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It rained the day the war ended.
Not a deluge, but that soft, persistent sort of rain that made everything ache. It dripped from the scorched eaves of Arveth’s capital, ran in rivulets down shattered statues and bloodied marble. Soldiers from both sides milled in the streets, silent and uncertain, unsure what to do now that they’d stopped killing each other.
General Kael Daryon stood at the ruined gates of the palace he’d conquered, gauntleted hands still dark with blood, his expression as unreadable as ever. Victory sat uneasily on his shoulders. He hadn’t expected to take the capital so quickly. He hadn’t expected the famed commander of Arveth's forces to surrender.
And he certainly hadn’t expected this.
"You want me to marry him?" Kael asked, voice like crushed iron. It was almost beyond belief.
King Arran of Elstrade didn’t flinch. “General Daryon," he said. "You must know, that for peace to last—bind it with blood.”
Kael looked across the room to the tall figure standing by the window, posture impeccable despite the chains at his wrists. General Silas Vayne. The Lion of Arveth. The man who had nearly ended Kael’s life twice and whose strategies had pushed the war into a fourth brutal year.
And now, stripped of command, disgraced by his surrender, he was to be wed like a trophy.
“He’s not a bride,” Kael said tightly.
“No. He’s your equal,” the king said. “Or close enough. And dangerous if left idle. You think his men will sit quietly if he’s executed?”
“They’d riot.”
“Exactly. Wed him. Keep him close. Let the people see unity. Let the nobles see control.”
Kael looked back at Silas. The man was silent, his expression unreadable, but his fingers clenched at his sides.
“Does he agree to this?”
Arran shrugged. “He will.”
--
The wedding was a bleak affair, held in the same palace Kael’s siege had broken. There were no flowers. No vows. No joy. Just bloodstains that hadn’t been scrubbed from the floor, and courtiers who watched with thinly veiled revulsion.
Silas didn’t speak the entire time.
He wore white—the color of surrender. A bitter insult from the court, though no one said so aloud. The silk clung to his frame like a funeral shroud, and the silver circlet pressed too hard against his brow, as if to remind him that he was no longer a commander but a symbol.
Kael watched him from the edge of their shared quarters that night, armor shed, tunic simple, shoulders broad and braced. The man was beautiful in a fierce, storm-worn way: dark hair at his neck, bronze skin littered with scars, and eyes like rain on stone.
Silas knelt as the door clicked shut.
Kael froze. “What are you doing?”
“I will not resist you.” Silas’s voice was calm. Empty. “I understand what’s expected of me.”
“I didn’t—” Kael took a step forward, then stopped. His heart hammered. “Get up.”
Silas didn’t move.
Kael reached him in three strides and caught his arm. The man didn’t flinch. Not even when Kael growled, “I’m not going to force you.”
“I’d rather offer myself than wonder when you’ll take what’s owed,” Silas said, looking past him. “Let’s not pretend I’m anything but spoils of war.”
“You’re not,” Kael bit out. “Damn it, Vayne, I didn’t want this marriage either. I didn’t even want this war.”
That made Silas look up. “Then why lead it?”
Kael exhaled. “Because my king ordered me to. Just like yours did.”
Silas’s jaw clenched. “And now?”
“I do what I think will keep people alive.”
Silas’s gaze searched him. “And you think marrying me will do that?”
“I think leaving you in chains will start another war.”
--
The days passed like cracked glass—shards of awkward silence between stiff formal dinners and endless negotiations. Silas didn’t speak unless spoken to, and Kael didn’t ask anything he didn’t need to. The guards kept their hands on hilts when Silas walked by, faces turned away. Some soldiers spat behind him.
In any other time, they would be flogged for their insolence.
Kael couldn't help their dislike. But he noticed the way that Silas' hands were clenched into fists, white-knuckled and bloodless.
He began sitting closer to Silas at council. Defended his insight. Offered him military texts to read. And always, always made sure no guard laid a hand on him.
Kael didn’t know how to say: You don’t have to survive anymore. It's over. You’re safe.
He didn’t know if it was true.
--
“You should lock your door,” Silas said one night as Kael unbuckled his boots after another long council session.
Kael paused mid-motion, blinking in surprise. “What?”
