In a faraway small village nestled between misty hills and a winding river, the air inside the tiny thatched-roof hut was thick with the sharp, earthy scent of burning herbs.
A native doctor, an elderly man with weathered skin and kind but solemn eyes, stood over the low wooden bed where Elian lay motionless. He waved a bundle of smoking leaves slowly over the young man’s pale face, murmuring soft prayers in a dialect foreign to the ears.
The smoke curled upward in thin gray ribbons, carrying the bitter aroma of healing plants meant to draw out fever and quiet restless spirits.
Elian’s chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths. His skin was clammy, his brown curls matted against his forehead, and a fresh bandage wrapped tightly around his head where the rock had struck him.
Dark circles shadowed his closed eyes. Two full weeks had passed since the river nearly claimed them, and still he had not stirred.
Cassian stepped quietly into the small room, ducking under the low doorway. His fine clothes were long gone, replaced by simple borrowed linen that hung loose on his frame. He looked exhausted, the once-polished nobleman reduced to a man who slept on a rough mat beside the bed every night, refusing to leave Elian’s side.
"How is he today?" Cassian asked, his voice low and strained as he approached the bed.
The native doctor did not look up immediately. He finished waving the herbs, then set the smoking bundle into a clay bowl.
"It will be a miracle if the boy survives," he said bluntly in an accented but clear common tongue. "His body has gone through too much lately. Old wounds that never fully healed... starvation... the cold of the river... and then striking his head on the rock. That was the last his body could take. The fever comes and goes. Sometimes I think the spirits are still deciding whether to keep him or let him go."
Cassian’s jaw tightened. He sank onto the edge of the low stool beside the bed, staring at Elian’s still face. "He has to wake up. He has to."
The old man sighed, wiping his hands on a rough cloth. "You said you were saved by fishermen from another town. They brought you here because they knew my remedies. But even I cannot promise anything. Two weeks is a long time for a man to sleep without waking. If he opens his eyes at all... it will be the work of the gods."
Cassian nodded silently. He had lost his coachman to the raging waters that night. The carriage had shattered against the jagged rocks, and only the old fishermen’s nets and strong arms had pulled Cassian and the unconscious Elian to safety.
They were miles away from the capital, far beyond the reach of Valemont power. Cassian had made the choice to stay. He knew Lucien would be searching. He knew the Duke’s men would tear the kingdom apart looking for them. And the last thing he wanted was for Elian to wake up only to be dragged back into that psychological torture — the cold dismissals, the engagement to Rowena, the constant push and pull that had nearly broken the younger man.
"I will not let him go back to that," Cassian murmured, almost to himself. "Not until he is strong enough to decide for himself."
The native doctor only shook his head and began preparing a new poultice. Outside, the village remained quiet.
Chickens scratched in the dirt. Distant voices of women washing clothes at the river drifted through the open window. Life continued, unaware of the two strangers who had washed up on their shores.
Then, without warning, Elian’s body jerked.
A violent cough tore from his throat. Blood sprayed across his pale lips and onto the thin blanket. Cassian lunged forward, dropping to his knees beside the bed.
"Elian!" he called urgently, snatching the clean cloth from the bedside table. He gently wiped the blood from Elian’s mouth, his hands trembling. "Elian, can you hear me? You’re safe. You’re safe now."
Elian’s lashes fluttered. Slowly, painfully, his eyes opened — cloudy at first, then gradually focusing on the man leaning over him. Confusion clouded the blue depths. His lips parted, but only a weak, wet sound escaped.
Cassian leaned closer, hope flaring in his chest. "It’s me. It’s Cassian. You’re all right. Just rest—"
Elian’s hoarse voice cut through the quiet room, barely above a whisper and rough as gravel.
"Who... are you?"
Cassian froze. The cloth in his hand stilled against Elian’s cheek. For a long moment he could only stare, the words sinking in like ice water.
Elian blinked slowly, brows furrowed in genuine confusion. His gaze drifted around the unfamiliar room — the rough walls, the smoking herbs, the strange old man watching them — before returning to Cassian’s face with no spark of recognition.
Cassian’s heart clenched. He forced a gentle smile, though his eyes burned. "It’s Cassian... Lord Cassian. We were traveling together. There was an accident. Do you remember the river? The carriage?"
Elian’s expression remained blank. He tried to speak again, but another weak cough rattled his chest. Cassian quickly wiped the fresh blood from his lips, supporting the back of his head with careful hands.
"Easy," Cassian whispered. "Don’t force it. You’ve been unconscious for two weeks. Your body is still healing."
Elian’s eyes fluttered closed for a moment, then opened again. The same question lingered in them, unanswered and heavy. The native doctor stepped closer, peering down with professional concern.
"Memory loss is not uncommon after such a blow to the head," the old man said quietly. "Especially when the body has been pushed so far. Give him time. Keep him calm. Too much agitation could bring the fever back."
