The Prince and His Loyal Hound

In the medical wing, Galen and Sori had cleared the room with uncharacteristic authority.

"Out. All of you," Galen said firmly. "He needs proper treatment, and we don't need a crowd breathing down our necks."

The excuse was professional.

The truth was not.

Both Galen and Sori had known Caelan's secret for years — that the infamous knight guarding the Crown Prince wasn't a man at all, but a woman hidden behind iron and discipline.

They'd helped protect that truth, though at first... not out of loyalty.

No, in the beginning, Galen had simply stumbled upon it by accident — during a mission years ago, when he'd rushed to treat an unconscious and wounded Caelan, and started undoing her armor and undershirt without thinking.

He still remembered the moment her eyes snapped open, blazing like hellfire.

"If a word of this leaves your mouth," she had hissed, "kiss the idea of children goodbye. And forget peeing standing up ever again."

He had never, ever forgotten.

But somewhere along the way, threats turned to trust. And that trust became loyalty — deep, unspoken, and absolute.

Now, there was no fear. Just urgency.

Sori moved fast, hands steady as she peeled away Caelan's blood-soaked jacket and worked at the tight chest bindings, careful not to jostle her shoulder. She was young, but precise — her movements practiced from years of battlefield triage.

"She's bled through two layers," she muttered. "I'm cutting this."

Galen nodded, already at the worktable, crushing dried herbs with methodical focus. The smell of crushed comfrey and woundwort filled the air as he stirred the powder into a thick, viscous salve.

Across the room, Caelan groaned.

Her eyes fluttered open halfway, voice a rasp.

"Sori… gentle… or I'll start screaming and wake the whole damn estate…"

"You got slashed in the back and stabbed in the leg. You scream all you want," Sori replied flatly, rinsing the wound with cold water. "That's the price you pay for being everyone's tragic hero."

Galen approached with the salve, glancing at the raw gash across Caelan's shoulder and the bruised skin along her ribs.

"She needs stitches."

"I'm not unconscious enough for that," Caelan grumbled.

"Then bite down on something," Sori muttered, tossing her a rolled towel.

Caelan smirked. "Didn't think you were into that."

Sori deadpanned. "Bite. Or I'll let Galen stitch you without the salve."

Caelan wisely bit the towel.

Galen leaned in with needle and thread.

The room fell into a rhythm — thread, tie, clean, repeat.

No questions. No unnecessary words.

Just trust, pain, and the quiet bond of those who've seen too much and said too little.

Once the last of the wounds were cleaned, stitched, and salved, Caelan lay on her stomach, silent — until her eyes locked onto Sori.

Her voice came low. Firm.

"The binds."

Sori didn't respond.

She busied herself with cleaning bloodied cloths and rinsing the bowl like she hadn't heard.

"Sori." Caelan's tone sharpened. "The binds. I need them. Now."

Still no response. Just the clink of metal and water.

Caelan narrowed her eyes. "You think I'll let someone else find out?"

"I think you should rest without them," Sori muttered, still avoiding her gaze.

"I think you should hand them over," Caelan snapped.

A long silence hung in the room — only the quiet breath of a cooling wind through the half-open window.

Eventually, reluctantly, Sori sighed. She crossed the room and returned with the fresh bindings.

"Stubborn mule," she muttered under her breath.

Caelan smirked faintly. "Takes one to know one."

With practiced, silent care, Sori re-bound her chest, her hands steady despite her reluctance. When she was done, she pulled the sheets up and draped them gently over Caelan's back — tucking her in like one might a sleeping knight carved from tragedy.

Caelan looked every bit the fallen hero now.

A war-worn savior.

But her brow was furrowed in visible irritation.

"I hate looking like a martyr."

Sori finally met her gaze, deadpan.

"You look like an idiot who doesn't know when to stop bleeding."

Caelan snorted faintly, then groaned as it pulled at a stitch.

"Noted."

And with that, silence returned — familiar and heavy, but not unwelcome.

◇◇◇◇

The first one through the door after Galen finally allowed visitors in… was Arin.

He all but burst inside, eyes red, cheeks wet, and sniffling like a scolded child.

"Commander…" he whimpered, voice breaking between hiccups and sobs.

He dropped to his knees beside Caelan's bed, head bowed against the sheets, and cried — loudly, messily, without shame.

Caelan groaned, not even bothering to lift her head from the pillow.

"Shut up," she muttered, voice hoarse. "I'm trying to sleep here."

But even as she said it, her hand found its way to his head — resting there gently.

Fingers curling slightly.

Comforting.

She didn't say anything else.

She didn't need to.

And Arin cried harder.

That's a beautiful backstory for Arin — it explains his loyalty, emotional attachment, and vulnerability in a very grounded way. The imagery in your last line — "like a kicked puppy that saw the person who kicked him get his leg broken by the vet" — is vivid and darkly funny, perfectly fitting Arin's chaotic energy.

◇◇◇◇

Arin hadn't always been like this.

When he first joined the order at fifteen, he was a whirlwind of trouble — the infamous middle child of House Westfall, known more for scandal than promise. He skipped drills, disobeyed commands, and treated knight training like a game he didn't want to play.

That all changed the day he earned the full weight of Caelan Grey's legendary scolding — followed by a punishment that left him scrubbing stable floors for hours. He'd expected to be left there, forgotten and spat on like usual. That's how punishments always went.

But not with Caelan.

Caelan had called out mid-meal, telling him to stop and eat with the other recruits. As if he mattered. As if he hadn't just messed up again.

He'd never forgotten that.

From that day forward, Arin obeyed only Caelan. No one else's orders mattered.

And when a noble recruit falsely accused him of theft — mistaking him for a commoner — it was Caelan who stood up for him. Caelan who exposed the lie. Caelan who kicked the noble out of the order without hesitation, despite the outrage it caused.

From that point on, Arin stuck to Caelan like a loyal stray — the kind who once knew only cruelty, until the hand that hurt him was broken by the only person who ever fed him.

◇◇◇◇

Tae stepped into the medical ward and chuckled.

"Oooh~ looks like the child of the group is crying his eyes out again," he teased, ruffling Arin's hair.

Arin let out a whining protest, only to be spared by a swat from Caelan.

"Don't tease him too much," she mumbled into the pillow, voice half-asleep.

Ryeon and Eren entered next.

"Oh, is this the infamous 'don't touch my puppy' act?" Ryeon joked, a sly grin on his face.

Eren, as always, remained silent — but the slight twitch of his lips gave him away.

Caelan groaned.

"Can you all stay silent? I'm attempting to recover."

Darin walked in last, carrying a bowl of soup from the kitchen.

"Oh, everyone's already here."

"Yes — now all of you, get out. I need my sleep…" Caelan groaned again, voice muffled in the pillow.

"What's the harm?" Sori said with a grin. "They say fallen heroes need moral support."

That earned her another groan from Caelan — and laughter from the rest.

The room quickly fell into its usual chaotic atmosphere.

Despite her desperate need for rest, Caelan didn't seriously kick them out.

Because she knew.

She knew they needed to see her — to hear her voice and laugh at her groans.

She knew that this was their way of saying they were glad she was still alive.

Their way of saying:

Welcome back.