Page 59 of Oath
“I have no desire tobreedout of obligation,” Aerion snapped, silk sleeves flashing as he threw himself into the Archduke’s chair. “I am not a broodmare to be ploughed for the sake of your comfort.”
Baedwin did not flinch. He folded his hands, ever the diplomat. “Desire or not, duty remains. You must consider appearances. Whispers already circle. About this… correspondence.”
Aerion’s smile froze, sharp and terrible. “Is it illegal for an Archduke to receive letters?”
“Not illegal,” Baedwin admitted carefully. “But… unorthodox. You spend all your nights alone. You refuse banquets. You no longer entertain guests. Some think you—”
“What?” Aerion’s voice dropped, quiet and lethal, cutting like drawn steel. He rose from his chair, the air itself seeming to sharpen around him. “Say it plainly.”
Baedwin faltered. His gaze darted to the others.
Lord Branvel cleared his throat, heavy rings clicking as he gripped the table. “My lord… the rumours spread faster than we can contain. They say your preferences lie… elsewhere.”
A ripple of murmurs followed—nervous, scandalized, hopeful that someone else might voice it louder.
Aerion tilted his head, eyes glittering like frost. Then he smiled. Not warm. Not kind. “So. You send me men?”
The words cut like ice.
Lord Darrick, always the most blunt, bristled. “If such is your… inclination, my lord, then better it be made proper. A suitable companion may warm your bed. No one would object. Then you might still take a wife of appropriate standing to bearan heir. You could live as you pleased, comfortably, with no threat to the line.”
Aerion barked a laugh, sharp and cruel. “Comfortably. Do you know what comfort is, Darrick? Comfort is a leash with velvet lining. You would have me rut with a stranger by night and play the dutiful stud by day.”
“My lord—”
“No!” Aerion’s voice cracked like thunder, echoing through the vaulted chamber. He strode toward Baedwin, every step coiled with fury. “Perhaps they’re right. Perhaps Ihavefallen in love with the only man who’s ever bled for me without demanding my seat in return.”
Gasps fluttered across the chamber like startled birds. A quill snapped in some clerk’s hand. Someone dropped a goblet.
Baedwin swallowed hard, voice softer now, like one trying to soothe a wounded beast. “You could be ruined, my lord. Tied to a man who may never return.”
For a moment, Aerion’s hand trembled at his side. His jaw worked.
Then he turned, silk cloak flaring, and strode to the far end of the chamber. His back to them all, his voice low and steady, iron wrapped in velvet:
“Then let me be ruined.”
Silence fell like a guillotine. Not a single man dared speak after that.
And though Aerion walked out with his head high, his heart thundered as if he had just bared it to the blade.
Snow fell heavy that night, muting the clash of steel until the world seemed wrapped in muffled cries and the hiss of bloodagainst ice. The battle had broken hours ago, leaving the field littered with the groans of the dying, the stillness of the dead, and the weary shuffle of those who remained standing.
Clyde knelt in the snow, his gloves stiff with gore, his arms cradling Sir Marreck. The older knight’s once-broad chest was pierced through, his breath rattling shallow, wet, a wheeze between every gasp. His hand, calloused and cracked, clutched Clyde’s forearm like an anchor.
“Easy,” Clyde murmured, though his voice broke. “Just breathe.”
Marreck’s mouth twisted, blood at the corner of his lips. “Always… were a liar… commander.” His eyes, once bright with crude humour around the fire, glazed with pain. “Tell the boys… I… laughed at the end.”
Clyde’s throat closed. He bowed his head, forehead pressing against Marreck’s temple, holding on as though sheer will could force the man’s heart to keep beating.
But then Marreck’s chest stilled. His grip loosened. His eyes fixed on nothing.
Clyde stayed there a long time, one arm still wrapped around him, until the cold had seeped through both cloak and mail. For a moment, just one, he allowed himself to bow his head and weep. Silent, shoulders shaking, tears hot against the frozen air.
When he finally rose, it was with iron weight dragging at his limbs. He left Marreck with the other fallen, closing the man’s eyes with a gentleness his enemies had never known, and walked back to camp.
The tent felt smaller than ever. The air smelled of damp wool, smoke, and steel. On the crude table lay Aerion’s last letter, the seal cracked weeks ago, the parchment softened by how often Clyde’s fingers had smoothed it. He’d memorized every line, every curve of ink, the faint trace of perfume that had long since faded.
