Aiden stubbornly didn't speak until she had left the tent.
The commander remained, and he seemed... amused. Not openly, but it was there—the faintest hint of mirth tugging at the corner of his lips. Like he was holding something back. Probably something along the lines of: No matter how composed the regent tried to act, at the end of the day, he was still barely twenty-one.
Aiden inhaled slowly, trying to push down the renewed irritation prickling at the edge of his thoughts. His tone, when he finally spoke, was clipped and just a touch passive-aggressive.
"If the interruptions are done," he said coolly, "can I finally speak now?"
The commander gave a polite nod, his voice as neutral as possible. "Of course, Your Highness."
Smart man. Even he knew it wasn't wise to provoke a bristling prince any further.
Aiden exhaled through his nose, forcing himself to refocus—back to the man's introduction. Back to the absurd statement that had started it all.
"You said..." Aiden's brow furrowed as he fixed the man with a skeptical look. "You're the commander of the Ordo Ultimus. So it... exists?"
He didn't mean for it to sound quite so doubtful, but the disbelief slipped through anyway. The proof was literally sitting in front of him, and still, it was hard to wrap his head around. He knew the palace. Knew it from the inside out. He knew the military structure, the knights, every single unit, every name, every record. Not once—not once—had there been a whisper of this order's existence. In the palace, it was spoken of like a myth. A fairytale. Something conjured in the minds of drunk squires and senile old soldiers.
The commander seemed to sense his doubt. He smiled faintly, not insulted. "Indeed, it exists. But only in the shadows," he said. "And it moves only on the Emperor's command."
Of course it did.
Aiden's jaw tightened, just slightly. He didn't know what exactly he was feeling—couldn't pin it down. It was a mixture of everything.
Of course.
Of course Elliott had a secret order of knights.
Of course he had never mentioned them.
And of course he'd sent them after Aiden like a misbehaving child in need of a leash.
Aiden looked away, jaw clenched. He pushed himself upright with a small grunt, ignoring the burning ache that flared across his chest. His wounds were still fresh—his body wasn't ready to move like this—but he refused to lie down like an invalid.
He steadied himself with one hand, and looked back up. "How long was I out?"
"Two days," the commander replied smoothly. Then, noticing Aiden's tightening expression, he added helpfully, "Natural, considering your wounds. We were counting on you waking up even later."
Aiden didn't look reassured. His gaze dipped toward the dirt flooring of the tent, and when he spoke again, it was quieter. Barely audible.
"Elliott..."
He didn't need to finish the question.
The commander filled in the silence. "Still asleep. The sedative you laced His Majesty with was quite strong, Your Highness. Though I can't say His Majesty will be very pleased when he does wake up."
Aiden exhaled sharply, a breath that was somewhere between relief and guilt.
Good. At least Elliott was still asleep. At least he didn't have to face him yet.
It wasn't the anger that Aiden feared. He could deal with Elliott's fury—shouting, frustration, scolding, he could survive all that. What he couldn't face—what he dreaded more than anything—was the disappointment. Or worse: fear. Fear in Elliott's eyes because of him.
Because he had lied. Because he had gone behind his back. Because he had drugged the one man in the world who had ever truly given a damn about him.
Aiden didn't respond. Didn't raise his eyes.
The commander continued anyway, voice calm and observational. "You knew it was a trap."
Aiden nodded once. "I did."
"And you came anyway."
There was no answer to that. No justification.
Silence fell again. The kind that felt too heavy. It thickened the air in the tent, tense and taut like a drawn bowstring. The commander said nothing. He didn't need to. Aiden refused to meet his gaze. His shoulders were tight, posture rigid with guilt.
Then finally, the commander spoke again—quietly, like he wasn't trying to provoke anything, just stating a fact.
"He didn't know where you were going," he said. "Or why. But he knew you were lying. And that you were in danger."
Aiden still didn't speak. His breath hitched.
"He drank the tea anyway."
Aiden's chest constricted.
Of course he knew. Of course Elliott knew. He was too observant not to. Aiden had been hoping—praying—that maybe this time, Elliott would miss it. That maybe the lie would slip past him unnoticed. But that hope was crushed now, ground beneath the truth.
Elliott had known. He knew the tea was laced. He knew Aiden was going somewhere dangerous. He knew the younger man was lying through his teeth and heading straight into a blood-soaked trap.
And yet, he drank it anyway.
Because he knew Aiden wouldn't stop. Even if he begged him.
Aiden bit his lower lip hard, enough to split it. The taste of blood was immediate, sharp and metallic on his tongue. His chest ached, but not from the wounds.
And suddenly, he didn't know whether he dreaded or longed for the moment Elliott would wake. He yearned for comfort—yearned for the familiar voice and steady hands—but the shame rooted him in place like iron chains.
The commander noticed the change in his expression—the tight jaw, the flicker of something too close to anguish. He didn't pry. Instead, he stepped forward, placed a neatly folded pile of clothes and a cloak beside Aiden's cot.
"We ride back at dawn," he said simply. "The Emperor will be awake by morning. You might want to sleep early tonight, Your Highness. You know the journey is long."
Aiden didn't move. Didn't pick up the clothes. Didn't even glance at them. His clenched fists remained tightly wound in the blanket beneath him, knuckles white.
"You're angry," the commander observed. Not as a question, but a fact.
Aiden didn't deny it.
Amid the swirl of shame, regret, and exhaustion, yes—there was anger too.
"I don't exactly like being followed," he muttered bitterly.
"You'd be dead if you weren't."
Aiden had no retort to that. Because it was true. If it hadn't been for the Ordo Ultimus, he would've bled out on a battlefield, just another stupid martyr in a story no one asked for.
As the commander turned and finally left the tent, silence returned like a weighted cloak.
Aiden pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes. For a long time, he stayed like that, unmoving. Breathing slowly. Letting the silence close in.
And then, everything hit at once.
He'd walked into a trap—willingly.
He'd led his knights into what was practically a suicide mission.
He'd endangered himself. And worse—he'd endangered Elliott.
And by extension, the entire empire.
God. He'd been such a fool.
Shame curdled in his gut. It was thick, acidic, impossible to ignore. Elliott had protected him. Even now. Even when he didn't understand.
And what had Aiden done in return?
Lied. Drugged the one person who'd ever stood beside him. All because he didn't want Elliott to see the worst of him.
"Fuck," he whispered, voice breaking on the word.
The real confrontation was coming. When they reached the capital. When Elliott opened his eyes and looked at him.
Aiden wasn't ready.
He wasn't ready to see what would be reflected in them. Not anger. Not hatred.
No—he wasn't ready to see disappointment. Or fear. Or heartbreak.
And gods, it was coming.
And he didn't know if he could survive it.