoothed.
“Of course you are.”
His grip loosened.
He stepped back first this time.
“How reassuring.”
Duncan’s jaw tightened.
“Aerion—”
“No.”
Aerion lifted his chin slightly.
“You’ve made yourself clear.”
Silence stretched between them.
When he spoke again, his voice was calm.
“Go, then,you take what you want, and when it becomes inconvenient, when the consequences loom, you retreat behind honor and call it virtue, you cowardly brute.”
The door closed softly.
The sound lingered.
Aerion did not move.
“…You refuse me.”
The words came quieter now. Smoother.
His fingers curled slowly at his sides.
“You take what is mine,” he went on, almost thoughtfully, “and walk away.”
A faint smile touched his lips.
“Bold.”
He turned, pacing once across the room.
“A hedge knight,” he murmured, “with nothing to his name… and yet you think yourself beyond consequence.”
His gaze flicked briefly to the bed, toward the disordered sheets, the lingering smells of sex along with his own heat and Duncan’s rut now becoming more suffocating with the closed windows, a potent, undeniable reminder of his humiliation.
“You mistake your place.”
Silence settled.
When he spoke again, his voice was calm.
“You humiliated me.”
A pause.
“Twice.”
His jaw tightened slightly.
“That was your mistake.”
He moved to the table, fingers brushing the surface once.
“Go to King’s Landing,” he said softly.
“Be praised. Be welcomed.”
A faint breath—almost amused.
“Rise as high as you like.”
His expression sharpened.
“It will make the fall… more instructive.”
He turned toward the door.
“And when you have nothing left,” he added quietly,
“we will revisit this conversation.”
Aerion turned toward the door, his movements fluid and purposeful. The corridor beyond was quieter now, the last of the evening movement fading into the distance, servants retreating, voices dimming, the castle settling into something more subdued as the day finally gave way to night, casting long, eerie shadows.
A servant passed, a nervous-looking boy with wide eyes. He paused, then bowed low, trembling slightly under Aerion’s intense gaze. “My prince—”
“You,” Aerion said, stopping only briefly, his tone smooth, controlled, leaving no room for hesitation, no room for argument.
The servant straightened slightly, uncertain, his eyes darting nervously. “Yes, my prince?”
“Bring me moon tea,” he said, his voice a silken command, utterly devoid of emotion. “A strong draught. Immediately.”
The servant blinked, just once, a tiny flicker of surprise in his eyes. Then, he lowered his head again, his face paling slightly. “At once, my prince. It shall be brought to your chambers without delay.”
Aerion inclined his head faintly, a gesture of dismissal. And continued on without another word, his footsteps echoing softly in the quiet corridor, a rhythmic beat of impending doom.
Beyond the castle, the road stretched into the dark.
Somewhere along it, a hedge knight rode south.
Aerion did not slow.
He would see him again.