The Prince and His Loyal Hound

The return journey to the capital was quiet, the kind of silence that felt both heavy and necessary.

With the mission over and the monsters retreating, there was little to discuss and even less to say. The steady rhythm of the carriage wheels against the dirt road filled the air, punctuated only by the occasional clink of armor or murmured exchange between riders.

The mid-spring sun cast a soft golden light across the passing landscape, trees budding into full bloom as they made their way home.

As the city's silhouette crept into view, the atmosphere inside the carriage subtly shifted. Shoulders straightened. Faces grew guarded. The closer they came to the palace, the more real everything felt again.

When they finally reached the gates of the royal palace, they opened with slow, deliberate grandeur. The carriage rolled inside, its arrival noticed immediately by the servants lined neatly in two rows, awaiting their return.

The moment the wheels stopped and the carriage door opened, August stepped out first — his face unreadable. He didn't wait for anyone. With a nod to the head steward, he walked straight toward his private wing, boots quiet against the marble floor.

The rest of the group disembarked more slowly, stretching stiff limbs and exchanging glances. While the knights began unloading their gear and reporting in, Caelan stayed behind a moment longer, watching August's retreating figure disappear into the halls.

Then, without a word, she turned on her heel and headed toward her own quarters.

Once inside, the quiet was a strange comfort. The room was just as she had left it — simple, neat, efficient. She stripped off her uniform piece by piece, her muscles sore from travel and lingering wounds. The bathwater was lukewarm by the time she stepped in, but it didn't matter.

She washed away the sweat, dirt, and tension of the road in slow, methodical motions. No thoughts. Just steam and silence.

By the time she stepped out and dried off, her body was tired but her mind alert. She reached for the fresh bandages on the table beside her bed, expertly wrapping her chest as she'd done countless times before.

Just as she tugged the last layer into place —

A knock came at the door.

Soft. Measured. Not urgent, but firm enough to say they weren't leaving.

"Who is it?" Caelan called out, her voice level as she secured the last loop of bandage across her chest.

"It's Sorina, His Highness Prince Lucian's maid," came the reply, muffled slightly by the door but unmistakably formal — and tinged with apprehension.

Caelan exhaled softly, not in irritation but out of habit. "One moment."

She moved across her small room, the wooden floor cool beneath her bare feet. A breeze slipped through the open window, carrying with it the familiar scent of the palace gardens — blooming lilac and trimmed hedges. Caelan didn't linger.

She pulled on her trousers, worn soft by use, then a clean tunic of pale grey linen. No formal uniform today — only the subtle stiffness of healing wounds beneath fabric. She raked a hand through her damp, short hair out of reflex, though there wasn't enough of it to need smoothing.

When she opened the door, Sorina stood at attention in the hallway, posture proper but her eyes betraying nerves.

"What is it?" Caelan asked, voice curt but not cruel.

The maid bowed slightly, hands folded in front of her apron. "His Highness Prince Lucian has requested your presence, Commander."

Caelan raised an eyebrow, one hand resting against the doorframe. "Did he throw a tantrum like last time?"

There was a flicker of unease in Sorina's eyes as she glanced aside, clearly reluctant to speak ill of her master. "...More or less."

A faint pause. Then Caelan sighed and reached for her boots, sitting on the edge of her bed to lace them. Her motions were swift, practiced.

"Alright," she said, standing once more. "Lead the way."

With that, she stepped into the corridor, her footsteps light but sure despite the lingering soreness in her limbs. Whatever awaited her with Prince Lucian — it would be easier to face than monsters in the woods.

Probably.

The maid led Caelan through the quieter, less-traveled halls of the royal palace. The deeper they went into the concubine's wing, the dimmer the corridors became — not from a lack of wealth, but a lack of attention. It was always like this here: overlooked, muted, and quieter than it should've been.

"He wouldn't touch his lunch or dinner," the maid whispered as they stopped outside the prince's quarters. "He keeps saying you broke your promise."

Caelan sighed softly. "He's not entirely wrong."

