Damian drifted between sleep and waking, his body sinking into the mattress, exhaustion pressing against him like a warm, familiar hand. A voice whispered at the edges of his consciousness. A laugh. Soft and sad, carrying the scent of leather and grass and Kinnarion.
"Dorian, love."
The words slipped from his lips before he was even fully aware of them. For a fleeting, impossible moment, he could almost feel the heat of another body beside him, the steady rise and fall of breath, the warmth of a presence that should not—could not—be there.
Then, pain.
His nose grazed the pillow, and a sharp, searing ache jolted him awake.
"Motherfucker!"
He flinched, inhaling sharply through clenched teeth, his fingers flying up to his face as the last remnants of sleep shattered.
There was no Dorian.
No Caelan.
And—most painfully of all—no Micah.
Damian exhaled slow and controlled breaths, staring at the ceiling as his body adjusted to wakefulness. His ribs ached, his jaw was stiff, and his nose throbbed like a heartbeat of its own. Two nights after the fight, his bones still ached like he was ninety-six instead of twenty-six, but nothing compared to the dull, familiar ache lodged deep in his chest.
Why had he dreamed of that moment—now, of all times?
The dream clung to him, sticky and persistent. The laugh—Dorian's laugh—had been rare even then. It was always hidden beneath duty, beneath sadness. Edric had loved the sound of it, had once thought that hearing it was a blessing. A glimpse of a beautiful man underneath all the grief.
But now, Damian knew it was worthless.
He already knew how that story ended.
He knew that the quiet, soft-spoken stablehand was not just some passing stranger but his best friend, hollowed out by grief. He knew that same man would become the lover on whose blade tip he would die. Those moments before it all unraveled—before recognition, before betrayal, before blood— didn't matter.
Not when this was a different world.
A different life.
And definitely not when he was alone again.
The memory of the breakup slid into his mind like a sword between the ribs.
"We're no good for each other, Damian. And I'm tired of pretending we are."
"You've cared for me for so long that I was blind to the red flags."
"I don't know shit about Dorian. But I do know you hate that I'm not him."
His jaw tightened. Bullshit.
Excuses.
Excuses Micah had scrambled for after they'd had sex and he needed a reason to run. A neatly packaged, self-righteous excuse wrapped up with a bow, so he could pretend this wasn't what it was.
Because there was only one statement in that entire conversation that mattered.
"I kissed Callum outside the club."
The words had landed like a gut punch. A hit he hadn't seen coming, not because he hadn't known it was possible, but because—deep down—he'd been stupid enough to think Micah wouldn't do it.
It hurt even more because Micah hadn't even looked guilty. Just resigned. Those tired, green eyes looked at him as if this was always the way things were going to go.
Damian had laughed. A short, sharp sound. Not humor. Not pain. Just— nothing.
He pressed the heel of his hand against his aching eye socket.
Of course this was the way things were going to go. Callum was in the picture, afterall.
Caelan hadn't been satisfied with worming his way into his bed and killing him—no, that wasn't enough. He'd followed him all the way here, to this life, and stolen his boyfriend.
Sure, Micah had said the breakup had nothing to do with Callum.
But that was—bullshit.
It was all bullshit.
"If I'm going to die soon, I want to spend the remainder of my time figuring things out on my own—without residual feelings from either of you clinging to me."
Even with a broken nose, Damian could still smell it.
Micah's words were just smoke, a neat little curtain to hide the real betrayal.
His phone rang.
He sighed, dragging a hand over his face before turning his head just enough to glance at the screen. A number he knew. A name he knew. He let the phone ring twice, exhaled, then answered, flipping on the mask with practiced ease.
"Mr. Wells!" Damian greeted in a cheery voice he hoped didn't sound too fake. "Tell me you've got some good news for me, because hoo boy, I could sure use some."
A sharp exhale of annoyance filtered through the speakers. "I told you not to call me that."
Damian swung his legs over the side of the bed, testing his weight before he pushed himself upright. His winced as his ribs protested the sudden movement. His entire body felt like it had been used to break a fall from a third-story window. Which… honestly, Callum hadn't punched him that hard. Had he?
"Well, it is your name," he pointed out, dragging himself to the bathroom.
The voice on the other end scoffed. "It's yours too, dumbass."
Damian rolled his eyes as he turned on the light. The mirror reflected a disaster. His left eye was bruised, a dull purple smudged beneath his brow like a half-hearted painting. His split lip had crusted over. His nose was swollen—less broken, more just insultingly ugly.
He ignored the face in the bathroom mirror and headed over to the kitchen. His hotel rooms were always so quiet without Micah present and yet, he consistently insisted on paying for the most lavish, expensive ones.
He pulled open the freezer, grabbed a bag of frozen peas, and gently pressed it against his nose, hissing at the cold.
"As much as I'd love to spend my morning listening to you berate me, I've had a very shitty week, so if you'd be so kind as to get to the point—"
"Shitty week?" Damian didn't appreciate that the asshole's voice was sharp, cutting. "How do you think I feel balancing your fuck-up? I didn't particularly enjoy waking up to videos of you getting the living shit beaten out of you."
Damian rolled the frozen bag along his cheek, expression unbothered. "Hey! I got in a few good punches."
"Scratch that. I actually enjoyed seeing that."
Damian snorted, padding barefoot to the balcony, the cool morning air cutting against his skin. His grip on the phone tightened just slightly.
"Mr. Wells…"
A beat. Then— business.
"The board will be meeting on Wednesday."
Damian exhaled through his nose. The cold helped, but not enough. "And the sale?"
Another pause.
Then, a response came with finality—
"It's as good as done."
Damian lowered the frozen peas, resting an elbow against the balcony railing as he took in the city stretching out before him.
High-rise buildings stacked against a sky still dusted in dawn. Green patches of manicured parks. Neon glow from shop signs flickering even in daylight. Strobe-lit roads thrumming with life below. He was barely ever here, always travelling. Always farther from Micah than he should have been. Still, they made it work. And now…
His fingers gripped the railing harder.
The Catalyst Games office was only a blip in the city. Damian had no idea why Howard Pierce would spring for a modest building like that instead of a tower but no matter. Blip or not, he'd take it.
He watched a billboard flicker on, a sharp neon red lighting up the skyline.
So far from Aeryndale. So far from Velentis.
Not quite a kingdom.
But it'd have to do.
"Good."