Aiden's orders had been carried out with chilling precision.
The two regiments had marched at the set hour, no hesitation, no delay. The commander had been given the parchment—the message Aiden himself had written in the quiet of the war room. The message soaked in vengeance.
Come and take it.
The court had been stunned. Aside from Lady Moira, not a single objection had been made. The rest had fallen silent, lips pressed shut, choosing self-preservation over protest.
The army didn't question Aiden.
If anything, it was becoming clearer with every passing day: Aiden's word held the same weight—if not more—than the emperor's among the soldiers. His command was absolute.
But it wasn't just the authority.
It was the way everything was executed—the cruelty, the rage, the relentless hunger for justice. It made one thing disturbingly clear.
Aiden wasn't just devoted.
He was obsessed.
Obsessed in the kind of way where he'd burn cities, drown empires, and salt the very earth—before he'd let Elliott slip through his fingers.
And if that made him a monster?
So be it.
Elliott woke three days later.
The fever, which had spiked violently, had finally receded under the relentless efforts of the royal healers—days and nights blurred into each other as they fought for his life. Poultices, concoctions, whisper-thin prayers—they'd tried everything.
And finally... it worked.
The emperor stirred. Not in feverish delirium. Not in those brief, gasping flickers of consciousness. But truly—truly—woke.
The first thing Elliott noticed was the light. Too bright. Too sharp. It pierced his eyes like white-hot needles.
The second was pain.
A dull, aching burn in his chest and throat.
The third... was warmth. Weight.
Against his side.
Elliott's eyelashes fluttered weakly. He turned his head, a slow, dragging movement that cost more strength than it should've. And there he was.
Aiden.
Slumped forward in a chair beside the bed, body folded over the mattress. His fingers were still intertwined with Elliott's limp left hand, as if even in sleep, he couldn't bear to let go.
Elliott blinked again, his blurry vision finally adjusting to the filtered morning light that streamed through the parted curtains. It must have been early morning.
He couldn't believe his eyes.
Aiden looked like a wreck.
His usually composed hair was a tangled mess. His face—pale and gaunt from exhaustion—looked sharper, hollower. His clothes were rumpled, the same ones he'd probably worn for days. A faint stubble lined his jaw, and there were dark circles under his eyes that looked bruised.
By contrast, Elliott—bathed, changed, tended to by the attendants—looked healthier. What an irony.
His breath caught. Guilt prickled under his skin. Even half-conscious, he was still worrying for Aiden.
Still watching over him.
"A-Aiden...?" Elliott's voice rasped, cracked and broken from disuse.
Instantly, Aiden jerked awake. He'd been nodding off, barely asleep. His eyes flew open—wild, frantic—locking on Elliott's face in a heartbeat.
Those eyes. They were open. Conscious. Looking at him.
For a moment, Aiden just stared. Stared like he couldn't believe it was real. As if the world had tilted off its axis.
"Elliott," Aiden breathed.
The name spilled from his lips like a prayer. Soft. Reverent. Sacred.
He surged forward, hands trembling as they hovered—over Elliott's cheek, his neck, his shoulders—uncertain, terrified to touch. Afraid he might shatter this fragile moment. Afraid Elliott might disappear again.
"You—You're awake," Aiden choked out, voice cracked and raw with too many emotions packed into too little space. "Fuck. You're—you're awake."
Elliott gave a faint, exhausted smile, slumping weakly back against the pillows as Aiden helped him sit upright with cautious gentleness.
"You're... eloquent as ever, Aiden," he rasped.
Aiden let out a sound—a mix between a laugh and a sob—and dropped his forehead to Elliott's shoulder. His breath hitched against the older man's skin.
"Don't do that again," he whispered. Voice low, trembling. "Don't you dare do that to me again."
Elliott had half a mind to tease him, to reassure, to joke—but the raw, unfiltered pain in Aiden's voice stole the words from his tongue. His smile faltered.
"I was so scared," Aiden continued, breath shaking. "When the fever spiked again—I thought..."
His voice cracked.
"I thought I was going to lose you."
The words hit harder than Elliott expected. A sharp ache bloomed in his chest—not from the poison, but from something deeper. Guilt twisted in his gut. He had caused this pain. And yet... a small, selfish part of him felt warm.
Someone cared this much.
Aiden cared this much.
He wanted to speak. To say sorry, to tell Aiden it wasn't his fault, to make him laugh—something. But his throat closed up.
Instead, he lifted a shaking hand and buried his fingers in Aiden's hair. Slow. Gentle. Familiar.
He massaged his scalp in soft, steady strokes—just like he used to, when Aiden was younger and afraid of the dark. The memory lingered between them, unspoken.
"I'm... here," Elliott murmured.
His voice was weak. But it was steady.
And that was enough.