The Prince and His Loyal Hound

Caelan exhaled.

She lifted a hand — calloused, worn — and placed it gently against the skin just above her collarbone.

Flesh met scar, old lines faded but never forgotten.

Her palm lingered there a moment, then dropped.

She reached for a fresh set of bandages.

Tight.

Flat.

Perfect.

A breath in. A breath out.

The woman in the mirror vanished.

In her place stood the knight.

The man.

The commander whose name stirred caution into courtiers and fear into enemies.

She dressed in silence. Not the ceremonial uniform from earlier — no velvet trim, no polished shine.

Just the black standard of her rank: high collar, dark tunic, cuffs stitched in royal purple, and a leather belt cinched firm.

Clean boots. A final adjustment to her short-clipped hair.

And then, without hesitation, she left.

Her footsteps were quiet — not rushed, not hesitant. Simply there, steady and certain, like everything else about her.

She returned to the prince's chamber and took her place just outside the door.

Still.

Watchful.

Silent as the night.

August stepped out of the bath, skin still warm, hair damp and clinging softly to his neck.

He dried himself in silence, wrapping the soft linen towel around his shoulders.

Then, with slow movements, he dressed — the loose, pale garments Caelan had laid out for him felt light. Gentle.

No clasps. No corseting layers. Just soft fabric against sore skin.

He moved into his room, each step quiet against the polished floor.

And then he called. Just once.

"Cael—"

"Yes, Your Highness?"

The voice came immediately — steady, low.

The door cracked open just slightly, and Caelan's head appeared through the gap.

Only a sliver.

Just enough to see.

To hear.

To wait.

She didn't step inside.

Didn't move further.

Simply stood there — half-seen in the quiet, eyes fixed on him, and said nothing more.

Waiting.

As always.

August cleared his throat, breaking the silence.

"You came back quicker than I thought."

Then, under his breath — not quite meant to be heard —

"Was he always that much like an excited pup?"

The corners of his mouth twitched. He barely held back a laugh as Caelan tilted her head to the side — just slightly — like a puzzled hound awaiting orders from its master. The resemblance was uncanny.

He cleared his throat again, more deliberately this time.

"I need you to bandage my arm."

Caelan blinked.

Her lips parted — just a fraction, just for a breath.

Eyes widened faintly.

Almost a gasp. Almost.

Because this...

This was the first time August had ever asked.

Not barked. Not ordered.

Not even passively endured.

He asked.

Usually, it took coaxing. Reassurance. Patience and soft persistence.

But this time — he asked.

"Right away, Your Highness!"

Caelan answered — a little too quickly, a little too eagerly.

She moved with smooth precision… then froze mid-step.

No gloves.

A blink.

A sharp inhale.

Then, with a low bow — composed, calm, utterly professional —

"One moment, Your Highness."

She turned and left with practiced grace.

The door shut quietly.

And the second it did — she bolted.

Down the hall.

Door flung open, bootsteps echoing.

She nearly tripped over her own uniform as she scrambled to her drawers, yanked out a fresh pair of gloves, and wrestled them onto damp fingers.

Then back.

Running.

Hair a little tousled. Breath a little uneven.

She stopped just short of the prince's door, took one deep, steadying breath, and knocked.

"Enter," August said, calm as ever.

She stepped in like nothing had happened — back straight, expression composed, gloves in place.

But he saw it.

The flushed cheeks.

The slightly disheveled hair.

The faint trace of breath still hitching in her chest.

And he couldn't hold it.

He laughed.

Not a quiet chuckle. A full, rich burst of sound — unrestrained, breaking through the stillness like sunlight through fog.

"What the hell, Cael," he said between breaths, grinning wide,

"you look like a hound that ran to fetch a toy for his master."

Caelan blinked, startled.

Her eyes wide — innocent, flustered, caught mid-scatter.

Then she cleared her throat sharply, face shifting back into neutral lines.

"I simply went to get my gloves."

Flat. Stoic. Serious.

August burst into another round of laughter.

Caelan smiled — lightly, softly — as August laughed.

No matter the reason.

Even if he called her a hound.

If August laughed, then all was well.

"Oh! Your stoic mask slipped!"

August teased between breaths, eyes gleaming.

"No, it did not," Caelan replied, turning

quickly to busy herself with the bandages and salves, trying to hide the faint curve of her lips.

She moved with practiced care, kneeling in front of his bed where he sat waiting.

"May I?"

August paused mid-laugh, then nodded, gently offering his arm.

"You know… this reminds me of that time, when we were kids," he said, voice softening.

"You climbed into my room through the window."

He smiled faintly.

"You were more cheerful back then."

Caelan didn't start yet. She only looked up, that same quiet smile lingering.

"I'm still the same."

Her voice was low, steady.

"I just can't show the court that childish side of me."

She lowered her gaze, reaching carefully for his arm.

"Only you and that idiot get to see it."

August huffed a soft breath — somewhere between a chuckle and a sigh.

"Yeah… considering the three of us are childhood

friends."

A voice rang from the corridor, loud and unapologetic.

"I knew you were talking shit about me, Cael!"

Without ceremony — or permission — the door creaked open.

In stepped a tall figure with whitish-blond hair, disheveled from what was surely another reckless sprint through the palace halls.

Caelan didn't even flinch.

Still kneeling in front of the prince, her hands working carefully over August's arm, she spoke with clipped precision:

"Alaric Sylas Thorne, failure son of Duke Cidric Thorne — how many times must I remind you to enter only after His Highness acknowledges your presence?"

Her tone was firm, sharp as the edge of a drawn blade, but her hands remained steady, movements practiced as she applied the salve to August's wound.

"Do not use my full name with me," Alaric retorted with a dramatic sigh, slamming the door shut behind him.

"Caelan Grey, son of Field Marshal Gideon Grey."

He tossed his coat aside like he owned the place, already striding further in as if the room was his personal lounge.

August sighed and brought his free hand to his temple, massaging it with an air of long-suffering patience.

"If the two of you plan to duel, take it outside."

Caelan finished bandaging the prince and rose to her feet, calm but deliberate.

She stepped forward — slow, steady — but her hands had already curled into fists at her sides.

Across the room, Alaric mirrored her movements, slipping into stance with a practiced ease, the usual grin tugging at his lips.

Tension crackled between them like static — the familiar kind that always came before trouble.

August didn't even look up.

He just sighed.

"Outside. Now."