Page 5 of Oath
Aerion’s fists clenched at his sides, rings biting into his palms. He wanted to scream, to shove, to force some crack into that stone face. Instead, his voice dropped to a whisper, brittle as glass. “Do not ever touch me again.”
Clyde inclined his head once. Not a bow. A concession.
Aerion whirled away, cape flaring, striding back toward the keep with fury in his spine and a strange, treacherous pulse in his chest.
Clyde followed at a distance, silent, steady, the echo of his boots carrying down the cobbles.
And though Aerion never turned to look, he felt those eyes on him—unyielding, inevitable, unrelenting.
The walk back to Valemont Keep was long, the streets hushed now that midnight had settled over the city. Lanterns guttered low on their hooks, shadows pooling thick in the alleys.
Aerion walked fast, heels striking hard against cobblestone, the midnight-blue hem of his cape snapping at his ankles. Every step was fury. His hands clenched at his sides, jewelled rings biting crescents into his palms. He replayed the moment again and again; the iron grip on his wrist, the way Clyde had spoken to him before the barmaid, before the crowd.
Unforgivable.
Unbearable.
And yet…
The ghost of that grip lingered, warm against his skin.
“Shadow with delusions of flesh,” Aerion muttered again under his breath, savouring the venom of his own insult. He flung the words like daggers into the dark, but they rang hollow, unsatisfying.
Clyde followed several paces behind, boots steady, posture unshaken. He didn’t speak. He didn’t apologize. He didn’t even clear his throat to remind Aerion he was there. He was simply a presence—unyielding, immovable, impossible to ignore.
The silence pressed on Aerion until it broke him. He turned, mid-stride, his cape flaring. “Say something,” he hissed. “Anything. Defend yourself. Apologize. Admit you overstepped.”
Clyde’s expression didn’t shift. His grey eyes caught the lantern light, glinting like wet steel. “I did my duty.”
Aerion’s laugh cut through the night like glass shattering. “Your duty? To humiliate me in front of half the market?”
“No,” Clyde said simply. “To keep you breathing.”
The words landed hard. Aerion’s smirk faltered, and for the briefest instant, the fury in him wavered—because he could not mistake the truth in that voice.
He snapped his gaze forward again, chin high, forcing the mask back into place. “If I wanted a nursemaid, I’d hire one. At least she would know when to keep her hands off me.”
No answer. Just the echo of boots on stone.
The keep’s towers loomed ahead, windows glowing faint in the dark. Aerion’s pace quickened, his throat tight, his chest buzzing with a strange, traitorous heat he refused to name.
By the time they reached the gates, he’d almost convinced himself of indifference again. Almost.
But when he stripped off his cape in the entry hall, his eyes fell, just for a moment, on the wrist Clyde had touched. And his breath caught, sharp and unwanted.
He cursed himself for it.
And Clyde, silent as ever, said nothing.
Chapter two
Festival of Lanterns
The morning sun spilled thin and pale through the mullioned windows, catching on dust motes that floated lazily above the chamber floor. Aerion sat half-slouched in his carved oak chair, one leg draped carelessly over the armrest, his silken robe spilling open at the collar. He looked every inch the young lord—idle, elegant, dangerous in his boredom.
Behind him, Liora stood on a footstool, fingers deft as she gathered his golden hair. She hummed softly as she worked, the faint scent of lavender oil rising from her hands.
“They’ve already begun hanging the lanterns, my lord,” she said, her voice light, bubbling with uncontainable excitement. “Strings of them, crisscrossing the square like a sky of stars. And musicians—fiddlers, lutes, even a man with pipes. I heard the bakers are bringing honey-cakes, and the smith’s wife has sewn ribbons in every colour you can imagine. Everyone will be there tonight. Dancing, singing, feasting until dawn.”
