Page 73 of Oath
The battlefield had finally given them a reprieve. Night fell soft and near, the kind of dark that muffled pain and grit and left only the small, private noises—the creak of leather, the hiss of a dying fire, the slow fall of new spring snow through broken limbs. Crows circled once and then vanished, as if even scavengers respected the quiet.
Clyde sat alone, shoulders hunched against the cold, a strip of rawhide wrapped around his palm where the grip had worn him raw. The men around him slept in patches of dim: curled bodies heavy with exhaustion, a laugh or a curse caught in dreams, onegroan that came and went like a tide. Marreck’s place at the fire was empty; the space beside Renn’s cot was a hollow shaped like a man.
He didn’t drink. He had stopped trying to drown anything with alcohol a long time ago; it dulled the edge but left the shape the same. He did not sleep. There was no comfort to be had in sleep when the world outside the tent still smelled of blood and char.
So he did a small thing instead, something methodical and private. He set his dagger against the inside of his round shield and began to work. The shield had been with him since Blackholt; it bore splits and old iron scars, pocked where arrows had kissed and wood had taken the blow. He had repaired it more times than he could count. The leather strap he’d replaced twice. The steel rim had been hammered flat and healed until it hummed more like memory than metal. There was little untouched anymore.
He found a bare curve inside the rim and wedged the blade’s point there. The scrape of steel on wood sounded obscene in the hush—too loud for the stillness—so he kept his hands small, his breaths shallow, keeping time with the stroke. He carved slowly, each motion deliberate. The name formed like a prayer: heavy, careful letters gouged into the grain.
A—e—r—i—o—n.
NotLord. NotArchduke. NotMy lordwith its stiff courtesy. Just the letters of the one word that would make his chest break if it were spoken in the wrong room. Aerion.
As the groove deepened, Clyde thought of Renn. He had not let the boy near him since the night Aerion left. At first it had been a reflex—an instinct to set lines, to push away anything that might fray the bond he’d sworn to protect. But the choice had taken on weight. Guilt sat on his ribs like a stone. He thought of Renn’s soft face, the raw tilt of his apology, the boy’s retreat withnothing in his hands but shame. He remembered the hunger in those eyes, too young and too trusting, and how he had turned it to his own purpose. That knowledge sat in him like a splinter.
Clyde told himself reasons. He arranged them like armour: Renn had crossed a line, but Clyde had made it final—better to wound him once than let him be ruined slowly. Better a boy be spared the scandal and sorrow of a lord’s bed than shackled to a man whose whole life was steel and shadow. Better to turn the boy’s clumsy affection into a tool than to let Aerion’s reckless love be seen by sharper eyes at court.
But beneath the righteousness he recited, a harsher truth burned. He had used Renn. He had taken something innocent—a kiss pressed into his palm, a boy’s confused devotion—and twisted it into a blade he could put between himself and Aerion. He told himself it was protection. That Aerion would be safer, freer, if driven back. That by breaking his own heart, he was saving Aerion from worse.
The lies stood in line like soldiers, polished and disciplined. Clyde gave them medals in his mind. But when the night fell quiet and no one watched, he knew what they were: excuses. Thin as ash. And the guilt clung heavier than blood.
The blade scraped the wood again. Dust rose in a pale puff. He followed the groove with his thumb, feeling the rawness beneath his skin where the tool had bitten. The ring of carved letters held in the shadow of the shield like a secret. He pressed his thumb into the last cut—the little N—and the wood caught in the pad of his skin. For a moment he expected splinters; instead, the grain left dark marks on his thumb, and the warmth from his palm pressed into the wood as if trying to make a transfer.
It was a small wound, permanent in a way that mattered only to him. He touched the final letter and, absurdly, his eyes burned. The name was there in the curve of his shield now,private and ridiculous and defiant. A wound in wood to mirror the wound that Aerion’s absence had opened in him.
He sat with his hand curled around the rim, the shield on his knees, listening to the camp breathe.
Clyde rose, tucked the shield against the crate, and sat back down with his head in his hands until the first pale wash of dawn made the edges of the night seem less absolute.
The council chamber had become a gallery of painted smiles.
Stacks of parchment lined the long oak table—letters, pedigrees, portraits on stiff vellum, each a supplication bound with ribbon or pressed with wax. The faces blurred together: bright eyes painted too wide, lips curved in careful half-smiles, names that all began to sound the same after the tenth repetition.
Aerion sat slouched in his father’s chair, one elbow propped against the armrest, chin in hand. He flipped one portrait over with two fingers, then another, then another, each landing with a quiet slap against the table.
“Lady Marcelline of the South Fens,” droned the chamberlain, voice patient though the lines around his eyes betrayed fatigue. “Second daughter. Educated. Her dowry would add ships to Valemont’s fleet.”
Aerion raised a brow, unimpressed. “Ships sink.” He flicked the parchment aside.
The next. “Lady Rosamund of Greyford. Known for her piety, her embroidery, her skill with the lute—”
Aerion snorted. “I need a duchess, not a minstrel.” That one was tossed, too.
Another. And another. And another. Each description faded into the same monotony—duty, dowry, bloodline. All of it made Aerion’s skin itch. Every name was a chain. Every painted smile, a coffin.
Finally, he leaned back, exhaling through his teeth, his sapphire eyes sharp as broken glass. “They’re all the same.”
“My lord—” the chamberlain began.
“Pick one,” Aerion cut him off. He spread his hands, mockery curling in his voice though his expression was flat, exhausted. “Go on. Choose. Draw lots, throw darts, pluck one from the pile. It doesn’t matter. A womb is a womb. An heir is an heir. The rest—ribbons and noise.”
The chamberlain stiffened. His quill stilled over the ledger. For years he had held to the quiet hope that Aerion—spoiled, sharp-tongued, unpredictable Aerion—might yet find someone who matched him. Someone to soften the edges, to anchor him, to coax out the warmth he buried beneath venom.
But this… this was not marriage. This was surrender.
“My lord,” the chamberlain said carefully, voice low, “this is not how it should be.”
Aerion tilted his head, smirk sharp as a knife’s edge. “And yet, this is how it will be.”
