Page 29 of Oath
A ripple of uneasy laughter swept the gathered crowd. Aerion let it linger, let it sting, before tossing his reins to a waiting stablehand. “The roads are dreadful, by the way. Someone ought to see to them. Preferably someonenotme.”
He swept past before anyone could answer, dripping disdain and amusement in equal measure.
Behind him, Clyde dismounted with none of the flourish, his boots hitting stone with the solid weight of inevitability. He offered no explanation, no deflection. Just silence. His presence was explanation enough; shadow to Aerion’s light, steel to his silk.
But Aerion felt it—the weight of Clyde’s absence the moment he slipped back into the role of guard, melting into the periphery like he’d never been more than an oath-bound shadow.
The courtiers’ laughter dulled as soon as Aerion’s back turned. Their whispers sharpened.
He ignored them. He always did.
Yet as he strode across the hall, every step loud against marble, he found his fingers brushing faintly at his collar, at the place where Clyde’s cloak had warmed him.
He hated himself for it.
And he hated the silence that followed him more.
The council chamber smelled of damp parchment and candlewax, the storm’s memory still lingering in the stones. A dozen lords crowded the long oak table, rings flashing as they argued, quills scratching furiously against vellum. The air was heavy with voices; complaints of tariffs, disputes over borders, demands for coin.
Aerion swept in late, as always, robes of blue and silver flowing, a smile already sharpened to a blade. He settled into his father’s empty chair as though it had been carved for him alone, a quill balanced idly on his knuckles.
“Have we solved the world’s woes in my absence?” he asked sweetly.
The chamberlain pursed his lips. “We were just discussing the levy on—”
“On wheat? On wool? On wine?” Aerion cut him off with a languid wave of his hand. “Why not levy air while we’re at it? You’ll find the peasants very willing to pay when they’re choking.”
A ripple of nervous laughter shivered around the table.
Aerion leaned forward suddenly, eyes sharp. “Better yet—let the lords who drink four goblets of wine at breakfast donate half their stock. That should fill the coffers by the week’s end.”
Lord Halford flushed scarlet. “My lord—”
Aerion smiled, wide and venomous. “Yes,my lord? Do speak. We all enjoy your wisdom—though not, I fear, your wine.”
The room broke into uneasy chuckles. Halford sank back into his seat, muttering into his beard.
Aerion twirled the quill between his fingers, smug, the picture of effortless cruelty. He thrived on it… the dance, the cutting remark, the way the chamber bent beneath his tongue.
And yet—
When he leaned back, eyes flicking lazily across the chamber, his gaze caught on the wall.
On Clyde.
Standing still, arms crossed, grey eyes steady. Silent.
Always silent.
Aerion felt something catch in his chest, though he masked it with another smirk. He tossed the quill across the table, watching it roll between two startled stewards. “Gods, you’re all exhausting,” he drawled. “Let’s adjourn before I die of boredom.”
The lords rose in a flurry of mutters and parchment. Aerion stretched like a cat, pretending not to hear them.
But as the chamber emptied, he found himself staring again at the knight in the corner. Silent. Unmoving. Watching.
The silence pressed in, heavier than the arguments had been.
Aerion pushed himself up abruptly, voice too sharp. “Do you enjoy standing there like a statue? Is that what you were carved for?”
