Chapter 13

Aiden didn't know what he was supposed to be feeling—maybe guilt. Or shame, for taking power the way he had.

But all he felt was relief.

Because Elliott was alive.

Asleep.

Asleep—and unable to stop him.

The throne room was still heavy with the echo of recent chaos. The scent of smoke and incense lingered, clinging to the high-arched ceilings. Shafts of sunlight cut through the stained glass, illuminating the marble floor in fractured gold and crimson. And at the heart of it all, Aiden stood tall and still, a figure carved from storm and steel.

The court hadn't even caught its breath from the last blow when Aiden gave his first order.

He did not sit on the throne.

He stood before it, one hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword, not in ceremony—but readiness.

He didn't speak like a monarch giving decrees. He gave orders like a man on the battlefield—quick, brutal, absolute.

"Every envoy from the enemy empire is to be seized," he said. His voice was calm, too calm—like the pause just before the ground splits open beneath you. "Interrogate them. Thoroughly."

A ripple moved through the court—small, tight gasps.

Then, the second order, spoken more softly, yet far deadlier:

"And bring me Lord Veylar." A pause. A cruel twist of the lips. "Alive. I'll interrogate him... personally."

The Grand Admiral bowed low. A seasoned warrior, he had served under three reigns. He had seen cruelty and mercy both wielded like blades—but this?

This was different.

He had always assumed Aiden's rule, when it came, would resemble the previous emperor's—strategic, ambitious, cold.

But this wasn't cruelty for the sake of power.

Aiden wasn't unkind, not exactly.

Nor was he power-hungry. Even now, he stood before the throne without the slightest interest in occupying it. He wore no crown. He made no speeches.

No, this wasn't filial duty.

It was something else.

Something deeper.

More dangerous.

Devotion.

No—obsession.

The admiral's spine straightened with quiet awareness. The empire was entering a new era. And it would not resemble anything that had come before.

"It will be done, Your Highness."

The court stood frozen, wide-eyed, barely breathing.

The military—the real power of the empire—moved at Aiden's word like an extension of his will.

The moment the word "dismissed" passed his lips, the court dissolved like frightened birds startled into flight.

Still, Aiden didn't move.

He remained there, rigid and silent before the throne.

And only now—only now—did they begin to understand.

He didn't stand like a ruler.

Not even like a named heir.

He stood like a guard dog.

Not for the empire. Not even for the crown.

For the man who once sat upon it.

And suddenly, it clicked.

They hadn't just underestimated Aiden.

They had never understood him at all.

The throne room eventually emptied, leaving only a hush behind.

Dust swirled slowly in the light from the high windows. Somewhere in the distance, a bell tolled the next hour.

Aiden turned.

He looked at the throne.

And suddenly—he couldn't stand anymore.

He had never seen it empty. Not really. Not like this.

All his life, that seat had belonged to Elliott. And now that it didn't, something in the room felt wrong. Off-balance.

Unnatural.

Aiden moved forward. Not to ascend it. Not to claim it.

He sat, instead, on the topmost marble step at its base.

And only then did the weight begin to settle—on his shoulders, in his bones. 

He let his arms rest on his knees, head slightly bowed. The weight of hours—of decisions and blood and fear—finally cracked through his armor.

He thought of Elliott's face, pale and still.

His breathing, shallow and strained.

His fingers twitching, reaching for Aiden's sleeve even as his consciousness slipped in and out, as if—as if he knew.

Knew what Aiden would do next.

Knew the path Aiden would take.

And even in that state, even as the poison scorched his lungs, he had still tried to stop him.

Aiden let out a slow breath. One hand drifted to the side of the throne—Elliott's throne—and his fingers found the grooves in the armrest. The indentations where Elliott's fingers had once curled.

He traced them slowly, as if trying to memorize the shape of someone no longer there.

As if—if he remembered it well enough—it would make the throne feel less empty.

Less cold.

Less wrong.

He closed his eyes.

And whispered, barely audible in the cavernous quiet:

"You should've let me kill them sooner."

His voice cracked slightly.

"This wouldn't have happened if you'd just let me—let me protect you properly."

The words fell like stones.

Too raw.

Too much.

He didn't even realize what he had said. Or how it sounded. Or who might have heard.

Protect you properly.

Not as a prince.

Not as a son.

Something else entirely.