When Aiden woke again, he awoke to the sterile scent of antiseptic and the dull ache of bandages tightly wound around his torso. There was a faint throb pulsing at the side of his neck, softened by the haze of painkillers swimming through his bloodstream.
There was no ceiling—only the sloped canvas of a tent, rapidly but skillfully set up. The stitching along the seams was meticulous.
Outside, the sun had begun its slow descent. The orange glow of evening spilled through the thin fabric, casting the space in colors of molten gold and elongated shadows.
Aiden's heart pounded violently. A low hum of white noise rang in his ears, and his chest felt hollow, like the breath had been knocked clean out of him. Every muscle in his body ached with weariness, and his mouth tasted of iron and something bitter—like blood and regret mixed into one.
For a long moment, he simply stared ahead, blank. His vision blurred around the edges. His mind clawed at the fog, unable to pin down why—or where—he was.
And then it returned, all at once.
The ambush.
The trap.
The blade aimed for his throat.
The knights.
His knights.
His hands instinctively reached for a weapon, but there was no sword at his side. His armor was gone. He was dressed only in a plain but finely woven tunic and trousers—simple in cut, yet unmistakably expensive. Even the cot beneath him was covered in crisp linen sheets, clean and well-kept.
There was no imperial sigil anywhere—but no one could miss the quality of this place. Whoever these people were, they had power.
"I wouldn't recommend moving so quickly."
Aiden's head snapped around. Pain shot through his neck like a hot wire, but he barely registered it.
A figure stood at the foot of his cot. Clad head-to-toe in black armor etched subtly with gold filigree, the figure was tall and carried himself with the kind of confidence that didn't need announcing. There were no crests, no identifying markers—only the faintest glint of a dagger at his belt.
"You've reopened the stitches," the figure said with a soft tch of disapproval, voice low and gravel-edged.
Aiden didn't answer. His muscles locked tight, curling in instinctive defense. His frown deepened, wariness overtaking confusion. These people may have rescued him, but he had no idea who they truly were. And trust—trust was far too expensive a thing to give freely.
When he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse, scraped raw by disuse and pain.
"Who the hell are you?"
The figure didn't answer immediately. Instead, he reached up, unclasping his helm with practiced ease.
A man. Sharp-featured. Pale-eyed. His expression unreadable. There was a thin scar trailing down his cheekbone, disappearing beneath the collar of his armor. His gaze wasn't hostile, but it wasn't gentle either—it was sharp, like a sword yet to be drawn. He looked at Aiden not like a person, but a mission.
"Ordo Ultimus," the man replied flatly. "The emperor's hidden blade. I am Commander Taurus Witherspoon."
Aiden's eyes widened—just a flicker, but there all the same.
Ordo Ultimus?
That couldn't be.
"They're a myth," he bit out, his voice regaining some of its bite.
"And yet," the man said dryly, "here we are."
As if on cue, a woman entered—lean, quick-footed, dressed plainly. Without waiting for an invitation, she crossed the tent and crouched beside the cot. A healer.
Aiden noticed immediately how different she was from the palace physicians. She didn't bow. Didn't fuss. Didn't even acknowledge his title. She didn't need to. Like the commander, she answered to someone higher than him.
"May I?" she asked, but her hands were already at his bandages, unwrapping them with practiced ease.
Aiden barely glanced at her. His eyes were back on Witherspoon. "You followed me—"
"It might sting a little," the healer interjected, cutting him off as she peeled the cloth away. "The cut is deep. I'll try to be gentle."
"No need," Aiden grunted, annoyed. "I can handle the pain."
He caught the faintest twitch in the corner of the healer's mouth—an almost-smile. He had a feeling she'd just rolled her eyes at him.
Still, he returned his focus to the commander—until a sudden hiss escaped him. "Ah—!"
The ointment burned against the reopened wound. He glared at the healer, who looked entirely unbothered. Her face was neutral, her movements efficient.
Witherspoon spoke again, calm and detached. "The stitches wouldn't have reopened if you hadn't moved so recklessly. Then again, if Your Highness weren't so reckless, perhaps you wouldn't have needed stitches in the first place."
Aiden's jaw clenched. "I swear," he gritted out, "if I wanted to be preached at, I would've gone to the temple—"
Another gasp as the healer dabbed at a particularly deep gash. "Oh, gods—can you be a little gentler?!" he snapped finally.
"I thought His Highness didn't want gentle," the healer replied sweetly. "You said you could handle it."
Aiden's irritation burned hotter. Before he could retort, the commander spoke again.
"Marcille. Enough."
The healer—Marcille—nodded silently, but the gleam of quiet satisfaction never left her eyes. She clearly enjoyed watching the prince squirm.
Witherspoon turned his attention back to Aiden, his tone clipped. "The emperor's orders were clear: you are to be protected and returned alive."
And with that, Aiden realized something. These people didn't just serve the crown. They served Elliott. And only Elliott.