The Prince and His Loyal Hound

Content Warning: Emotional distress, trauma, anxiety, self-harm, implied past abuse.

"Caelan… could you… untie me?"

The words came out low, almost shy — a whisper pulled from a throat too raw for anything stronger. August didn't lift his gaze as he spoke. Instead, he sank a little deeper where he was, spine rounded, hands clenched loosely in the folds of the towel binding him. He felt exposed and sheltered all at once, and it was disorienting.

Caelan didn't answer right away. Not with words. Not until he shifted quietly to settle just behind the prince, making sure every motion announced itself. Not until he spoke, voice low and deliberate, brushing the silence like a hand across velvet.

"Alright, Your Highness. I'm going to remove the towel now."

August drew a breath and held it. The sound of the fabric brushing across the floor felt impossibly loud. The faint sting of air across freshly abraded skin felt too sharp. And then… release. No hands upon him, no grip upon him — just the faint shift of pressure as the cloth fell away.

He slumped forward slightly, exhausted and shaking, as the room sank into silence except for the faint drip of water from the washbasin and the sound of his own breathing, too quick, too ragged.

Caelan didn't move closer. Not until August spoke.

"Help me up," he managed, voice wavering like a thread pulled too tight.

Caelan rose smoothly to a knee beside him, offering an arm but making no move until the prince met him halfway. August gripped that strong forearm as if it were a lifeline, hauling himself upright until he sank down upon the low stool nearby.

He drew in a slow breath and pressed both hands to his knees, trying to root himself. The sting of fresh scrapes across his arms felt sharp, but a mercy compared to the deeper sting still lodged deep in his chest.

"Caelan," he rasped after a moment, voice shaking just enough to betray the effort it cost him, "I… I would like a bath. If you would… prepare it for me."

It felt almost like a plea, wrapped in the velvet of a request. Not the order of a prince, nor the command of a master. Just a quiet surrender, offered to someone he trusted to understand.

Caelan gave a slow, deep nod and rose. "Of course, Your Highness," he replied, voice low and sure, brushing the silence like a hand offered in the dark.

Through the mist that began to rise as water was poured, August watched him move. The sound of the cupboard door. The whisper of fresh linens pulled from a shelf. The faint slosh of water filling the deep, claw‑footed tub. Slowly, a clean, faint fragrance unfurled — lavender and bergamot, soft and faint.

Through it all, August felt himself teeter between moments. Part of him was still shaking, still tangled in the grip of terror and memory, while another part watched quietly, wary yet hopeful, as if searching for some measure of peace.

He sank into that fragile space — listening, breathing, reminding himself that this room was not the room from before. This space was his. This night was his. And the sound of water, and the quiet, steadfast presence of the knight making ready a bath, felt like threads leading him slowly, steadily, back from the edge.

Caelan rose slowly from beside the now-prepared tub. The sound of water lapping against porcelain was soft as he rolled down the soaked sleeves of his shirt to cover the lines of faint scars. When he turned, he found the prince already looking at him.

He sank down to one knee again, sharp brownish-red eyes rising to meet those faintly haunted violet ones. To anyone else, those eyes would seem neutral — unreadable. But to August, who had learned the language of this knight long ago, they spoke clearly: worry. Guilt. Frustration buried deep enough to not overwhelm.

"The bath is ready, Your Highness," he said quietly, voice soft as silk and calm as water.

A beat passed before he added, "Would you prefer to be alone, or would you like me to stay and guard—"

"Alone!" The word snapped sharp, ragged, a sound torn from some raw edge. "I want to bathe alone. Undisturbed."

Caelan didn't flinch, but for an instant the faintest crack surfaced — a tiny wince, a shift of weight that felt like the sting of a boot to the ribs. "Very well, Your Highness," he said, rising smoothly, voice still composed.

But August noticed. Noticed the tension buried in clenched hands. The way Caelan drew a long breath before turning for the door.

"Change out of those clothes first," August said, voice hoarse but softer this time. "Then come back and guard the door. From outside."

Caelan stopped, looking back sharply, and for a heartbeat the line of tension in his frame ebbed. The faint quirk of a smile ghosted across August's mouth as he added, brushing awkward humor through the silence, "You look like a puppy abandoned in a storm."

The words weren't sharp, weren't meant to cut. They landed soft, brushing like a hand across a wary beast's fur. And it worked.

For a moment, the hard line of the knight's spine softened. The faintest tilt of the head, just like a hound that had been promised its favorite trail — ears pricked, nose lifted to the wind, tail caught mid-wag.

It was there for only a breath, gone the next. But in that breath, something boyish and hopeful surfaced, brushing a crack through all that sharp, neutral steel.

"As you command, Your Highness," he said quietly, voice carrying just a hint of warmth before he left to do as told.

A faint, breathless laugh slipped from August as the door clicked shut—soft and wavering, but genuine.

He could still picture it: the way Caelan had lit up at those words, like an eager hound granted a long-awaited walk.

The thought brought a warmth to the edge of his exhaustion, a quiet release that softened the sting of moments ago.

Slowly, he drew a deep breath and rose, brushing trembling fingers across the surface of the water.

This time, it felt different. Not an escape. Not a desperate scrubbing for absolution.

Just a moment to wash away the night and reclaim a piece of himself.

The sound of water dripping from the washbasin was the last thing to fill the silence.

Meanwhile, down the corridor, another sound rose — the soft thud of bootsteps, and the quiet crackle of a burning anger that refused to rest.

Caelan strode down the corridor, each step weighed down by a slow, burning fury.

The thought sank its claws deep as he clenched a gloved hand until the leather creaked.

That filthy bug dared to touch him.

Should I kill her?

The thought rose sharp and tempting. But he drew in a slow breath, forcing it down. Not yet. Not now. Not when it would taint the prince's reputation. Not when Mira's death still cast its long, whispering shadow.

I can't make the same mistake twice.

With a grim set to his jaw, he pressed open the door to his quarters and stepped inside. The quiet room embraced him as he shut the door, the sound a faint, final click.

Here, in this space, he could lower the mask — if only for a moment.

A room granted for one reason: to stay close. Not just as a lowly guard, but as the prince's personal knight and commander. Yet tonight, that trust felt like a burning brand pressed to his chest.

He stood still, breathing deep, swallowing the flame that threatened to rise and consume everything in its path.

With steady hands, Caelan peeled away the soaked shirt, the fabric slipping from his skin like a weight falling away. Then came the bandages — long, tight strips that he peeled away one slow turn at a time.

As the last length fell to the floor, he drew a breath and lifted his gaze to the mirror.

At first, he didn't recognize the reflection staring back. Not the infamous knight, nor the sharp‑eyed commander the court knew. Just a woman.

A woman with tired, burning eyes and faint marks across a chest long bound and hidden.

A woman who bore herself like a blade, molded by years of service and silence.

That's right… Caelan Grey — the prince's most loyal knight, the hound that never strayed from his side — was a woman.