The Prince and His Loyal Hound

Now that the king's concubine had departed once more for one of her healing retreats to the east, the palace finally felt at peace.

Or so everyone else believed.

Caelan, on the other hand?

She had trouble in her arms.

Literally.

Lucian had once again snuck into her bed in the dead of night — silent as a shadow, determined as ever. And now, curled at her side like a small housecat chasing warmth, he slept soundly.

His head was tucked beneath her chin, arms wrapped firmly around her middle, and one of her legs had gone numb from his weight. She sighed.

"This is the third night in a row," she muttered under her breath.

But her hand was already resting gently on his back, fingers brushing through his soft hair.

Trouble, yes.

But she didn't mind it.

◇◇◇◇

And so, a routine began.

Early morning stretches with the knights — and one tiny recruit in an oversized tunic trailing faithfully behind.

The courtyard echoed with quiet discipline: the steady rhythm of boots shifting, arms raising, bodies bending with practiced grace.

And in the middle of it all, Lucian mirrored Caelan's every movement with the seriousness of a soldier… wearing one of her old tunics that nearly swallowed him whole.

"You know," Caelan said, stretching her back with a wince, "instead of stealing my clothes, maybe you should wear your own. At least for practice."

Lucian puffed his cheeks, eyes narrowed in exaggerated defiance. "But yours feel better…"

A ripple of restrained chuckles passed through the gathered knights.

A direct hit to their hearts.

But not Caelan's. She remained unshaken, lips tugging only slightly into a smirk.

"I know that," she said. "I'm not saying don't wear it. Just… for training, wear something you can actually move in. Without tripping over your own pride."

Lucian looked down at the fabric pooling around his knees. His pout deepened, but he nodded obediently. "Okay…"

He didn't sound happy — but he didn't argue either.

And Caelan? She gave his hair a brief ruffle and turned back to the formation like nothing happened.

◇◇◇◇

After stretching, they moved on to sword practice in the shaded part of the courtyard. Caelan knelt beside Lucian, gently rolling up the sleeves of the oversized tunic he'd stolen from her. The fabric bunched awkwardly at his elbows, revealing his small arms.

"These'll just get in the way if we leave them like that," she said, securing the sleeves with a bit of string so they wouldn't fall. Then she tied the hem of the tunic at his waist with another strip of cloth. "There. Now you won't trip and fall like a sack of potatoes."

Lucian stood proudly, chest puffed out, wooden sword clutched tightly in both hands.

Caelan smiled and handed him a training sword properly suited to his size — not too heavy, but with enough weight to feel real. "Alright, little knight. You'll copy my movements first. Then you'll do ten swings of each. Got it?"

Lucian nodded with serious determination.

Caelan stepped back, drew her own wooden sword, and took a poised stance. "Watch carefully."

"Form One: Ox Guard. Hold the sword near your shoulder—good. Now swing downward like you're cutting firewood. Elbows firm. Shoulders relaxed."

She demonstrated, the wooden blade slicing through the air with ease.

Lucian mimicked her. A little clumsy, but focused.

Caelan stepped closer, gently adjusting his arms. "Not that stiff. You're not a broomstick."

She stepped back again.

"Form Two: Fool's Guard. Lower the blade — good — point it toward the ground, but don't drop your grip. From here, when the enemy comes close, strike up. Like so."

She moved with a sharp upward swing, then paused to let him copy it.

"Form Three: Plow Guard. Sword at your hip. From here you can thrust—" she jabbed forward, "—or sweep, like this."

Lucian followed with wide eyes, mimicking both motions.

"Form Four: Roof. Raise it over your head. Keep your wrists straight. Now bring it down — centerline cut, firm and controlled. You're not trying to knock down a tree, just split a thread."

She watched him try once, then again, correcting his stance softly.

"Good. Now, ten swings of each form. And don't rush it. Every strike should mean something."

Lucian nodded. "Okay."

From the side, Arin groaned. "Why does he get to do ten, and I have to do a hundred?"

Caelan didn't even glance at him. "Because he's just starting, and we don't want him sore and crying by nightfall."

Then she turned to face Arin, expression sharp. "You, however, slacked off yesterday."

She narrowed her eyes.

"One hundred fifty swings."

Arin sputtered. "That's not fair—!"

"It is when you whine."

Lucian giggled as Arin returned to the field, grumbling dramatically.

Caelan looked back at Lucian, her tone softening. "If you do well, maybe I'll let you chase Arin around with your sword after practice."

Lucian's eyes lit up. "Really?!"

"Only if your form's perfect."

He beamed at her, and after a pause, mumbled something softly as he raised his wooden sword again.

"...Okay, father."

The wooden sword slipped slightly in his grip as he swung, but the word still echoed louder than any shout.

Everyone in the courtyard froze.

Lucian's voice — clear and earnest — rang out like a bell struck in a chapel.

"Yes, Father!"

The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating. Practice swords hung in the air mid-swing, and not a single boot shifted on the stone.

Caelan lowered her blade and slowly knelt in front of the boy.

She placed a steady hand on his small shoulder, her expression unreadable but her touch gentle.

"Your Highness," she said in a composed voice, just loud enough for those nearby to hear, "did I hear you correctly?"

Lucian, already wilting under the sudden attention, lowered his wooden sword and bowed his head.

"Please don't call me that…" he muttered.

Caelan's eyes searched his face, her voice lowering. "Alright… Lucian. Then tell me — did you just call me father a moment ago?"

He nodded, small and ashamed. "Well… you look after me. You play with me… you tell me to eat and sleep and scold me when I do bad things. His Majesty is never around. I've only seen him once… and in the East, they said a father is someone who takes care of you and makes you feel safe."

His voice cracked a little.

"That's what you are to me."

Caelan's composure wavered — not in her face, but in the stillness of her breath.

She wanted to respond. Wanted to correct him gently, remind him of courtly lines and titles, of blood and politics.

But then… she saw the look on his face.

That look — small, expectant, desperate. The kind that had already learned what rejection felt like far too young.

And she couldn't speak.

The silence was its own answer.

Lucian's lips quivered. His little fists clenched at his sides.

Then, before anyone could stop him, he dropped his sword and turned, running from the training yard.

His footsteps echoed hollowly against the stone as he disappeared around the corner.

No one moved.

Even Arin's usual quips died on his tongue.

Caelan stood up slowly, the wooden sword Lucian had dropped now lying at her feet.

Her jaw clenched as she spoke.

"Resume training."

The command was steady, firm — but her eyes lingered on the place Lucian had disappeared.

Then, without waiting for a response, she turned sharply on her heel and began walking — fast, purposeful — after him.