Chapter 43: Ch 43: The Tavern and the Truth

Ch 43: The Tavern and the Truth

Aster led him away from the main thoroughfares, down a lane that smelled of yeast and roasting meat. The sign above the door was simple, weathered wood carved with a loaf of bread and a tankard. *The Kneading Bowl*.

Inside, it was warm, dim, and comfortably noisy. The clientele was a mix of townsfolk and off-duty guards in plain tunics, not Valerian livery. The air was thick with the scent of stew, fresh bread, and ale. No one looked up as they entered; here, Aster’s presence didn’t turn heads. He was just another regular.

He guided Orion to a corner booth, its high-backed seats offering a semblance of privacy. A serving girl with a friendly smile brought them two tankards of small beer and a bowl of roasted nuts without being asked.

"They know me here," Aster said simply, taking a long drink. He studied Orion over the rim of his tankard. "You’ve had a day."

It wasn’t a question. Orion wrapped his hands around his own cool tankard, letting the condensation wet his palms. "You could say that."

"The apothecary," Aster said, his voice dropping so only Orion could hear. "That’s a serious errand for a newlywed Omega swimming in his Alpha’s scent."

Orion’s head snapped up, his eyes wide. He opened his mouth to deny it, to lie, but the words died on his tongue. Aster’s gaze was too knowing, too calm. This was the man who had noticed him from across a crowded square, who had read a situation in a tailor’s shop in an instant and concocted a perfect, protective lie. Lying to him felt impossible, and worse, ungrateful.

He looked down at the scarred wooden table. His silence was answer enough.

Aster nodded slowly. He took another sip, then set his tankard down with a soft thud. "I won’t ask for details. That’s your business. But I’ll say this: if you’re doing what I think you’re doing, you’re walking a razor’s edge. The medicine, the politics, your own body... it’s a lot for one person to carry."

"I don’t have a choice," Orion whispered, the truth wrenching itself free. "They want an heir. They see Abel as... as a stud horse. And me as the broodmare. They’d have me coax him, guide him, use his instincts against his own innocence. I can’t. I *won’t*."

The vehemence in his own voice surprised him. He looked up, expecting judgment.

Aster’s face showed none. Only a deep, weary understanding. "No," he agreed quietly. "You shouldn’t. And he wouldn’t understand. Not the way he is now." He leaned forward, his elbows on the table. "He loves you, you know. In his way. It’s written all over him when he looks at you. It’s in how he says your name. But it’s the love of a child for his favorite blanket, or a loyal hound for its master. It’s pure, but it’s not... it’s not *that*. Not yet. Maybe not ever."

Hearing it stated so bluntly by someone else was like a physical blow. It was the fear Orion cradled every night, the shame that shadowed every tender moment. He nodded, his throat tight.

"The men," Aster continued, his gaze steady. "My men. They see it too. They see how he is with you. They also see how you are with him. You don’t treat him like a problem to be managed or a prize to be won. You treat him like a person. That’s why they bowed. That’s why Jax cried. That’s why Hobb sent biscuits." He paused. "And that’s why I followed you today."

Orion stared at him, stunned. "You... you’re protecting me? Because of Abel?"

"For Abel. And for you." Aster’s mouth quirked. "The unit has adopted you. Consider it a package deal. You’re his, so you’re ours to look after now. Unofficially, of course."

A strange warmth bloomed in Orion’s chest, fighting back the chill of fear and isolation. It wasn’t the dizzying, all-consuming warmth Abel’s affection sparked. This was different. Solid. Like sitting next to a sturdy fireplace in a storm. It was the feeling of having allies.

The serving girl returned with two bowls of thick mutton stew and a loaf of crusty bread. They ate in companionable silence for a few minutes. The food was simple, hearty, and delicious. Orion realized he was ravenous.

"He was afraid of the carriage today," Orion said suddenly, breaking the quiet. "When I left. He froze. He couldn’t breathe."

Aster stopped, his spoon halfway to his mouth. He set it down slowly. "The accident."

"You know about it?"

"Everyone knows about it. Official story is a wheel broke on a sharp turn on the North Road. The carriage overturned. Abel was pulled out with a head injury. His parents were shaken but unharmed." Aster’s tone was flat, rehearsed. Then it changed, lowering further. "Unofficial whispers... are different."

Orion’s blood ran cold. "What whispers?"

Aster glanced around, ensuring no one was within earshot. He leaned in. "The North Road is flat as a board for miles before any turn. The royal carriages are inspected before every journey. Wheels don’t just ’break.’ And the physician who first treated Abel—a good man, an army surgeon—was dismissed from service suddenly a week later. Sent to some remote post. The grooms who tended the horses that day? Transferred. Scattered."

Orion’s mind raced, fitting these pieces onto the fragile, half-formed picture he’d been building. "You think it wasn’t an accident."

"I think," Aster said carefully, "that if someone wanted the brilliant, charismatic, unbeatable heir out of the way, leaving him breathing but broken was smarter than making him a martyr. A martyr inspires loyalty. A broken man... becomes a burden. A reason for the spare to step up."

