The Prince and His Loyal Hound

All preparations were done.

The gear was packed. Orders had been finalized. Recruits were briefed, and nobles had all been sent their courtesies.

Tomorrow, they would depart for the North.

The snow had melted. The first flowers bloomed. The air, though still crisp, smelled of damp earth and new beginnings.

After double-checking everything with Caelan, August finally — finally — allowed himself to rest.

He changed into lighter clothes, blew out the lantern by his desk, and let himself sink into the cool linen sheets of his bed.

To rest.

To sleep.

To hope.

And then —

it began.

That dream. Again.

But this time… something was different.

The world around him wasn't a twisted corridor of memories, nor a room too dark to breathe in.

No.

He stood barefoot in an open field — endless and unreal. A sea of tall grass and strange white blossoms stretched into the distance. They glowed faintly under the starlight, as if the moon had fallen and shattered across the ground.

Above, the sky was painted in shades of midnight blue and violet, blanketed with stars too many to count. They shimmered like they were close enough to touch.

The breeze was warm.

And the silence? It didn't hurt.

He took a step forward. The flowers bent gently beneath his feet. Not crushed — welcoming.

The field breathed with him.

Alive.

Peaceful.

But then, somewhere on the edge of this dreamscape — movement.

A flicker.

A figure?

He couldn't tell.

But his chest began to ache — not from fear… but from a feeling he couldn't name. Something buried. Something calling.

Something waiting.

A giggle broke the stillness.

Light.

Playful.

Wrong.

A soft laugh echoed through the flower-laced field, carried by the wind like the chime of silver bells.

Then —

a blur of motion.

A child darted past him, feet barely touching the grass.

August turned sharply.

They wore black shorts and a crisp white shirt — the kind noble boys wore during their earlier years, no older than eight or nine. Their face was a blur, hidden by the shimmer of the dream.

But their smile—

That was clear.

Too wide. Too bright. Too sharp around the edges.

"She's gonna die soon~" the child sang, voice lilting like a lullaby, as they disappeared deeper into the glowing field.

August's chest tightened.

Something twisted in his gut.

He took a shaky step forward.

"Who… who do you mean?" he whispered.

The breeze stilled.

The stars pulsed.

The child's voice returned — distant and sing-song, echoing like it came from the folds of the sky itself:

"It'll be all your fault~"

Then silence.

No flowers rustled. No stars blinked.

The field had gone still — too still.

And August stood alone, heart racing, surrounded by beauty that suddenly felt like a lie.

◇◇◇◇

Then the scene shifted.

No sound. No warning.

Just a jarring silence —

and then—

A body.

Then another.

Bodies.

Dozens.

Lying still beneath his feet, their faces blurred like smeared paint, as if memory refused to recognize them.

The once-blooming field was no longer gold and green.

It was red.

A pool of blood.

The petals had rotted into decay.

The grass was drowned in crimson.

And August—

He was sinking.

Slowly. Inevitable.

The more he moved, the deeper he sank, thick liquid clinging to him like guilt made flesh.

He gasped —

but there was no air, only the copper sting of blood flooding his mouth.

The stars above didn't move.

The world didn't care.

The child's voice came again — light, lilting, cruel.

"All your fault~"

Then silence.

Heavy. Suffocating.

As August sank into the red, surrounded by faceless corpses and a grief he couldn't name—

A single name came to his lips.

Barely a breath.

Barely a thought.

"Caelan…"

◇◇◇◇

"Your Highness!"

Caelan's voice rang sharply beside him.

August bolted upright, gasping — soaked in sweat, eyes wide with panic.

His chest rose and fell rapidly, each breath coming too fast, too shallow. The world around him blurred — warped by the echoes of a dream too vivid, too real.

But then — another sound.

Her voice again. Steady. Calm.

"It's okay. Just breathe."

Caelan remained kneeling a short distance from the bed, close but not too close, her hands held at her sides — unmoving.

She didn't touch him. She never did. She knew better.

"You're here. You're safe. Just keep breathing."

August clutched the sheets tightly in his fists, his knuckles white.

His throat felt raw. His body — trembling.

But her voice was constant. Anchoring.

And slowly, breath by breath, the shadows began to recede.

◇◇◇◇

August let out a deep sigh and sank back into the bed, the weight in his chest beginning to ease.

"I'm fine now."

Caelan gave a small nod, but didn't move.

"You can go," August added after a moment.

"I'd rather stay," she said, voice steady as she quietly took a seat beside his bed — close, but still not touching.

August exhaled again, softer this time. He didn't have the strength to argue with her tonight.

"How did you know I was having a nightmare again?" he asked, his voice low, tinged with exhaustion.

"You called my name," she replied calmly. "Seven times, Your Highness."

He turned his head toward her, resting an arm over his forehead, brows furrowed.

"I did?"

"Yes," Caelan said simply.

August let out a soft scoff, the corner of his mouth twitching.

"I see… even in dreams, I still look for you."

Caelan nearly choked on her own breath, caught off guard.

"You're probably the only thing anchoring me right now," he added, voice quieter this time.

She paused, eyes dropping to the floor. Her jaw tensed, but her voice remained calm as she looked back at him.

"I'll be whatever you need me to be, August. I mean it."

There was a moment of silence—weighty, unspoken things lingering in the air between them.

Then August sighed and tossed a pillow at her chest.

"If someone heard that, they'd think we were lovers."

He turned his face away and muttered, more softly now:

"Use the pillow and get some sleep. We have a long day ahead."

◇◇◇◇

Although tension lingered in the air, the two managed to sleep peacefully.

By morning, it was as if nothing had happened.

◇◇◇◇

August climbed into his carriage while Caelan rode beside it on her black horse, dressed in her usual black uniform stitched with subtle purple embroidery, her cloak trailing behind her like a shadow.

The selected recruits followed close behind, each in the same uniform—black with a faint purple line along the seams, no cloaks, no ornaments. Silent and focused.

All except for Arin.

He was perched up front near the driver, legs swinging slightly, a cheerful grin on his face.

There was a reason for this: Arin couldn't ride a horse without turning it into a public hazard, so they secured him in the one place he could do the least damage.

As the prince's procession rolled forward, just past the towering palace gates—

Another carriage passed them by.

It was regal, sleek, draped in silks of eastern red and gold.

The concubine had returned.

August stiffened instantly, his eyes narrowing for the briefest of moments. But he said nothing. He simply exhaled once they passed, shoulders loosening slightly, as though a great weight had just been lifted.

And so, with spring sun above them and frost melting from the earth—

They departed for the North.

Ready for what lay ahead.

Or so they thought.