The attendants didn't linger. It was obvious to anyone with eyes that the prince and the emperor needed privacy. They bowed out quickly, one after the other, the soft rustle of silk robes and the quiet tap of slippers against marble disappearing down the hallway until silence returned.
Now, the chamber belonged to just two.
The fire burned low in the hearth, casting amber light that flickered across the grand room. Outside, the wind howled softly. The scent of lavender oils and warm bathwater still lingered in the air, comforting and familiar.
Aiden stood behind Elliott, long fingers deftly combing through the emperor's damp hair. The older man sat still, his expression unreadable as the firelight painted warm hues across his cheekbones. The only sounds in the room were the steady crackle of burning wood and the whisper of the comb slipping through strands of gold.
There was a calmness to it, but not peace. The silence between them was comfortable only in the way well-worn routines often were—familiar, habitual. But beneath that familiarity, the tension simmered like a pot left too long on the stove—quiet, but close to spilling over.
Despite the earlier playful words exchanged, the icy tension between had not truly thawed. Not after everything. Not yet.
Elliott's gaze was fixed on the flames. His posture was relaxed, but his mind was active beneath the stillness. The guilt had settled in the pit of his stomach like a stone. Heavy. Unmoving.
He had hidden the truth from Aiden.
He had kept the truth about Rosethorne from the boy—no, the man—thinking that love would be enough. That if he loved Aiden fiercely enough, if he gave him safety, power, a future—then perhaps the boy wouldn't need the past.
He thought he'd made the right choice.
Until today.
Until Aiden came home, his body half-broken from chasing ghosts Elliott had long buried. Until Aiden—his Aiden—had seen no better option than to drug him, just to seek answers Elliott had stubbornly locked away. Until Elliott had watched him walk into a trap for scraps of truth, because the boy had lost all faith that Elliott would ever give him any.
Elliott could be angry. By all accounts, he should be. Aiden had disobeyed, lied, endangered himself.
But... how could he be angry?
When he was the one who had closed every other door?
How could he fault Aiden for walking into a snare when he himself had bricked over every safer path the boy might've taken?
What right did he have to be furious at a child—because that's what Aiden had still been, no matter how tall he stood now—who just wanted to know why his entire family was dead?
Elliott had thought he was protecting him. When he took the boy in, Aiden had been eight—fragile, furious, grieving. Elliott couldn't bring himself to pour salt into wounds that hadn't even begun to scab by bringing it up again. And so he stayed silent.
He silenced the whispers. Quashed the court gossip. Threatened anyone who dared to speak Rosethorne's name aloud.
At first, it was an act of mercy.
He didn't want the boy hearing twisted tales—didn't want rumors becoming truth in Aiden's head. He told himself that he would explain, one day. When Aiden was older. When he was ready. When the timing was right.
But that timing never came. And Elliott—he became afraid.
Afraid that once Aiden knew the truth, he would look at him differently. Hate him. Blame him.
And Elliott... Elliott couldn't bear that. Not from Aiden. Not from the only person he still had left in this cursed palace that felt like home.
He justified it, calling it protection. And in a way, maybe it was. After all, what good was the truth now? The man responsible was dead. Long buried. What justice could Aiden get from bones?
And yet... what an arrogant, foolish thought.
Because maybe Aiden never wanted vengeance. Maybe he just wanted answers. Maybe he just wanted to feel like his family's deaths mattered to someone beyond himself.
Elliott didn't even notice when his gaze left the hearth and drifted upward. His eyes settled on Aiden—on the soft crease of his brow as he focused on combing his hair, on the slight tremble in his fingers he tried to mask. His expression was careful, but Elliott had known him too long. The silence wasn't just habitual. It was brittle.
And then, Elliott spoke.
His voice broke the quiet like glass.
"I was wrong."
Aiden froze.
He hadn't been expecting anything—least of all that. His hand stilled mid-comb, the room suddenly holding its breath.
Elliott didn't wait for him to respond. He couldn't. If he did, he might stop. And if he stopped, he might never start again.
"I thought..." he faltered. The words were thick, clumsy on his tongue. He tried again. "I thought if you never knew... it wouldn't hurt you. That if I buried it with them, you wouldn't have to carry it."
Aiden slowly lowered the comb. His voice was quiet, almost unnaturally so. "Carry what?"
Elliott met his gaze. His smile was small, tired, more sorrow than humor. "The burden," he said. "Of the truth about your parents."
The air thickened.
Aiden's breath caught, the comb slipping from his fingers onto the plush carpet below with a quiet thud. He hadn't expected Elliott to address it. He hadn't expected this honesty—not now. Not after everything.
Elliott inhaled deeply, steadying himself against the tremble beginning to creep into his hands.
"There were no official records," he said slowly. "My father made sure of that. He always did. Especially with the people he..." He trailed off, eyes dimming. For a moment, he couldn't bring himself to finish the sentence.
Killed.
The word sat like a blade on his tongue.
But he couldn't say it. Not yet. Not like this. So he chose a softer truth.
"Eliminated."
Aiden didn't speak. He didn't move.
Elliott went on. "There's nothing tying him to it. No documents. No witnesses. But I knew. I knew the way children know—the way you hear the wrong things in the dark. I was eleven when it happened. I didn't understand all of it, but I understood enough."
The fire crackled softly behind them. Outside, the wind screamed against the windows.
Elliott looked down at his hands. He'd made so many mistakes. And this—this was the one that mattered most.
"I thought I was doing the right thing," he whispered. "But I wasn't doing it for you. Not entirely. I was doing it for me too. Because I was afraid. Afraid that you'd hate me. That you'd see me differently. That you'd leave."
He looked up, and there was something unbearably raw in his eyes.
"I'm sorry, Aiden."
And this time, he meant it. Not as a ruler. Not as an emperor.
As a man who'd tried to protect a child from the world's ugliest truths—and failed.