Silas sat on the window ledge, silhouetted by pale moonlight that turned his dark hair to silver. His face was gaunt, the sharp angles shadowed by fatigue and months of captivity. His voice was soft but edged with something sharper — a challenge, or maybe just truth.
“Most men would lock their door if they shared it with an enemy.”
Kael set his boot down carefully, the sudden quiet feeling heavy between them.
“You’re not my enemy.”
Silas’s gaze didn’t waver. “You were.”
Kael nodded slowly, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. “And now we’re married. Life’s strange.”
Silas let out a short, bitter snort. “Understatement.”
For a long moment they sat in silence, the only sound the rain tapping gently against the windowpane.
Kael finally broke the quiet. “Why say that now?”
Silas shrugged, eyes fixed on the inky distance. “Because it’s the truth. We’ve been locked into this for years—fighting, killing, surviving. And now here we are, sharing a bed instead of battle lines.”
Kael swallowed, feeling the weight of the war and everything that led them here pressing against his chest. “I never wanted this. The war, the marriage… I never wanted to hate you.”
Silas glanced at him sideways, a flicker of something almost like warmth in his gaze. “Maybe hate was easier than feeling this.”
--
They began to speak at night, their conversations small and cautious.
Short things.
Simple things.
Silas liked chess.
Kael learned quickly that he hated losing.
Their chessboard was crude but meaningful—a small set carved from the bones of Arveth’s sacred trees, something Kael had found during the siege and given to Silas without ceremony.
Each game became a ritual, a way to bridge the gulf between them without needing words.
Silas was quiet at first, but his face would light with a fleeting grin whenever he caught Kael making a mistake.
Kael, stubborn and competitive, refused to lose twice in a row.
--
Silas liked music, too.
Kael never asked about it, but one night, after Silas thought Kael was asleep, the soft strains of a lyre drifted through the hall.
A haunting, aching melody—elegant and raw—filled the empty corridors.
It sounded like mourning, like a requiem for a fallen capital, a dirge for a country torn apart by endless war.
Kael listened from the doorway, frozen by the vulnerability in those notes.
When Silas finished, Kael stepped inside silently.
The music stopped abruptly.
Silas looked away, cheeks flushed. Music was, traditionally, a courtesan's affair. Not an activity fit for a general, and certain not someone who had commanded Arveth's royal guard. Silas must have stolen away in the quiet moments to practice in order to be this talented. To take respite where he could.
Kael said nothing; he knew what that felt like.
In that moment, no words were necessary.
--
They didn’t touch—not even when Kael limped home one evening, a fresh wound bleeding beneath his tunic after a skirmish with rebel factions.
Silas’s eyes darkened with worry as Kael moved stiffly into the chamber. Without hesitation, he pulled aside Kael’s tunic, his fingers surprisingly gentle as they pressed against the ragged flesh.
“You should have called for me,” he hissed, voice low and urgent.
Kael met his gaze, stubborn pride flickering in his eyes. “I didn’t want you to see this.”
Silas’s jaw tightened. “I’ve seen worse wounds. But you hiding them from me—that’s what I can’t abide.”
Kael’s voice dropped, rawer than before. “I didn’t want you to worry.”
Silas’s hand hovered just above the bruise, his fingers trembling slightly as if afraid to touch too hard. His voice softened, almost breaking.
“Why would I worry?”
Kael’s eyes darkened with something unfamiliar—a tenderness so sharp it caught him off guard.
“Because I’d worry if you were hurt.”
For a long moment, the room held only the sound of their breathing.
Silas’s hand finally rested lightly on Kael’s ribs, warmth seeping through the fabric.
“That's not something I thought I’d hear you say,” he whispered.
Kael smirked, dry but not unkind.
“Should've known better by now,” he said softly.
That night, Silas did not retreat to the separate room as protocol demanded.
Instead, he curled beside Kael, the steady rise and fall of his breath a silent promise.
--
The first time they kissed, it was hesitant, tentative, as if they were feeling for the ground beneath unfamiliar feet.
It happened one evening after dinner.
Silas’s fingers brushed against Kael’s hand—slow, lingering just long enough. Like water flooding through a dam, the touch breaking the tension that had risen up between them. Kael had faced down more battles than a normal man his age and yet, for some reason, this had felt insurmountable.
Neither moved away.
