Elliott tried again, his voice softer this time. "The representatives arrive in five days. I've ordered the west wing to be prepared for accommodations—no soldiers near them except the palace knights and guards. No military presence. Wouldn't want any misunderstandings."
Aiden's grip tightened on the cake. He shoved the rest into his mouth in a single bite, washing it down with tea. His gaze remained fixed downward as he muttered, "You think that'll stop them?"
Elliott replied gently, "I think it's worth trying."
Aiden finally met his gaze—and the fear in his eyes struck Elliott like a gut punch. Worse, the fear wasn't for himself or even the empire. It was for him.
For Elliott.
Neither of them spoke after that. The rest of the evening passed in silence, the unspoken tension thick in the air, like the blade of a guillotine waiting to fall. The next few days followed in similar fashion. Neither mentioned the war. Or the Altherian situation.
But at council meetings, Aiden sat just a little too close. His knee pressed against Elliott's under the table—a silent plea.
Notice me.
Listen to me.
Fear with me.
Let me protect you.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
It was the night before the envoys were set to arrive.
Moonlight filtered through the tall, arched windows of the imperial bedchamber, casting long silver streaks across the floor. The gilded walls glowed faintly in the pale light, but the warmth of gold felt cold tonight. The air was still—too still. As if the entire palace was holding its breath.
Inside the imperial chambers, the bed lay untouched, the covers neatly turned down, pristine. Untouched.
Elliott stood on the balcony, arms resting on the railing, his gaze lifted to the night sky above. Stars glittered overhead like scattered pieces of shattered glass—beautiful, distant, unreachable. The breeze was cool against his skin, whispering faintly through the silk of his night robes, carrying the scent of garden lavender and the metallic tang of oncoming tension.
His mind should've been on protocol. On arrangements. On contingency plans. But it wasn't. It was on the stars.
On him. Aiden.
He didn't turn when he heard the door creak open behind him. Footsteps followed, soft but deliberate.
He already knew who it was.
Aiden didn't announce himself. He lingered at the boundary between chamber and balcony, a silhouette outlined by the moonlight, his shadow falling long behind him. He looked like he didn't know whether he was intruding or arriving.
"Are you just going to stand there?" Elliott asked quietly, not turning his head. His voice was low, clear with weariness. "Join me," he added, after a moment—though he didn't quite know why he said it. Or what he expected.
There was a pause, and then Aiden stepped forward.
He came to stand beside Elliott, a careful arm's length away. Neither of them spoke. The silence wasn't empty, though. It was brimming with unsaid things—fear, resentment, longing, loyalty.
Elliott didn't look at him, but he felt the shift in air, the slight brush of fabric as Aiden settled beside him. Aiden noticed the other man had left his hair down tonight—a rare sight. It caught the wind easily, fluttering like silver threads under moonlight. Beautiful. Stark. Almost unearthly.
"You haven't been sleeping," Elliott said eventually, voice barely above a whisper.
"Neither have you."
That simple reply made something ache deep in Elliott's chest. It wasn't accusation. It was understanding.
The silence returned, but it was gentler this time.
"I hate this," Elliott murmured, resting more of his weight on the railing. His voice cracked slightly on the last word. "All of this."
Aiden gave a bitter laugh—quiet, almost inaudible.
"Which part? The part where I disobeyed you... or the part where you had to use your title on me?"
That jab hit home. Elliott flinched. He didn't try to defend himself.
"No," he said after a long breath. "The part where we're... here. When we can't even talk without this wall between us."
Aiden didn't argue. Instead, his expression shifted—something unreadable flickering in his eyes. He stayed quiet for so long that Elliott began to think he wouldn't respond at all.
But then he asked, voice suddenly rough and far away, "Do you remember when I was ten? The fever?"
Elliott blinked at the sudden shift. His heart skipped. The memory rose up, sharp and vivid. He nodded slowly.
"Of course. It was serious."
"You sat by my bed for three days straight," Aiden continued. "Didn't eat. Didn't sleep. The physicians warned you—said your lungs couldn't take it, not in the cold. But you refused to leave. Even when you couldn't do anything more than hold my hand."
Elliott swallowed. The guilt still lived in him, dormant but not dead.
"I couldn't bear the thought of losing you," he said softly. "Even if all I could do was sit there and hope."
"That's not what I mean."
Aiden turned fully toward him now. With one hand, he gently cupped Elliott's jaw, guiding him to meet his eyes.
"You helped," he said firmly. "More than you think. Just by being there. Just by staying."
His fingers trembled slightly as they rested against Elliott's cheek. Not from cold. From everything else.
"And that's the problem," he continued, voice low but gaining intensity. "You'll stay for me—you'll fight death for me. But now you want me to stand here and let you invite the wolves in through the gates, and just hope they won't bare their teeth?"
His hand clenched slightly—not painful, rather, anchoring.
"You fear the cost of war," Aiden said. "I fear losing you to your own mercy. To your kindness. To your hope."
Elliott felt his chest twist with emotion, grief, affection, helplessness.
He reached up and gently removed Aiden's hand from his face, fingers lingering longer than they needed to. "I know this can't go anywhere tonight," he said quietly. "Not without both of us saying things we'll regret."
He turned, stepping back toward the chamber. "I'm going to sleep. You should sleep too."
But Aiden's next words stopped him.
"I keep dreaming they kill you."
Elliott froze.
"I keep seeing it," Aiden said, voice raw now. "At the table. In the hall. They stab you during negotiations. Poison your wine. Shoot you from the shadows. And I'm always too far. Always too late."
Elliott's breath caught. He didn't want to turn back. But he did.
Aiden stepped closer. His hands found Elliott's wrists, clutching them tightly. His eyes burned—not with anger, but with desperation. "Promise me," he said. "If they so much as look at you wrong—"
His voice shook. It bordered on hysteria. "Promise me."
Elliott didn't speak. He stepped forward instead, wrapping his arms around Aiden in something that resembled a hug, though his wrists were still caught in the younger man's grasp. He pressed his face into Aiden's shoulder, breathing in the faint scent of tea and ash and silk.
"I can't promise you violence," Elliott said, voice muffled against Aiden's robes. "But I can promise you this- I'll take every measure to ensure everyone's safety. Including mine."
Aiden didn't respond. His grip on Elliott's wrists didn't loosen. Not yet.
It wasn't enough.
But for tonight, it had to be.