The Prince and His Loyal Hound

Content Warning: This chapter contains descriptions of panic attacks, self-harm behaviors, and implied sexual trauma. Reader discretion is advised.

Caelan was in motion when it happened — one hand resting at a noblewoman's waist, the other poised just so, guiding her smoothly through the waltz. The room shimmered with silk and crystal, and for a moment, he felt certain of one thing: August was fine.

Then, from the corner of his eye, a shift. A flash of deep violet silk, moving too quickly, too sharply for the serene prince he knew. Not a measured step, but a withdrawal. Not a glance, not a word. The prince was gone, and with him, the air changed.

Caelan felt it — that quiet, sharp warning deep in the pit of his stomach.

He drew the dance to a halt and offered the noblewoman an apologetic bow. "Forgive me, my lady," he said, voice low and courteous. "I must take my leave."

He stepped away as quickly as decorum allowed, brushing past swirling silk and quiet laughter, leaving his dance partner blinking in both confusion and awe.

He was nearly at the doors when the whispers reached him.

"Have you seen how the prince left?"

"I heard he was cursed… that anyone he touches is marked for death."

"Right? They say Lady Mira died right after brushing against him."

"Wasn't that just an accident? Her carriage overturned…"

The threads of gossip coiled and twisted, a growing hiss at the edges of the room.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, movement. A figure — a lady — making for the forbidden wing where the prince had just departed.

Caelan changed course, soundless and sure. In three long strides he was upon her, voice low but firm.

"My lady, you shouldn't be here."

He stepped between her and the archway, a hand resting just enough on the doorframe to block the path.

"His Highness is unwell and not receiving guests tonight. If you wish an audience, I'm sure a formal request can be arranged."

Each word was clipped, every glance measured. Not a threat, but a warning — one she could feel down to her bones.

With a polite tilt of his head, he added quietly, "I trust you understand."

Then, before the whispers could rise any further, he was gone — slipping down the corridors after the prince, a shadow in pursuit of its flame.

As Caelan exited the room, he clicked his tongue sharply.

"Tsk. Lowlifes." The word was a growl meant for no one but himself, and then he was running — no hesitation, no thought for decorum. No knock at the door.

By the time he reached the prince's chamber, it was already too late.

August's formal jacket was abandoned across the bed. His gloves lay discarded by the washroom door, shoes kicked hastily to the side. The space felt charged, suffused with a silence too sharp to break.

Caelan pushed the washroom door open and froze.

There, by the basin, the prince was scrubbing at his arm with a desperation that stole the breath from the room. The delicate skin was already raw, crimson streaking pale flesh. His shirt hung half open, sleeves rolled hastily to the elbows, droplets of water and faint traces of blood staining the sink.

August didn't notice him. Couldn't.

He was muttering under his breath, words fragmented and shaking.

"Off… get it off. Not mine… not mine… no, no… don't let it stay."

Each word bubbled out, broken and strangled, lost between harsh gasps and the sound of water. His voice was hoarse, shaking.

"Disgusting… can't… can't let it stay. Must scrub harder… harder… harder…"

With every pass of the cloth, the skin reddened, then split further, threads of blood rising under the sting. Yet he didn't stop. Couldn't stop. The sound of the tap, the rasp of cloth, and the choked whine in his throat blended together — a quiet terror echoing within the walls.

Caelan tightened his jaw until it ached. He stepped closer, voice soft but firm as steel.

"Your Highness… that's enough."

But the sound didn't seem to reach him. Not with terror burning in those wide, violet eyes. Not with desperation shaking hands that refused to stop, no matter how deep the cloth tore at skin. Not even as crimson began to bead and run down pale, shaking arms — as if the blood itself wanted release.

"Your Highness!" Caelan called sharply.

No response.

"Your Highness!" he tried again, voice rising.

Still nothing.

"August!" he yelled, voice cracking like a whip across the silence.

And still, the prince didn't flinch. Didn't pause. Couldn't.

With a sound between a curse and a growl, Caelan surged to the closet, snatched a towel, and whipped it around the prince from behind — just low enough to cinch down below the elbows, locking them to the sides of that shaking, thrashing frame. He pulled tight on the ends, anchoring him, containing him.

The moment the pressure hit, August erupted.

A scream ripped from deep in his chest — raw, strangled, torn apart by terror. He bucked wildly, twisting like a hunted beast, choking on air as if drowning.

"Let me go! Let me go, let me go!" The words came in a hoarse, shattering plea.

His voice rose and cracked until it was a ragged screech. "Please! Please, don't — don't touch me! Don't — no more — no more —"

He slammed backward, heels scraping wildly across the floor. The sound he made was animalistic, torn from the depths of a boy long ago broken. The sound of a man reliving every moment he tried to bury.

"Please! I'll be good, I'll be quiet! Please —" The words dissolved into a sob that shook the air, shook the walls, shook the bones of the room itself.

Caelan tightened the grip of the towel, locking it in place, locking the prince in place, but refused to touch him. Not skin to skin. Not when the terror came from a place that hands couldn't heal.

"August! You're safe," he said sharply, voice shaking despite himself. "It's just me. You're safe."

But the sound of reason drowned under the sound of terror. Under the sound of a boy reduced to desperation and terror, thrashing harder, choking, shaking until knees buckled and breath came too sharp, too fast, too broken.

In that moment, every sound, every scream, felt like a blade, carving scars that would never truly heal.

Caelan sank with him, slow and sure, knees brushing the cold tile as the prince crumpled. Still holding the ends of the towel tight, anchoring, containing, never releasing.

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"Shh… it's alright," he murmured, voice low, steady.

"It's just me, August. It's just Cael"

He tightened the cloth just enough to ground, not restrain, and lowered his voice closer to a whisper.

"You're safe. You're safe, August."

The prince shook violently, breath tearing from him in sharp, choking bursts. Caelan didn't flinch. He didn't raise his voice. He leaned in just enough that the sound would carry.

"Just breathe," he said quietly. "Deep and slow — like we practiced before. In… and out. That's it."

He kept repeating it, low and measured, a metronome of comfort in the storm.

"Just breathe, August. Just like that. Deep and slow. You're safe. I've got you."

Bit by bit, the shaking began to slow. Not end, not yet. Not completely. But enough for the sound of the prince's terror to shift from a scream to a ragged, exhausted sob. Enough for the sound of breath — deep, shaky, but breath nonetheless — to rise in its place.

Caelan didn't move. Didn't fill the silence with questions. Didn't try to fix the unfixable. He just stayed. Held the ends of that cloth like a lifeline. Kept repeating the words until the sound of terror ebbed and a fragile, desperate quiet settled between them.

August slowly began to sag, the terror burning out of him by sheer exhaustion. In a moment of weakness, he sank backward until his spine pressed shakily against the solid warmth at his side.

For a breath, it was bearable. Quiet. The sound of water dripping from the washbasin. The faint, clean sting of the towel pressed to his arms.

Then the smell hit him.

A faint trace of it — a whisper of rose, a hint of powder, a sliver of something sharp and feminine. Not belonging to the washroom. Not belonging to him. Not belonging here.

But belonging to the ballroom. To the hands that had pressed too close. To the chest that had brushed too near. To the countless silks and hands that had spun around him tonight, closing in, too close, too much.

It rose from Caelan's shirt like a phantom. Not strong enough for others to notice, but for him? It was a dagger pressed to an old, ragged scar.

The room tilted. The air felt too sharp. And deep within that fragile, frayed silence, a terror long buried began to stir.