The summons came at night.
Not through a messenger. Not through protocol.
A single word, carried by a guard who would not meet the knight's eyes.
"Now."
The knight changed without haste. Armor, muted. Blade peace-bound. Suppressants—measured, deliberate. He did not allow himself more than necessary. He had learned what excess did to judgment.
The corridor outside the royal study was empty.
Inside, lamplight burned low. The door stood ajar.
"Enter," the prince said, before the knight could announce himself.
He stepped in and closed the door behind him.
The prince stood at the table, hands braced against the wood. Papers lay scattered, ink smeared as if a fist had dragged through it. His control hung by a thread—visible, vibrating.
"You met Rhael again," the prince said.
"Yes."
"At night."
"Yes."
The prince's shoulders rose and fell. "You disobeyed nothing," he said. "I checked."
"I would not."
"That's the problem," the prince snapped. "You never do."
The knight waited.
The prince turned, eyes bright with something sharp and ugly. "Do you know what the court whispers?"
"No."
"That my knight has grown fond of another alpha." He laughed once, humorless. "That I am generous to keep you."
The knight's voice was even. "If there is an order—"
"Always that." The prince crossed the room, stopping an arm's length away. "You hide behind it like it's armor."
"It is."
"You think I don't see?" The prince's gaze dragged over him, lingering too long. "You think I don't smell restraint? Suppression? You bleed discipline like it absolves you."
The knight lifted his chin. "I have given you nothing to forgive."
Silence.
The prince reached out and caught the knight's wrist. Not rough—yet. A claim that did not ask permission.
The knight did not pull away.
"That," the prince said softly, "is what enrages me."
"If you wish me gone," the knight said, "say so."
The prince's grip tightened. "If I wished that, you would already be gone."
The knight met his eyes then. "And if I wished to stay?"
The question hung between them, dangerous and bare.
The prince's breath hitched. "You don't get to wish," he said. "You get to endure."
The knight understood, then. Understood exactly where the line lay—and how it had already been crossed.
"Release me," he said.
The prince did not.
Outside, a distant bell marked the hour.
The lamp guttered.
When the door opened again, much later, the corridor was still empty.
The knight walked out with his armor unfastened, his expression unchanged. He did not look back. He did not run. He did not speak.
He returned to his quarters and sat on the edge of the bed until the shaking passed.
At dawn, he reported for duty.
Captain Rhael found him in the yard, eyes sharp.
"You look like you didn't sleep," Rhael said.
"I slept."
Rhael's gaze dropped—to the knight's wrist, where skin showed pale beneath the cuff. "Did he—"
"No."
The lie landed cleanly.
Rhael's jaw clenched. "You don't owe him silence."
"I owe him service."
Rhael stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Then let me owe you something in return."
The knight looked past him, to the palace towers. "Do not make this harder."
Rhael followed his gaze and swore under his breath. "He's watching."
"Yes."
"And you still stand."
"Yes."
Rhael exhaled slowly. "If you ever choose to leave," he said, "do not tell anyone. Not even me."
The knight almost smiled.
That night, in the quiet of his room, the knight took fewer suppressants than usual.
He stood by the window and watched the palace lights burn.
Somewhere behind those walls, a prince paced and told himself that restraint was still control.
He was wrong.
And the line the knight would not cross had already been erased.