Cassian nodded, though the words felt hollow. He brushed a damp curl away from Elian’s forehead, his touch lingering. "It’s all right if you don’t remember yet. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere."
Outside the hut, the village continued its quiet rhythm. But inside, the air had shifted. Cassian held Elian’s hand carefully, feeling the faint pulse beneath the skin, and made a silent vow. He would protect this fragile second chance — even if it meant becoming a stranger to the man he had risked everything to save.
Miles away, in the cold grandeur of the Valemont manor, Lucien sat behind his desk with bloodshot eyes, unaware that the man he searched for had woken into a world where he no longer existed.
Two weeks!
It had been hell.
He could not think straight; every search party returned with the same news... Elian was nowhere to be found.
He had just six months to his wedding with Rowena — it was short, but also a long time.
He had made a vow to himself... if Elian was ever found, he was never going to let him out of his sight, but he was also not going to quit the marriage with Rowena.
He would take Rowan’s advice and open up to Elian; maybe Elian would understand and come back to him.
There was nothing he could say that would justify what he’d put Elian through, but he was hoping that it could change things between them... for good.
However, he could not seem to shake off that strong feeling that something was gravely wrong. He didn’t want to believe that Elian was dead, but he also did not want to know what it could be that was wrong.
He needed everything to be fine... he needed his Elian to be fine.
He had so much to beg for, so much to explain, if only Elian would be ready to listen and understand.
Lucien rose from his desk, the chair scraping harshly against the polished floor.
His head pounded with a dull, relentless ache that had become his constant companion these past two weeks. He ignored it. The nightmares had returned with a vengeance the moment Elian disappeared — fragmented memories of fights, screams, and the weight of a past he could never fully outrun. Elian had once been the only thing that quieted those ghosts. Without him, the nights were unbearable.
He stepped out of the study and into the grand hall. The vast space felt emptier than usual, the high ceilings echoing every footstep. Servants moved silently along the edges, careful not to meet his eyes. The air smelled of polished wood and faint incense, but it brought him no comfort.
He had only taken a few strides when a familiar figure appeared from a side corridor.
Rowan.
His cousin’s face was unreadable — neither the usual sharp sarcasm nor open anger. Just a carefully blank mask that made Lucien’s heart skip a beat. Instantly, dread coiled tight in his stomach. Every search party had returned empty-handed. Every report had been the same. He braced himself for the words he feared most.
"What is it?" Lucien asked, his voice low and rough. His gloved hands curled into fists at his sides.
What was wrong?
He expected the worst. He expected Rowan to tell him they had found a body, or that the river had claimed Elian for good. The thought alone made the blood drain from his face.
But Rowan stopped a few paces away, studying him for a long moment. Then he spoke, quiet and measured.
"A man has come forward," Rowan said. "He claims he might know where Elian is."
Lucien froze. The grand hall seemed to tilt around him. For a second he forgot how to breathe.
"What?" The word came out sharper than he intended. "Where? Who is this man? Bring him to me. Now."
Rowan held up a hand. "He’s waiting in the east antechamber. An old fisherman from a village far downriver. He says two men washed ashore near his home weeks ago — one of them matching Elian’s description. Unconscious. Badly hurt. The other was a nobleman who refused to leave the injured man’s side."
Cassian.
Lucien’s jaw clenched so hard it ached. Relief and fury warred inside him so violently he almost staggered. Alive. Elian was alive. But in Cassian’s hands. Miles away. Beyond his reach.
"Why did he wait this long to come forward?" Lucien demanded, already moving toward the east wing, his long strides forcing Rowan to keep up.
"He was afraid," Rowan answered simply. "Said he didn’t want trouble with dukes and lords. But the reward you posted finally outweighed his fear."
Lucien’s pulse thundered in his ears. Two weeks of sleepless nights, of empty reports, of sitting through Rowena’s endless chatter while his mind screamed for Elian — and now this. A thread of hope, fragile and thin, but real.
He stopped suddenly in the middle of the hall and turned to Rowan. His green eyes burned with a dangerous intensity.
"Prepare the horses. We leave within the hour. And Rowan..." His voice dropped, raw and unguarded for the first time in days. "If this fisherman is lying... if Elian is truly gone..."
He couldn’t finish the sentence. The words stuck in his throat like broken glass.
Rowan studied him, something almost like pity flickering across his face. "Then you’ll finally have to admit what he means to you," he said quietly. "Before it’s too late."
Lucien didn’t answer. He was already striding toward the antechamber, every step fueled by a single, desperate purpose.
Find Elian.
Bring him home.
And never — never — let him go again.
The hunt for Elian had finally been given a direction. But whether it would lead Lucien back to the man he could no longer live without... or deeper into the darkness of his own making... remained to be seen.
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