The Imperial Palace, the canal.
In just under two hours, the palace's private canal had been transformed. Elliott had somehow coordinated everything— giving quick instructions, arranging supplies— and turned the quiet riverside into something that could almost pass for the Moonlit Canal festival itself.
He wasn't the kind of ruler who barked orders and expected them to be magically done; he'd simply asked the servants what they could realistically manage with the short notice. After all, he'd informed them late—he'd been caught up in some problem the aide had brought him, and that was on him.
But the staff, despite being told not to stress themselves, had outdone even his expectations.
Strings of lanterns hung between the trees, glowing softly against the night. The bridges and gazebos had been dressed with flowers in shades of cream, blush, and gold. Petals had been scattered along the water's edge, while lotus blooms drifted lazily across the canal. Three low tables had been set up, each carrying neat stacks of clay, shallow water bowls, and trays of powdered dyes— everything needed for making festival lamps.
Aiden stopped at the edge of the path, blinking at the sight. "...You prepared all of this?"
Elliott, who had been turned toward the water, looked back at him with a small smile. "What can I say? The staff outdid themselves."
Behind Aiden, Gabriella followed in at an unhurried pace. Elliott glanced between them. "Now that we're all here, let's get started."
Aiden narrowed his eyes slightly. He had a suspicion about what "started" meant, but... surely not. "...Started? On what?"
"Making the lamps, of course." Elliott rolled up his sleeves while an attendant stepped forward to tie his hair back.
"You're going to make the lamps. Yourself. From mud," Aiden repeated, just to be certain he was hearing correctly.
Elliott nodded.
"But... why?"
"Haven't you heard? It's tradition. Most people do buy premade ones, but it's said if you put personal effort into it, the wish has a better chance of coming true."
"You seriously believe in all that?" Aiden asked, his brow raised.
"It doesn't hurt to try, does it?" Elliott replied easily.
"...But... you're the emperor. And you're going to make mud lamps."
"I sure am." Elliott walked over to him without hesitation and tugged him toward the nearest table. "And you are too—unless the great prince is afraid of a little clay?"
Aiden scoffed, though his eyes softened. "I'm not immature enough to rise to that obvious bait," he huffed. Yet he was already lowering himself onto the cushion, rolling up his own sleeves.
Gabriella had taken the third table. She was already wearing a half-sleeved gown and waved a languid hand. "If you're both done with your banter, start soon—the clay dries fast."
Aiden rolled his eyes, but his lips twitched faintly.
Elliott's table was between them. He picked up a lump of clay first. "Right. We knead it first—get the air bubbles out."
Aiden tilted his head. "Since when do you know so much about making clay lamps?"
"Since I read a book while someone was sulking in their study," Elliott replied cheerfully, hands already shaping his clay into a smooth sphere. He pressed and folded it with deliberate motions, eyes focused, his voice warm with interest. "It's fascinating, actually—you mix river silt with ash to keep it from cracking, and—"
Aiden wasn't really listening to the explanation. His hands moved on instinct, kneading the clay, but his thoughts were somewhere else entirely. His gaze kept drifting sideways—to the way Elliott's fingers moved with quiet precision, to the way his brow furrowed slightly when concentrating. Elliott was always like this—fully invested in whatever task he took on. He didn't dismiss anything as beneath him, even when his title gave him every excuse to.
All this for a promise made years ago. One he could have easily forgotten. But he hadn't. He had recreated a miniature festival inside the palace, just so they could keep it.
Aiden's eyes traced over the details of his face— and then he noticed it. A smear of clay on Elliott's cheek, just below his left eye. Elliott, focused entirely on getting his clay into the mold, didn't seem to have realized.
Without thinking, Aiden reached out, thumb brushing the spot. "You've got something there—"
Only he forgot one detail: his own hands were still coated in clay. Instead of wiping it away, he left an even bigger patch.
Aiden froze. Oh.
