CHAPTER 494: CHAPTER 488: SILENCE

Months blurred forward in a rhythm that felt both too quick and painfully slow.

Arik carried the weight of something he couldn’t explain. Some days it pressed hard against his ribs, flashes of marble halls and laughter that wasn’t his, pain that didn’t belong to a nine-year-old boy twisting into his chest until he woke in a sweat. Other days it was nothing more than a shadow at the edge of thought, easily drowned beneath ether drills with Gregoris or whispered jokes with Noah.

He tried to speak of it once, halting words about eyes like glass, about poison that seared down to the bone, but even to his own ears, it sounded like nonsense. A child’s dream. He hated the way the adults’ gazes lingered too long when he spoke of it.

It was Gabriel who first set the choice on the table, his tone deceptively casual as Arik curled on the couch with Cecil snoring softly against his side.

"You don’t have to carry this awake if it’s too heavy," Gabriel said, brown eyes sharp but steady. "Marin can weave a ward. It won’t erase anything. Just... keep it quiet until you decide you want to hear it again."

Arik frowned, small hands tugging at the edge of his sleeve. "That sounds like cheating."

Damian leaned down beside them, golden eyes molten but softened to something gentler than anyone else ever saw. "Not cheating. Strategy. Even soldiers seal their weapons until the moment comes to use them. No one fights a war every hour of every day, Arik."

"I’m not a soldier," Arik muttered, his voice sharp but fraying at the edges.

"No," Gabriel said, softer this time, brushing curls back from his son’s brow. "You’re a boy who shouldn’t have to wake up choking on nightmares. Let Marin help. Keep it close if you want, but let yourself breathe in the meantime."

For a long moment, Arik’s golden eyes flicked between them, his father’s steady authority and his mother’s sharp patience. Both unyielding, but not pressing. For once, they weren’t demanding. They were waiting.

"Will I... forget?" he asked finally, quietly, his voice almost breaking.

"No," Gabriel answered at once. "You’ll never forget. The ward only quiets it, keeps it waiting. You can open it whenever you want. No one else can."

Damian’s hand settled firm and warm over his son’s. "And when you do... we’ll be here."

Arik’s throat worked, his lips pressing tight, but finally, slowly, he nodded. "Okay."

Marin was called, his dry tone steady as he set the ward. "It won’t erase," he said again, as if sensing the boy’s doubt. "Only hold. When you’re ready, you can open it yourself. Not before."

And for the first time in weeks, Arik would sleep without waking to the phantom burn of ether tearing through his veins.

Marin worked with the same calm he always carried, his hands steady, his presence unintrusive. He crouched beside the couch where Arik sat pressed between Damian’s steady arm and Gabriel’s sharp gaze, his silver spectacles catching the faint glow of the ether conduits embedded in the walls.

"Look at me, Arik," Marin said simply. His voice wasn’t commanding but was firm enough to get the prince’s attention and, more importantly, cooperation.

Arik’s golden eyes lifted reluctantly.

"Good. This won’t hurt. You’ll feel a hum, perhaps a tug, but that’s only the ward aligning."

He touched two fingers lightly to Arik’s temple, the other hand splayed over the boy’s chest. A soft resonance bloomed in the air, threads of ether unfurling like pale smoke before sinking into Arik’s skin. The lines shimmered briefly, settling into faint runes only visible for a breath before vanishing.

Arik’s breath caught. For weeks, his mind had been loud, with echoes of laughter that wasn’t his, of betrayal he had no words for, and of pain that licked like fire through every vein. But as the ward anchored, the noise dulled. The sharp edges retreated, fading into silence like waves pulling back from shore.

His small hands clenched Damian’s sleeve, the boy’s chest rising and falling too quickly, and then, slowing. The weight inside his head lifted, leaving behind stillness so startling it almost frightened him.

Marin’s voice came low, matter-of-fact but not unkind. "It’s quiet now, isn’t it?"

Arik swallowed, blinking rapidly, his lashes damp. "It’s... gone."

"Not gone," Gabriel corrected at once, leaning closer, his hand brushing the back of Arik’s curls. "Sleeping. That’s the deal, remember? It’ll wake only when you choose."

Arik hesitated, then nodded, his body relaxing by degrees. His golden eyes slipped shut, his small frame sagging against Damian’s chest with a shuddering exhale. For the first time in weeks, there was no twitch, no startle, and no haunted look hidden in the corners of his gaze. Just a boy, tired, safe, and quiet.

Damian pressed a hand to the back of Arik’s head; the molten fury in his eyes was softened by relief he didn’t voice. Gabriel watched too, sharp and steady, but the tension in his shoulders loosened at last.

Marin leaned back, his dry tone as unshaken as always. "It will hold until he decides otherwise. You don’t fear the ward breaking on its own."

"Good," Damian said quietly, his voice threaded with steel even now. "He deserves the choice."

Arik, half-asleep, burrowed closer into his father’s chest, his lips parting with a faint murmur. For the first time, it wasn’t pain he whispered about; it was nothing at all. Just silence.

Gabriel’s lips curved faintly even through the haze of exhaustion, his brown eyes glittering with the same fire that had carried him through every battlefield, every council, every labor. "Oh," he rasped, defiant even now, "I will."

The child let out another sharp wail, startling the physician but only making Gabriel snort. "See? Even he knows this is a cosmic insult."

Damian shook his head, laughter rumbling quietly as he pressed his palm over Gabriel’s hand, pinning it against their son’s blanket. "Insult or not, he’s ours. Green eyes and all."

Gabriel sighed, eyes slipping closed again, though the corner of his mouth betrayed him with the faintest upward twitch.