The dungeons of the palace had never been so full.
The air was thick—choked with the stench of blood, sweat, and silence. Echoes of chains rattling, of distant screams swallowed by stone walls, trembled through the dark.
Aiden didn't just want confessions.
He wanted names. Individual names. Every person who had instigated this plan—who had dared to harm Elliott—would pay. One by one.
Every noble with any known alliance—be it marriage, trade, or even the faintest diplomatic tie to the southern empire—was summoned. Some talked willingly, sniveling and shaking. Others required... more persuasive tactics.
The court healers, once used to patching up training injuries, now stitched together fingers broken during questioning. The palace whispered—soft, nervous hisses behind closed doors. But never openly, as they had with Elliott.
Aiden had buried that luxury. He had planted fear deep in everyone's minds—something colder, sharper, than respect.
"He's gone too far," whispered the old prime minister, voice tight with dread.
"No," murmured General Rykard, eyes fixed on the figure emerging from the shadows. Aiden's sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, hands stained red. His expression unreadable.
"He's only just begun."
As if the fury wasn't enough, more bad news arrived.
The royal healer delivered it with trembling hands, her face pale beneath the flickering torchlight. Aiden—still wearing the same bloodstained robes from the interrogations—listened silently, a statue of stillness in the middle of carnage.
"His Majesty's fever has spiked again."
There was no visible change in Aiden's expression.
No flinch. No gasp.
But his hand around the armrest of the chair tightened—so hard the wood creaked under his grip.
His next orders were crueler.
Sharper. Colder.
As if mercy had been buried with that one sentence.
When the healers came to report again—this time saying Elliott might never recover fully—Aiden moved. One moment, the woman was reporting the emperor's condition; the next, she was staring down the young regent, whose gaze was fixed on her throat.
"Say that again," Aiden whispered. Quiet. Too quiet.
The healer trembled, her words falling out in a rush. "Y-Your Highness—I only speak what I infer from His Majesty's condition. His lungs—they're—damaged by the poison—"
"Then fix him."
Her breath hitched. "We... we can't. We're trying—"
"Try." Aiden stepped forward. "Harder."
His voice was low, but it cracked through her composure like a whip.
"If he leaves this world..." his voice shook, and something in his eyes snapped, "you all—and then I—leave it with him."
That was the end of the conversation.
The healer had fled the room, face ashen, hands trembling.
Aiden didn't care.
He couldn't. Not now. Not when rage was the only thing keeping him upright.
As fate would have it, the war council meeting was scheduled immediately after.
The timing couldn't have been worse. Or perhaps— worse for them.
The war room was thick with tension.
Maps were strewn across the long table. Candles flickered, casting dancing shadows over battle plans. Ministers sat on edge. Generals kept their hands folded, afraid to speak.
Aiden stood at the head of the table. Silent.
He didn't say a word as the scouts finished their report. His gaze remained locked on the maps, eyes unmoving, mind calculating.
No one dared to speak at first. They waited.
Finally, the old prime minister cleared his throat, mustering up what little courage he had left.
"Your Highness... should we send diplomats?"
"No."
The answer came instantly. Cold. Unbending.
A single word that filled the chamber like a thunderclap.
The prime minister faltered. "Then...?"
Aiden didn't even look up. "Send a message."
Relief rippled through the room—soft, subtle exhales—as if maybe, maybe, he was choosing diplomacy after all.
But then—
"The Second and Third Regiments are to ride at dawn," Aiden said, his voice sharp as steel. "They'll slaughter the forward camps before the enemy has time to sound the alarm. Catch them while they sleep."
No inflection. No remorse.
"String the bodies along the border trees," he added. "Leave their uniforms intact. Let their comrades recognize them."
There was a beat of horrified silence.
Aiden's lips curved slightly. Not with amusement. There was no warmth in that smile. No joy.
Just cruelty, tightly coiled under calm.
He picked up a piece of parchment and began to write.
"Attach this to their commander's corpse," he said quietly. "String it just inside our border."
He set the parchment down.
On it was a single sentence, scrawled in Aiden's sharp, aggressive script: "Come and take it."
A message indeed.
Not written on paper.
Written in blood.
The chamber fell silent. Not even the generals dared to move.
It was Lady Moira who finally found her voice.
She rose, hesitant but firm. "Your Highness, this—this brutality—if we go through with this, our empire's reputation will burn. What will the other kingdoms say—?"
"They can talk all they wish," Aiden replied, without looking at her.
She blinked, stunned by the casual dismissal. Her tone shifted, desperate now.
"But—what about the Emperor? He would never allow this—"
Aiden faltered.
Just for a moment.
Before anyone could latch onto that pause, his gaze hardened again.
"Elliott isn't here," he said.
The words struck like ice. Not shouted, but final. There was grief behind it—buried deep. And blame. So much blame.
And he might never be, hung unspoken in the air, suffocating.
Aiden didn't look up.
No one mentioned the glassiness of his eyes. No one wanted to die.
"When Elliott wakes," Aiden said softly, almost reverently, "he will live in the world I've made for him. That is all that matters."
Lady Moira's face had gone pale. Her mouth parted as she struggled for another argument. "You... you can't honestly believe he'll forgive this."
Aiden finally looked up.
His eyes were wet. But the smile he gave her?
It was terrible.
"I don't need forgiveness," he said.
"I need him alive."