Ashford. The name hung between them, unspoken but deafening.

"Does Abel remember?" Orion breathed.

"Fragments, maybe. Nightmares. He never spoke of it to us after. He couldn’t. The man who could strategize a three-front battle was gone, replaced by..." He gestured vaguely, his expression pained. "...by our sweet, lost captain who plays with toy horses."

Orion thought of Abel’s moments of strange clarity, his occasional flashes of insight or surprising vocabulary. Were those fragments of the old Abel trying to surface? Or just ghosts?

"Why are you telling me this?" Orion asked.

"Because you’re in it now," Aster said, his voice grim. "Up to your neck. You married into the heart of it. You need to know what kind of ground you’re standing on. It’s not just shaky. It might be full of traps." He met Orion’s eyes. "And because you care for him. Really care. That makes you the best shield he’s got right now. But a shield needs to know where the arrows are coming from."

They finished their meal mostly in silence, the weight of Aster’s words settling over Orion. The cozy tavern no longer felt like an escape; it felt like a brief headquarters in a silent war.

As they stood to leave, Aster placed a hand on his shoulder. "The dress, the clothes... they’ll be delivered. Use the guard tab anytime you need something. Ferron is discreet. So is Hobb, in the kitchens. If you need to get a message out, to me or to anyone, use the children. They’re clever little spies and they adore him."

Orion nodded, memorizing it all. A network. A lifeline.

They walked back to the main square together. The clock tower chimed the hour. Orion’s carriage was waiting, the driver looking bored.

Aster stopped at the edge of the square, not approaching the conspicuous vehicle. He clasped his hands behind his back, every inch the soldier on duty. "Give him my regards. Tell him... tell him Speckle was asking after him."

Orion managed a small smile. "I will." He hesitated. "Thank you, Aster. For everything."

Aster gave a single, firm nod. "Just bring him back to the yard soon. The men miss their giant puppy."

Orion turned and walked to the carriage. As the footman handed him in, he looked back.

Aster was already gone, melted into the flow of the crowd.

The ride home was quiet, the rhythmic clop of hooves a monotonous soundtrack to Orion’s whirling thoughts. Suppressants hidden against his skin. A beautiful, unnecessary dress bought as an act of defiance. Whispers of sabotage and a stolen future. A company of soldiers who offered loyalty born of love for a ghost.

And Abel. Sweet, simple Abel, waiting for him with a toy horse and a hopeful heart, unaware of the shadows circling their home.

When the manor came into view, dusk was painting the sky in shades of violet and orange. The carriage rolled into the courtyard.

And there, just as before, Abel was waiting.

He wasn’t in the doorway this time. He was sitting on the top step of the entrance, his chin in his hands. Horsey the wooden steed was perched beside him. As the carriage stopped, Abel leapt to his feet.

Orion stepped out, weary to his bones but smiling.

Abel bounded down the steps. He didn’t freeze. He didn’t hesitate. He ran right up to Orion and threw his arms around him, lifting him clean off the cobblestones in a crushing hug.

"You’re back! You’re back!" Abel chanted, spinning them in a clumsy circle before setting Orion down. He searched his face, his own alight with joy. "Did you get it? Did you get the ribbon?"

Orion laughed, breathless from the spin and the hug. He reached into his tunic pocket, past the cold glass vials, and pulled out the small package. He untied the string and uncoiled the length of shimmering, sky-blue satin.

Abel’s eyes went huge. He took it with reverent fingers, stroking the smooth surface. "It’s perfect. It’s the most perfect blue." He immediately knelt down and began carefully tying it around Horsey’s wooden neck in a lopsided bow. "There! Now you’re fancy! Now you’re ready for the ball!"

He stood, holding the beribboned toy, and beamed at Orion. "Was the city big? Was it loud? Did you see the blacksmith? I like the smell of forges."

Orion took his hand, leading him up the steps into the warm, lit hallway. "It was big. It was loud. I saw many things." He squeezed Abel’s hand. "And I missed you."

Abel’s smile softened into something tender and profound. "I missed you too. All day. The house is too quiet without you." He leaned in, sniffing Orion’s hair like a curious animal. "You smell like bread. And other people. And... something sharp." He wrinkled his nose. "I don’t like the sharp smell. I like my smell on you better."

Orion’s heart stuttered. The apothecary. The tinctures. Could he smell them? "It’s just the city, Abel. Lots of smells."

"Hmm." Abel seemed to accept this. He tucked Horsey under his arm and kept hold of Orion’s hand, pulling him toward the stairs. "Come on. I saved you some honey cake from tea. And I drew you a picture of Speckle. Master Ferris helped me spell the name."

As they climbed the stairs together, Orion pushed the day’s shadows away—the fear, the conspiracy, the chemical barrier inside his clothes. Here, now, there was only this: Abel’s warm hand in his, the silly blue ribbon on a toy, the promise of honey cake and a child’s drawing.

It was enough. It had to be.

For now, it was everything.