The war chamber was colder than the rest of the palace, carved of black stone and lit by pale flame. Seated at the end of the long table was Emperor Valien, cloaked in midnight velvet, his iron crown resting heavy upon a brow worn by decades of battle and betrayal. Beside him sat his sons and daughters—royalty in flesh, politics in blood.
Prince Rythe stood at attention, posture as sharp as the blade at his side. His siblings were arranged with varying degrees of interest. Crown Prince Maelus, as calm as ever, Kael second-born and heir aspirant, wore a smirk he never quite earned. Princess Rhalia leaned back with fingers steepled, her eyes missing nothing.
The Emperor's gaze swept the chamber. When he spoke, his voice was slow and deliberate.
"You have kept the boy alive longer than expected."
Rythe didn't flinch. "He failed to kill me. I find that a preferable quality in a servant."
The chamber rippled with soft laughter, but the Emperor did not smile.
"Your flippancy does not mask the risk. You have a traitor in your shadow, Rythe. Trained. Motivated. Desperate. If he was able to reach you once—"
"I was never in danger," Rythe cut in coolly. "He hesitated."
"Which makes him even more dangerous," Maelus interjected. "A killer with a conscience is harder to predict. I would've gutted him when I had the chance."
"And earned the Empire another martyr?" Rhalia's voice was velvet-edged. "Our enemies love symbols. Better to cage a wolf than make a legend of him."
The Emperor raised a hand, silencing them.
"You are all correct. That is the danger. The boy—Aurean—was not just another disposable son. Heir of a founding house. A bloodline older than mine in some regions. You will be watched for what you do with him, Rythe."
The war prince met his father's gaze squarely.
"You gave him to me. I intend to use him."
"Then supervise him," the Emperor said coldly. "He is not yours to trust. Make sure he is never out of reach, never out of sight. And do not forget—if he is broken, it must be done quietly. We do not need another court scandal, not while the western dukes are still restless."
The meeting ended shortly after, the Emperor dismissing them with a flick of his hand. As Rythe turned to leave, Maelus leaned in.
"Watch yourself, little brother. Wolves don't turn tame just because they're leashed."
Rythe didn't respond. But as he stepped into the corridor beyond the war chamber, his thoughts weren't on his brother's threat.
They were on Aurean's eyes—the ones that didn't beg, didn't plead.
Just watched.
From that day forward, nothing in the palace moved without someone watching.
Aurean's world shrank.
Guards that once stood at ease now followed him at a two-step distance, always armed, always unsmiling. They didn't speak to him unless it was to bark orders or yank him from his cell. The hounds still greeted him with warmth, but the humans had grown colder than stone.
He was no longer just the fallen heir. He was now the traitor kept alive.
In the training yard, whispers followed him like gnats. When he fetched water for the hounds, stable boys spat near his feet. One of the kitchen servants threw stale bread at him during meal rounds, laughing when it struck his shoulder and fell into the dirt.
"Should've finished the job properly," one guard sneered as he passed, "and maybe they'd have made it quick."
The words were always meant to provoke him. They wanted him to snap—to prove he was still a threat, to give them an excuse to put him down like the dog they believed him to be.
But Aurean said nothing.
His shoulders stayed square, his jaw tight. He took their scorn like he had taken the collar—without flinching.
Rythe made no move to stop them.
In fact, Rythe watched it all. He had assigned three rotating shifts of guards specifically to track Aurean's every step. He no longer sent others to summon him—he had him dragged by the collar when needed. He restricted his movements, placed his bedding in the coldest part of the kennel, and ordered regular inspections of his person for weapons.
Aurean was no longer a caged wolf.
He was an observed experiment.
And yet, the more pressure they applied, the more the cracks they expected never came.
One morning, Rythe stood atop the overlook balcony of the training yard, arms crossed, cloak fluttering in the wind as he watched below. Two guards were sparring, but his attention was on Aurean, who was cleaning out the feeding troughs for the hounds while wearing shackles.
The hounds surrounded him like guardians.
One nuzzled his back gently. Another pressed against his leg while he worked.
Rythe frowned.
He had increased pressure from every side. And yet, Aurean was not breaking. He was folding in—hardening in silence. A sword cooling in a frost-forged sheath.
"Why are you not snapping?" Rythe muttered under his breath.
His eyes narrowed.
The boy who had once raised a blade against him now walked with more dignity in chains than many nobles did in coronets.
And that, somehow, was more dangerous than the knife he had once held.
The corner of the kennel had become his refuge, though it offered no true safety.
Aurean knelt in the straw-lined darkness, back to the stone wall, knees tucked close to his chest. The clinking of chains around his wrists echoed faintly with every movement—a constant reminder of the weight he now carried. His clothes, coarse and threadbare, clung to his skin, still damp from the cold water they'd dumped on him earlier "to cleanse a traitor."
He didn't shiver anymore.
His skin had grown numb long before the cold set in.
The guards watched him even now—he could feel their gaze through the slitted window of the kennel gate. Always there. Always waiting for him to falter. To cry. To fight back.
But Aurean had long since learned that dignity wasn't loud. Sometimes, it was silent. Sometimes, it was just not giving them what they wanted.
Still, even silence grew heavy.
He pressed his forehead against his knees, eyes shut. In that darkness, memories tried to claw their way through—his father's last words, the sound of the collar locking shut, the cruel glee in his siblings' eyes.
And Rythe.
Always Rythe.
Not cruel in the way the guards were. Not cruel in words. But worse—measured, controlled, deliberate. Every order Rythe gave was a calculation. Every restriction was a test.
Aurean could feel it—he was being dissected, not punished. As if Rythe were trying to understand him, strip him bare not just of his clothes or title, but his will.
And yet, every time their eyes met—brief, assessing—it felt like they were locked in a silent battle neither had yet named.
"What do you want from me?" he whispered into his knees. "To break? To beg? Or... to become something else?"
The hounds stirred at the sound of his voice. One of them—a large brindled male—crawled across the straw to rest his head on Aurean's foot. Another, the younger gray female, curled against his side protectively.
They didn't care about the collar. Or the rumors. Or the way the servants spat when they passed.
To them, he was theirs.
He lifted his head slowly, looking at the dogs who had become more his kin than blood had ever been.
"I won't give them what they want," he whispered, running a shaky hand through the gray one's fur. "They want me to disappear. To fold."
His voice hardened, even as his body trembled from exhaustion.
"But I am not theirs to bury."