...Oh no.
"I—oh, god—"
Elliott blinked, caught off guard by the sudden touch and the curse. He hadn't even registered what Aiden had done—just that he'd felt his fingers against his cheek, and now there was something there. His own clay-covered hand instinctively rose to his face, smearing it further.
Gabriella snorted. "You've got clay on half your face now, son."
One of the attendants, clearly entertained, stepped forward with a small mirror. Elliott leaned in to look—and finally understood. He glanced at Aiden's mortified expression and immediately burst into laughter.
Meanwhile, Aiden had already gone to wash his hands. Another attendant handed him a damp cloth, and without a word, he returned to Elliott's side.
"Stop fidgeting," Aiden murmured, holding Elliott's chin steady.
Elliott smirked, but he didn't move. He let the younger man carefully wipe the clay away, the cloth warm and damp against his skin. There was something unhurried in the way Aiden worked—gentle, like he was afraid of hurting him. Elliott felt his face warm despite the cool night air, and if anyone asked, it was absolutely the wind's fault.
Aiden's fingers brushed his jaw as he checked for any last trace of clay, and for just a second, neither of them said anything. The lantern light caught in Elliott's eyes, making them shine like warm pools of water.
Aiden looked away first.
By some miracle, they actually finished the lamps. The servants wasted no time in swiftly baking and glazing them in the colors each of them chose.
Elliott's turned out a little lopsided, the glaze a soft gold that caught the lantern light. Aiden's was rough but functional—shaped for maximum floating efficiency, because of course it was. Gabriella's, infuriatingly, looked like something straight from a craftsman's stall. Perfect in shape, perfect in glaze.
"Let's float them," Elliott said, getting to his feet.
He walked over to the steps that led down to the canal's edge, kneeling on one knee. Aiden followed a beat later, kneeling right beside him. For safety, obviously. What if Elliott slipped into the water? That was the only reason to sit that close. Obviously.
Elliott held his lamp in one palm, the small flame flickering as he lit it. Then he took it in both hands, cupping them together in a prayer-like gesture. His eyes closed.
"I wish for the war to end with the least amount of destruction and casualties possible."
Aiden's breath caught. Of course. Even now, Elliott thought of the greater good. Even now—he thought of everyone but himself.
Gabriella's lips curved faintly as she lit her own lamp. "I wish for my son to stop being a reckless idiot."
Elliott gasped, genuinely offended. "You can't wish for that! That's not true!"
"Says the one who snuck out in the middle of the worst circumstances possible," Gabriella replied smoothly.
"That—" Elliott scowled, but there was no heat in it. "That's cheating."
"It's called pragmatism, son."
Aiden stayed quiet as the mother and son exchanged barbs. When Gabriella finally floated her lamp, only his was left.
Elliott nudged him. "Your turn now."
Aiden's fingers tightened around the clay lamp. He lit it and lowered it gently to the water, letting it go without saying a word.
Elliott raised a brow. "You didn't make a wish?"
"If I tell you, it won't come true," Aiden said quickly.
Elliott clearly wasn't satisfied. "Oh, come on. Tell me."
Aiden kept his eyes on the drifting lamps and said nothing. Elliott nudged him again, this time leaning his head on Aiden's shoulder in an obvious attempt to be annoying until he got an answer. His voice went almost sing-song. "Tell meee. Okay, fine—how about you whisper it to only me? I'm curious."
Aiden turned to meet his eyes. There was a faint blush on his cheeks as he nudged Elliott's head away and stood up— making sure Elliott couldn't pull that stunt again.
"It's... about the war too. Like yours," Aiden said.
He lied. His wish wasn't a grand plea for the war or the world. His wish was much smaller, much quieter.
Let me keep him safe. Let me keep him safe with me.
Out on the canal, the lamps were already drifting away, picked up by the gentle current, carried until their tiny flames became distant specks of light. And then, slowly, they disappeared.