The morning came cold and gray, sunlight bleeding through the fog that clung to the village. The tavern smelled of damp wood and ash, the embers in the hearth long since cooled. Yet it wasn’t the chill that had Dorian pacing the narrow room, his shoulders tight, his fists clenching and unclenching as though he were preparing for a fight.

Fynric sat on the edge of the bed, eyes fixed on the floorboards, his hands knotted together. He could still feel Dorian’s mouth on him from the night before, the fierce claim of it, the way their breaths had mixed like a shared lifeline. That memory should have warmed him. Instead, dread pooled heavy in his stomach.

Because Joren had seen. He didn’t need to be told—he had felt the weight of those eyes in the hallway, the silence that followed like a noose tightening around his throat.

“Say something,” Dorian snapped suddenly, the rough edge of his voice startling. “You’ve been silent since dawn.”

Fynric looked up, his voice breaking. “What do you want me to say? That I ruined everything? That Joren knows and it’s only a matter of time before the others—before everyone—”

Dorian crossed the room in two strides, seizing Fynric’s chin and forcing his gaze upward. His eyes burned, dark with anger but also fear. “You didn’t ruin anything. He did. He pried where he wasn’t welcome. He stalked where he shouldn’t have been.” His grip softened slightly, his thumb brushing over Fynric’s jaw. “You don’t carry this guilt. I do.”

The gentleness nearly undid him, but Fynric shook his head. “No. We both do. If he tells Aric, if he tells Luthien—”

Dorian’s expression hardened again. “He won’t. Because if he does, I’ll make sure he regrets it.”

The words were a vow, edged in violence. But before Fynric could answer, the door creaked open.

Joren stood there.

Casual. Calm. Too calm. His arms folded across his chest as though he owned the room, his sharp eyes sliding over them both.

“Well,” he drawled, leaning against the doorframe. “Isn’t this cozy?”

Fynric’s blood froze. Dorian shifted immediately, stepping in front of him like a barrier. His hand twitched toward the hilt of the dagger at his belt, but Joren raised a hand, smirking.

“Easy, Dorian. I’m not here to start a fight. Not the kind you’re thinking of, anyway.”

“Then what do you want?” Dorian growled, his stance rigid.

Joren’s gaze sharpened. “I want honesty. I want to know how long this has been going on. How long the two of you have been sneaking around like shadows in the night.”

Fynric’s breath stuttered. His heart screamed to deny it, but Dorian didn’t move, didn’t flinch. His silence was an admission in itself.

Joren’s smirk deepened. “So it’s true. The mighty Dorian, always lecturing about loyalty, and Fynric, the quiet one no one really looks at twice… hiding something that could tear the circle apart.” He tilted his head, mock-thoughtful. “I wonder what Aric would say. Or Luthien. Should I ask them?”

Fynric shot to his feet. “No!” The word ripped from him, desperate.

Dorian’s hand tightened around Fynric’s wrist, steadying, silencing him. His eyes locked on Joren’s, dangerous. “You breathe a word, and—”

“And what?” Joren interrupted smoothly. “You’ll cut me down? Right here? In front of him?” He flicked his gaze toward Fynric, then back to Dorian. “You’re not that reckless, Dorian. For all your snarling, you know the cost. And that’s why I have the upper hand.”

The smugness in his voice was unbearable. Fynric felt sick.

Joren pushed off the doorframe and stepped closer, slow and deliberate. His voice dropped, lower, more poisonous. “Relax. I don’t plan to expose you. Not yet. In fact, you should thank me. Because now that I know, I can… protect your secret.”

The word “protect” dripped with venom.

Dorian stiffened. “Protect, or hold it over us?”

Joren smiled faintly. “Both. I’ll keep my mouth shut. But in return, you’ll listen when I speak. You’ll consider my counsel before you act. And you—” His eyes slid to Fynric, making his stomach twist. “—you’ll remember that I can destroy what you have with a single sentence.”

Fynric’s breath hitched. He wanted to scream, to shove Joren out the door, but his body locked tight with fear.

Dorian stepped forward, so close their chests nearly touched, his voice a lethal whisper. “If you so much as look at him wrong, Joren, I swear—”

But Joren only chuckled softly, unfazed. “Save your threats. I don’t need to touch him. All I need is patience. A secret like this rots from the inside out. You’ll see.”

He turned to leave, pausing in the doorway just long enough to add, “I’ll keep your leash short. Consider it… insurance.”

And then he was gone.

---

The silence he left behind was unbearable. Fynric sagged back against the bed, his knees weak. His chest heaved like he’d run miles.

“Dorian,” he whispered, voice trembling. “What do we do?”

Dorian’s eyes were still fixed on the door, his expression carved in stone, his hands shaking with barely restrained rage. Slowly, he turned back to Fynric, cupping his face in both hands, his voice rough but steady.

“We endure. And we don’t give him what he wants.”

“But he has us,” Fynric said, despair breaking through. “He has me.”

“No.” Dorian pressed his forehead to Fynric’s, his voice fierce. “I have you. And no one—not Joren, not anyone—will take that away. Do you understand?”

Tears burned behind Fynric’s eyes. He nodded, clinging to the conviction in Dorian’s voice even as fear gnawed at the edges of his heart.

Because Joren was right about one thing. Secrets had a way of rotting from the inside out.

And now, theirs was in someone else’s hands.