The maid bowed and stepped aside as Caelan knocked once, then opened the door.

The room was a mess of plush toys and books, the curtains drawn despite the bright mid-morning sun. A plate of untouched food sat on a low table, now cold. And on the padded window seat, curled into a ball, was Prince Lucian.

He wore a tunic far too large for him — pale beige, slightly frayed at the collar. Familiar.

It was her tunic.

Caelan blinked, registering it instantly. One of her old uniform shirts — she'd assumed it had been lost to the wash.

"Lucian," she said gently, voice low.

The boy shot upright, tousled blond hair falling over wide blue eyes — and in the next breath, he bolted from his spot and threw himself at her.

"Cae!!" he cried, wrapping his small arms around her waist with such force that she had to brace her stance to keep balance.

She let out a breath and knelt slowly, pulling him into a proper hug. "That's quite the welcome."

"You're late," he sniffled. "You promised. You promised you'd come back and see me."

"I did come back. It just took a bit longer."

"You were hurt." His voice was accusing — small, but fierce. "They wouldn't tell me anything! I heard the knights whispering!"

Caelan brushed his hair back gently. "I'm fine now. Just needed some time to heal."

Lucian stepped back and looked up at her, pouting hard enough to tremble. "Where? Show me."

"It's on my back and leg. You can't see it right now."

He frowned, his arms still clinging to her. "Is that why you're walking slow?"

Caelan nodded. "But I'm better now. I swear."

Lucian looked down at the tunic he was wearing and mumbled, "I wore this every day."

Caelan blinked.

"I missed you," he added, barely audible. "And it smells like you."

That — that made something squeeze in her chest.

"…It really doesn't smell that great, you know," she teased lightly, brushing a hand down his sleeve. "Probably just smells like sword oil and dust."

"Still smells like you," he insisted stubbornly, not letting go.

"Are you going to eat now?"

"…Only if you sit next to me," he said, tugging her toward the small table with the untouched food.

Caelan gave a long-suffering sigh but followed him without resistance. She sat down cross-legged beside him, and Lucian curled up again at her side, one hand always on her tunic's hem, as if afraid she'd disappear if he let go.

As he finally began to eat, slowly, in silence, Caelan leaned back slightly and relaxed.

She didn't belong to the palace. But for him — she'd always show up when he needed her.

Lucian had eaten half his meal, slow and quiet, still nestled close to Caelan like he feared she might vanish if he blinked too long.

She stayed seated beside him, one arm propped behind for support. The pain in her leg throbbed, dull but persistent. Still, she didn't move.

"Did she say goodbye this time?" Caelan asked gently, not needing to say the name.

Lucian shook his head once, eyes fixed on the remaining food. "The servants said she went on another healing trip. Back to the east."

A beat passed.

Caelan's gaze softened. "I see."

"They said it's for her health, but..." He poked at a piece of fruit with his fork. "She always leaves when the court gets busy. Or when His Majesty stops visiting her wing."

Caelan didn't say anything at first.

She reached over and tucked a stray curl behind his ear.

"You know that's not your fault, right?"

Lucian nodded, but he didn't look convinced.

"She didn't even bring me this time," he added after a moment. "Said it would be too tiring to care for me while healing."

Caelan's jaw tightened, but she masked it with a soft smile.

"She's missing out," she said simply. "You're easy to care for."

Lucian blinked up at her, then smiled just a little, shy and uncertain.

"I'll stay," Caelan promised. "At least for a while."

"Really?"

She nodded. "Really. I'm not due back for any missions yet. And you clearly need someone to keep an eye on your eating."

Lucian straightened his shoulders, lips twitching. "Then I'll eat all my meals if you sit with me."

"Deal."

A comfortable quiet settled over the room — the kind that only came after a long ache had dulled. Lucian leaned against her side again, chewing slower now, like he wasn't in such a rush to finish.

Outside the window, the mid-spring sun filtered in warm gold, casting soft light across the floor.

In a palace filled with secrets, politics, and people who wore masks with every breath — this little room, for a short while, held something simple.

Quiet. Safe.

Home.