The mirrors continued to crack— however, this time, not even a single shard touched Elliott. Aiden had his dagger drawn, moving with practiced ease, deflecting each flying shard like it was nothing. His wrist flicked, his grip steady and movements sharp. Not a single sliver of glass was allowed to even graze Elliott.
The priests standing behind the mirrors didn't move. They didn't even flinch. They didn't dare to. Interfering with the ritual was unthinkable. Their eyes darted but their hands stayed frozen, bound more tightly by faith than by fear.
That seemed to enrage Aiden further.
"Turn the mirrors down," he snarled, voice like a blade scraping over stone.
No one moved. Their faces were conflicted, but their faith tethered them to stillness. That pause, that hesitation— when Elliott was bleeding in his arms— was the end of Aiden's patience.
There were no guards inside the main hall of the temple— sacrilege to bring weapons here. But of course, high-ranking commanders were present. No weapons allowed? That rule seemed to apply to everyone except Aiden.
And apparently Commander Lira, too.
She stepped forward, her expression carved from stone, pressing a dagger right against the trembling throat of the high priest. The man stiffened, his lips parting in a shaky gasp.
"The priests won't listen to the prince," Lira said flatly. "They'll listen to you."
"Uh—" the high priest fumbled, eyes wide with panic. He was reluctant. Too reluctant. The danger to Elliott didn't matter enough to him— certainly not more than the ritual. He loved Elliott as the Sun's chosen descendant. But his priority wasn't Elliott bleeding on the floor— it was the divine rite, the unbroken cycle of faith.
And if the Sun God's supposed will was fury aimed at Elliott... then so be it.
"That is inauspicious—" the high priest started.
"Inauspicious?" Lira cut him off with a growl. "The emperor and the prince are about to be impaled by glass shards. Is that auspicious to you?"
The high priest's face went ashen, sweat sliding down his temples. His voice shook. "If that is what the god desires—"
That was the end of her patience too.
Her dagger pressed in closer, enough for the man to choke on his own words. "Then it would be the will of the gods if I slit your throat right now?"
That was enough. More than enough. The high priest sputtered, eyes darting to the blade, realising all at once that Lira wasn't bluffing. His face contorted, lips trembling, before he finally rasped, "...Lower the mirrors."
The command rang out. The mirrors were lowered, so no more shards could fly toward the emperor and the prince. The eternal flame was wheeled back, extinguishing its violent glow. The ritual—sacred, ancient, untouchable— was adjourned.
Lira stepped back, sliding her dagger away, her gaze still hard as iron.
But Aiden wasn't watching her.
He was focused only on Elliott.
He still had the emperor in his arms, one arm wrapped protectively around his waist, the other steadying his head against his shoulder. Elliott was far too light— lighter than Aiden remembered. That detail gnawed at him. He held him tighter, almost desperately, and without waiting for permission, began striding to the exit.
"Prince Aiden, wait—" the high priest called out, voice cracking.
But Aiden was long past the point of listening.
Especially after the priest had dared to hesitate. Dared to let Elliott suffer a moment longer.
The high priest rushed to catch up, fumbling with his words. He suddenly said, "Please wait, prince—! You must not take the emperor away from the ritual—it is not disfavor!"
A hush fell. His words rang out sharp and heavy.
Up until this very moment, everyone had assumed it was disfavor. The whispers had spread like wildfire—what else could it have been? But now—this denial, this desperate cry—shifted something in the crowd.
Even Aiden's steps stilled. His jaw clenched. He didn't turn.
The high priest hurried on, scrambling, breathless. "The previous solitary rituals went perfectly! Had the Sun God truly deemed the emperor unworthy, the offerings would not have been accepted either! The water of the holy pool would have blackened, the lotuses would have withered, the offerings would have rotted—if it was disfavor, it would not have happened midway!"
That was... true. Too true.
The disfavor explanation suddenly felt weak. Hollow. Because if the Sun God truly rejected Elliott, why had he accepted his offerings without flaw?
"What is the reason, then?"
It wasn't Aiden who asked.
It was Gabriella.
She had stepped forward, her expression frosty, her eyes sharp. She wasn't reckless like Aiden. No, Gabriella knew the weight of appearances. She cared for Elliott, but she also cared for how he was seen. She knew whispers of the emperor's rejection would corrode the throne, and his claim on power.
She wasn't giving the priest a chance to explain himself. She was demanding he clear Elliott's name.
