The Prince and His Loyal Hound

Content Warning: This chapter contains intense themes of PTSD, trauma, panic attacks, self‑harm, and implied sexual abuse. Reader discretion is advised.

August's body went rigid. A sound bubbled in his throat — halfway between a whine and a choked sob. Suddenly the room felt too small, the air too sharp. The hand that moments ago had started to relax clawed desperately for purchase, and the terror surged back, shaking him harder, deeper.

Caelan froze for a beat. And then understanding sank in. Not hesitation — never that. Not when it came to this boy he swore to protect.

With sharp, efficient movements, he tightened the ends of the towel, binding August's arms closer to his sides. Not to restrain cruelty, but to shield him from the terror twisting through every nerve.

Then he rose. The sound of water sloshed sharply as he stripped off his outer jacket and tossed it aside, exposing the crisp shirt he had worn to the ball. Without hesitation, he plunged both hands into the porcelain washbasin, hauling water out in a rush.

The air was immediately thick with the rich, crisp bite of lavender — the same royal blend used in every palace washroom. He snatched the bar of matching lavender-scented soap, pressed it between both hands, and worked it until the lather bubbled into a faint mist.

Then he dragged it over every inch of shirt and skin, scouring every hint of the night's encounters from the fabric. The shirt grew translucent and sodden as he worked, droplets falling to the floor. Yet still, he kept going until the smell of silks and strangers was drowned completely in the sharp, clean sting of lavender.

Only then did he stop. Only then did he drop to one knee beside the prince. The bar of soap abandoned on the edge of the washbasin. The shirt plastered to him, soaked and faintly fragrant.

He drew closer, voice low, firm — the sound of a hand offered in the dark.

"August… it's gone. It's just me now."

As the sting of lavender waned and the sound of water sloshing ebbed, some fragile sense of reality surfaced. The terror still coiled deep within August, but threads of clarity began to glisten through the mist.

No hands held him. No hands ever had. Not Caelan. Never Caelan. What held him was a towel — tied firm, wrapped low, a quiet, warm cradle pressed across shaking ribs. Not skin upon skin. Not a grip that claimed or controlled. Just the strong weave of cloth anchoring him to the floor, making sure he wouldn't hurt himself any further.

A hold meant to protect, not to use.

A hold meant to save, not to break.

August drew a shuddering breath as the realization sank in, and he slumped harder against the fabric, too exhausted to resist. Slowly, he tilted his head upward, blinking through the sting of tears and the sting of memory — and found himself looking at the man before him.

Caelan had knelt amid a faint mist of lavender and faint traces of blood. The knight's shirt was soaked translucent, clinging to a chest that was broad and firm, faint lines of bandages pressed tight across a warrior's frame. Not yielding. Not delicate. Not like the curves of a woman.

August's breath caught in his throat. Not in fear. Not in disgust. But in a quiet, dawning ache. He hadn't noticed until now, hadn't registered the faint silhouette of those bandages, the harsh marks of strain where the soaked shirt pressed to skin. Yet there it was.

Caelan, injured.

Caelan, wounded.

Caelan, still pouring water over himself, scrubbing away every trace of the suffocating scents — for him.

To make this space bearable. To make him feel safe.

A faint sting of guilt surged in the depths of those tired, violet eyes. He hadn't even registered the words Caelan spoke, nor the sound of the quiet mantra repeating through the room. What he registered was this — the silent, stubborn strength of the one person who refused to let him shatter, no matter the cost.

Through the haze of fear, a thought surfaced — quiet, sharp, and humbling:

That this person, despite their own pain, despite their own wounds, had chosen to bear this weight for him.

For him. And him alone.

And in that fragile space between terror and belonging, August felt the faintest shift — like the sting of a scar brushing a breath of air — a whisper of belonging. Not yet peace. Not yet trust. But a moment where the darkness felt just a fraction less absolute.

Caelan stayed where he was, kneeling in silence a short distance away. His shirt clung to him, soaked through, and strands of dark hair dripped faintly onto the floor. The soft scent of lavender curled between them, a quiet balm against the heavy tension in the air. He didn't move closer. Didn't reach out. Not yet.

Instead, he watched the prince's face—the tight line of clenched jaw, the trembling lips, the shallow, uneven breaths. His eyes were glassy, unfocused, as if lost behind a thin veil of mist. Then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, those eyes shifted—flickering like fragile flames—and finally found Caelan's steady gaze.

In that brief, trembling moment, the silence stretched—a fragile thread binding them together in the quiet aftermath. Only then did Caelan let his voice slip through the stillness, low and steady, carrying all the weight of patience and care.

"Your Highness… Do you feel safe enough now?"

August drew a long, shaking breath, lashes fluttering as if hauling himself back from some dark, misted shore. He didn't reply right away — only sank a fraction more into the towel wrapped around him. Then, faint and hoarse, "Mm."

Caelan gave a slow nod. "Is the towel too tight?" he asked quietly.

August tilted slightly, swallowing hard. "No," came the whisper, rough as torn silk. "It's… fine."

Caelan pressed a hand to the center of his own chest, voice softening further. "Forgive the cruelty of my act, Your Highness. But it was necessary to stop you from harming yourself any further." His voice shook just once before he drew a breath and added, "I'll take any punishment you deem worthy of such a deed."

August's eyes fluttered shut for a moment. The silence was long, punctured only by the faint drip of water from Caelan's shirt. When he spoke, it was nearly soundless, the words brushing the air like a fragile exhale.

"Thank you… I… needed it."

A shudder passed through him as he sank just a fraction closer — not reaching, not leaning fully, but yielding to the quiet safety that held him. In that fragile space between terror and belonging, a faint warmth surfaced. Not peace, not trust, not yet.

But the faintest ember of knowing that he was, for this moment, safe.