Instead, Kael leaned in, slow enough to give Silas every chance to pull back, to refuse.
Silas didn’t.
Kael exhaled, fingers trembling only minutely where he rested his palm on Silas' chest.
Their lips met softly, the world shrinking until there was only breath and heartbeat.
Kael whispered, barely audible, “Is this what you want?”
Silas nodded, eyes shining with a vulnerability reserved for no one else.
“I want you.”
--
Kael made love like a man afraid to shatter something that was fragile, too precious to hold. He felt nervous, like a young gelding led to pasture for the first time. It was absurd; it had been years since he was last a virgin. And yet his heartbeat was so loud he could swear he felt it in his eardrums.
Every movement was careful, reverent, as though Silas might slip away like a dream.
Silas, in turn, let go like a man who had spent a lifetime waiting for someone to see him—not as a general, not as a prisoner, but as himself.
They kissed in shadows, touched as if to apologize for the years lost to war and hatred.
When Kael pressed his lips to the scar beneath Silas’s collarbone, Silas breathed, “I’m yours." It came out a little wonderously, as if he was still in disbelief.
Kael held him through the night, cradling him in the quiet aftermath of everything that had come before.
--
Their union began to change the court—slowly, irrevocably.
At first, the noble halls remained cold and watchful. Whispers curled through shadowed corridors like serpents, and many eyes narrowed in suspicion whenever Kael and Silas appeared side by side. But with every shared glance, every subtle act of support, the tension began to ease.
The same men who once spat venom at Silas’s name now paused when Kael consulted him during council meetings, valuing his insight with reluctant respect. Soldiers loyal only to Silas before the marriage found new purpose under Kael’s command, their grudging allegiance transforming into genuine loyalty.
Kael’s men, those gruff veterans who had once mocked the very idea of peace, started seeking Silas’s advice on tactics and training—curious, cautious, but eager to learn. Silas never needed to raise his voice; his calm authority speaking louder than words ever could.
This had not gone unnoticed.
"General Kael," said King Arran. He met Kael's eyes as he lifted a goblet to his lips. "I understand the marriage is going well." Kael flushed; the ignominy of his King commenting on his private affairs was almost unbearable. The raucous noises of celebration drowned out any eavesdropping nobles, Kael hoped. Beside him, Silas was engaged in conversation with one of the royal advisors, seemingly clueless.
But Kael could feel the press of a warm leg against his.
"Yes, your Grace," he managed. His face felt warm, but he knew, inexorably, that was taking it lightly.
He would burn down kingdoms, topple empires, and face hellfire itself if it meant keeping Silas safe.
Because Silas was no longer just a prisoner, a war prize, or an enemy to be feared.
Silas was home.
--
One year after their forced wedding—perfunctory and unceremonious—Silas knelt before Kael once more.
The chamber was quiet, illuminated only by the flickering glow of candles set in wrought iron holders. Their soft light danced across the stone walls, casting long shadows that seemed to echo memories of battles fought and promises made.
Kael entered and froze, breath caught in his throat.
There, in the center of the room, stood Silas—not shackled, not broken, but proud and free.
His head bowed with solemn reverence, he wore the full dress uniform of Arveth’s highest rank. The silver braid on his shoulder caught the light like a beacon.
In his outstretched hand gleamed a simple silver ring.
“I never got to choose the first time,” Silas said, his voice steady but threaded with emotion. “But I want to choose now.”
Time slowed. The world shrank to just the two of them.
Kael’s heart thundered wildly beneath his breastplate.
Slowly, almost reverently, he dropped to one knee beside Silas. Together, they would seal a vow not born of duty, but of choice. And love.
"Always," he said, reaching out for Silas, who he knew would meet him halfway.
--
This time, the wedding was a joyous affair, held beneath an open sky in a garden that had blossomed over the ashes of the siege—where once blood had stained the soil, now wildflowers flourished in riotous color.
The air was alive with the scent of jasmine and fresh earth. Soft music from a distant lute floated on the warm breeze. Kael smiled, recognizing the tune. He squeezed Silas' hand, gripped tightly in his own.
Laughter wove through the gathered crowd of soldiers, nobles, and friends who had come to witness the union. The priest was still speaking, but Kael had long tuned him out; his sole attention was focused on his betrothed.
His husband; and this time, for real.