The man faltered. "I... I do not know. But it is not disfavor! Perhaps we could try again— there is still time before the eclipse—"
"No."
The word dropped like steel.
It came from Aiden.
Firm. Absolute. Final. His voice brooked no negotiation, no argument.
He didn't even spare the priest a glance. His arms tightened around Elliott's limp body, and he resumed walking.
The crowd parted silently, no one daring to step in his path.
Elliott's body sagged in his arms, heavy yet fragile. His breaths were ragged, shallow, his skin pale as ashes. Blood streaked his cheek, still dripping from the cut. His hands—those beautiful, gentle hands that were always so warm, always so steady—were now red and raw, blistering from the flame.
The emperor was half-conscious, his gaze half-lidded, unfocused. It was unclear if he even heard, if he even understood what was happening around him.
Usually, looking at Elliott calmed Aiden. It anchored him.
But looking at Elliott now— injured, weak, suffering— was tearing him apart. It only stoked the fire of fury inside him, made it burn hotter, sharper, unbearable.
And the whispers still lingered. Still spread.
Rejected. Disfavored. Sinful.
Each word was oil on the blaze. His vision tinted red.
The high priest, blind to Aiden's rising temper, hurried after him again. "Prince Aiden, please— listen! His Majesty cannot leave yet, we must try again, please—"
Aiden whirled on him.
His eyes were sharp. Too sharp. Like tempered steel, like the edge of a dagger held against your throat. For the high priest, it was more terrifying than Lira's blade had ever been.
"You will not put Elliott anywhere near those mirrors or that flame again."
Aiden's voice was not a threat or a question. It was a statement.
The high priest recoiled.
The chamber fell silent.
Aiden's grip on Elliott tightened—not enough to hurt, never that, but enough to feel him, to feel the fragile thrum of his heartbeat. That heartbeat was the only thing anchoring him, the only thing keeping him from losing himself completely to the storm of panic and rage that threatened to consume him.
Elliott stirred weakly. His eyes fluttered half-open, lids trembling as if they were too heavy to lift. His fingers twitched, clawing feebly at Aiden's chest, not even enough strength to grip properly. His lips parted, breath shallow, and a hoarse whisper slipped out, "Aiden... please... maybe... we should listen... to the high priest..."
Aiden's reply was immediate. Cold, sharp, immovable.
"No."
His voice didn't soften. Not even for Elliott.
That was the thing, wasn't it? Aiden could never say no to Elliott, usually. Most of the time, he bent without hesitation. Even when his own views clashed with Elliott's, he contained himself, swallowed his words, yielded. Not because he feared him—never that— but because he loved him. Because his respect, his reverence, ran so deep it eclipsed his pride.
But that was only true under ordinary circumstances.
And this... this was not ordinary.
The moment the situation shifted into danger, when Elliott's safety was on the line—all of that broke. All of Elliott's wishes, all of his gentle protests, all of his sweet reasoning— none of it mattered. Not compared to keeping him alive. Not compared to dragging him out of hell itself if that was what it took.
In that moment, Elliott's words meant nothing.
His safety meant everything.
If the choice ever came down to keeping him happy or keeping him safe, Aiden would always choose the latter. He would shatter Elliott's heart if it meant keeping it beating. He would bind his wrists, cage him in silk or steel, kiss his feet while he chains his ankles— whatever it took to keep him breathing.
Aiden's arms tightened around him, clutching his fragile weight as though daring the world to try and take him. His jaw set hard, his steps relentless.
Gabriella still stood in the hall, her posture poised but her eyes unreadable as she watched her son utter that final word and turn away. She didn't speak. She didn't try to intervene. Maybe she understood. Maybe she knew it was pointless.
Aiden didn't even glance back at her. He couldn't. His mind was a storm—rage, fear, and a constant whisper echoing in the back of his skull, a broken prayer that looped over and over again. Not again. Please, not again. Not him. Not now.
The words rattled in his chest, reverberated like a flickering, unrelenting voice that screamed louder than anything else in the chamber.
Behind them, the high priest was still trying to speak—pleas spilling into the air, explanations tumbling like loose stones. But Aiden could not care less. His ears were deaf to anyone that wasn't Elliott. His whole body was wound too tightly around that single heartbeat in his arms.
Carlson stood further back in the circle of onlookers, silent. His cobalt eyes narrowed, sharp, calculating. For once, even he hadn't foreseen this chain of events.
And Aiden—he didn't give a damn who had or hadn't foreseen anything. Elliott was leaving with him. That was final.
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