The stone floor was cold against Aurean's skin. The cell was darker than usual—whether because of the approaching night or simply the weight in his chest, he couldn't tell.
His clothes had been returned to him in a heap. Coarse linen. The same ones he'd worn when first dragged in shackled. He'd dressed slowly, methodically, though his fingers trembled by the end.
Now, he sat cross-legged in the farthest corner, chin resting on his knee, collar biting gently at his throat. Dried dirt clung to his back, remnants of laughter still echoing in his ears.
He hadn't cried. Still hadn't.
But inside, something was hollowing out—something fragile and human once.
His dignity had been stripped.
But they hadn't taken his resolve.
He whispered into the darkness, lips barely parting.
"I see you."
A faint whine interrupted the silence.
Aurean blinked.
From under the iron bars at the base of the door, a familiar nose pushed forward. The brindle hound—the same one he'd defended—was lying on its belly, tail gently thumping once, twice.
She'd followed the scent of him, even through chains and stone.
Aurean moved closer, pressing his hand to the gap. The hound licked it, once, then rested her chin there, offering quiet warmth.
He bowed his head.
And for a moment, the isolation didn't feel so complete.
Rythe stared into the glass of wine he hadn't touched. The bedchamber was still; the doors had been bolted, the fire burning low. His lover—the omega who had once been a source of comfort—was long gone, dismissed without tenderness.
Tonight, the only thing that lingered was that image.
Aurean, kneeling naked and silent in the dirt.
Unmoving.
Unflinching.
Unbent.
He should have looked humiliated. He should've begged, or wept, or tried to cover himself like so many others had when dragged low.
Instead, he looked like a marble effigy—cold and carved by pain.
Rythe leaned back, exhaling through his nose.
Lareth's words came back to him.
"That kind of omega isn't soft, Rythe. Not anymore. The ones that survive this sort of thing? They become dangerous. You humiliate him like that, and all you're doing is pressing closer to the moment he stops being breakable."
He hadn't believed it at the time.
Now he wasn't sure.
Rythe stood, pacing toward the window. The war hound pens were quiet beyond the outer courtyard. Still. Waiting.
Even they had watched.
And he couldn't shake the feeling that Aurean's silence wasn't submission—
It was endurance.
A storm gathering strength beneath still water.
Rythe strode into the training yard the next morning, boots heavy with intent. The guards straightened, still wary from yesterday's punishment. They'd expected Aurean to break—or at least falter.
Instead, the boy had stood through every order, every cruel sneer, with the same eerie composure.
Unmoving. Unbreakable.
He spotted Aurean standing by the gate, shoulders squared, face expressionless.
"Come," Rythe said, turning on his heel without another glance.
Aurean followed.
He didn't ask where. He never did.
Back in the prince's chamber after the days activities, Rythe shed his cloak and armor in tense silence. Aurean moved with practiced ease, unstrapping buckles, removing gloves, setting everything aside like ritual.
But tonight Rythe didn't sit.
He turned on Aurean instead—abrupt, eyes lit by something twisted and unsure.
"You don't flinch," he said.
Aurean said nothing.
"You don't weep. You don't scream when they laugh at you. Are you trying to prove something? Or are you too stupid to understand what this is?"
Still, no answer. Just that same maddening quiet.
Rythe stepped closer, grabbing the front of Aurean's tunic, twisting it tight.
"Do you feel anything, slave?"
Aurean's breath hitched—but not from fear.
"I feel everything," he said softly. "I just don't give it to you."
The silence that followed cracked something deeper than any slap could.
Rythe let go, stepping back as if scorched.
The hounds, outside the chamber doors, began to growl low. Not loud—but loud enough to be heard.
Not at Aurean.
At him.
You may go back to the cell.
With a bow, Aurean left.
Later that night, a report from the hound master was quietly slipped beneath Rythe's door.
"The brindle has begun sleeping by the door to the prisoner wing. The others take turns. They eat when he eats. They snap at guards who insult him."
Rythe read the words over and over.
Then he crumpled the report, and threw it into the fire.