Page 56 of Oath
—C
His throat closed. The reins slipped from his fingers. The horse shifted beneath him, sensing the sudden slack, but Aerion barely felt it. His chest heaved once, ragged, before he slid down from the saddle.
“Clear the yard,” he said, voice frayed but still edged with command. “Now.”
The vassals sputtered, protested, but no one disobeyed. One by one they retreated, casting uneasy glances, until only Heston remained, watching with quiet gravity.
Aerion didn’t look at him. He pressed the parchment to his chest as though it might still carry Clyde’s warmth, then turned on his heel and stalked back toward the keep. His boots echoed hollow on the stones, each step heavier than the last.
That night, he lit every candle in his chamber, as though fire might hold the shadows at bay. The letter lay open on his desk, the pressed wildflower trembling beneath his touch—faded, fragile, yet more precious than any jewel.
He smoothed it carefully into his journal, a secret he would never share. Then he pulled fresh parchment close, dipped his quill, and wrote with a hand that shook only slightly.
C,
I nearly rode out to find you. A few months is nothing as long as I know it’s coming.
– A
He sealed it with red wax, pressed his signet into it, and gave it to the hawk himself, his fingers lingering on the bird’s feathers longer than they should have.
When he finally collapsed into bed, the fire had burned low. His cloak lay in a heap at the foot of the chaise, his shirt half-unlaced. He pressed his face into the pillow, the scent of cedar and smoke still clinging to the parchment beneath it.
And at last, in the silence, a few tears slipped free—hot, bitter, unbidden.
“You bastard,” he whispered, voice breaking. “Don’t make me wait again.”
The darkness swallowed his plea. But somewhere in it, hope flickered like a candle that refused to die.
Chapter twelve
Rumours and Relics
The gossip spread faster than spilled wine on silk. Courtiers whispered in alcoves, servants traded rumors in the kitchens. Aerion Valemont—who once prided himself on silk sheets, perfumed oils, and bedmates chosen for beauty alone—was said to spend his nights in the barracks.
The truth was simpler, and stranger.
Sometimes, when the keep’s halls pressed too tight, when laughter grated like glass and wine soured in his throat, Aerion would leave the grand wing entirely. He’d sweep down the servants’ stair in his robe and boots, clutching a half-emptybottle, ignoring the startled bows of guards who knew better than to speak.
The barracks smelled of steel and leather, of sweat ground deep into wood. It was no place for a lord, much less for the heir of Valemont. The men slept in rows of narrow cots, the air thick with snoring. At the far end lay Clyde’s small chamber—a stone box barely wider than its cot, with a trunk, a basin, and nothing else.
Aerion would slip inside and shut the door.
The first time, he nearly staggered at the scent. Smoke and oiled steel. Cloth worn soft by years of use. The faintest trace of leather. It hit him harder than any perfume.
He collapsed onto the cot with a groan, the mattress thin and unyielding beneath him. His robe trailed to the floor, his goblet spilled. He buried his face in the pillow and inhaled until the ache in his chest eased just enough to breathe.
“This is pathetic,” he muttered into the fabric, though his throat tightened. “Pathetic, Aerion.”
But still he stayed.
Nights like that became a ritual. He’d drink too much, laugh too loud at supper, and then vanish—slipping into Clyde’s empty chamber like a thief, curling onto the cot as if the man might return and find him there. He pressed the pillow to his chest, as if it were broad shoulders, as if it were warmth. Some nights, the tears came quick. Others, he only lay there, awake until dawn, whispering words he’d never let himself write.
Once, Heston found him stumbling back to his own chambers at sunrise, cloak askew, hair tangled. The butler only bowed. His silence said everything: I saw. I know. I will not speak of it.
But the courtiers noticed. They always did.
The salon was thick with perfume and firelight, heavy curtains drawn against the winter chill. Gold-trimmed fans snapped openand shut with the precision of swords, though the blows they dealt were softer, more poisonous.
