Caelan was strolling toward the knights' breakfast hall, her black uniform half-buttoned and clinging slightly to her skin—still damp from a rushed rinse in cold water. Her boots, scuffed and dark with wear, thudded quietly on the stone floor. A servant darted past her, clutching a sealed letter with both hands like it was some sacred relic. She didn't need to ask. She already knew which one it was.
Her lips curled into a slow grin as the servant vanished behind the doors.
Perfect.
The trap had been laid. The excuse delivered.
Lord Victor Dair's disappearance would be neatly explained by noon. She made sure of it—had even pressed the pen to his trembling hand herself, forced him to write each lie in his own trembling scrawl. The ink was still smudged where he'd hesitated, but it wouldn't matter. No one ever looked too closely when a disappearance came wrapped in civility and wax.
No one ever questioned a corpse if it left behind calligraphy and a signature.
She stepped into the mess hall.
The familiar scent of roasted meat, sweat, and stale bread thickened the air. Idle chatter buzzed from the benches, the clatter of knives dulled by exhaustion. But none of it reached her.
Her eyes swept the room instinctively. Searching.
Not for danger. But for him.
Of course, he wasn't here. August never was. Royals didn't sully their hands eating with soldiers and grunts. He'd be tucked away in some private chamber, eating soft fruit from silver plates, drinking wine from crystal. Untouchable. Remote.
Still, her fingers twitched—lightly, almost imperceptibly—at her side. A dull ache crept up her wrist. It always came when she hadn't seen him. A hollow throb that reminded her of distance, of walls, of names she wasn't allowed to speak aloud in front of others. Her body knew he wasn't near before her mind did.
She grit her teeth.
But then—
A small figure slipped from a nearby bench and bounded toward her. Eager feet pattered across the stone.
Lucian.
The little ghost-prince. The forgotten son.
He ran like he meant to hurl himself into her arms—he usually did—but paused just short. With exaggerated seriousness, he snapped into a salute. His tiny hand hovered over his brow, and his chin lifted in that proud, rehearsed way children do when they're sure they've done something clever.
Caelan blinked.
"…Hmm?~"
She tilted her head and rested a gloved hand on top of his neatly brushed hair. She'd done it herself that morning. He never asked her to—he just sat quietly while she combed it, tied the ribbon, straightened his collar. No one else did it. No one else noticed.
"Since when did the little chick learn how to salute like a proper knight?" she asked, voice low, amused.
"Ryeon taught me!" Lucian beamed.
That pulled a chuckle from her—dry and sharp like flint striking steel. A real one. The kind that turned a few heads.
The hall quieted, if only for a moment.
Because Caelan never laughed.
Her mouth was a weapon. Her presence a threat. No one could remember the last time she looked pleased, let alone soft. But there she was—smiling. Not at a noble. Not at her king. Not at a lover.
At a boy everyone else had forgotten.
Still, her smile didn't reach her eyes. Not truly. Not where it mattered.
Because Lucian wasn't who she wanted. He was a shadow caught in the afterglow of someone else's radiance. A boy exiled from his own bloodline, tolerated only because he kept out of the way. If he disappeared tomorrow, most wouldn't blink. Not even the king.
But August…
August was different. August burned. He was the crown—the fire. He was untouchable, cruel in ways that thrilled her and utterly unaware of the way she watched. The way she ached. The way every step he took echoed like a drumbeat in her spine. She could see it clearly: his hand around her throat, pressing—not to kill, no, never to kill—but just to remind her who owned her.
She swallowed.
Composure returned like armor. She gave Lucian a small nudge toward the table.
"Come on," she murmured. "Let's eat breakfast. I heard they found a letter from the lord."
Lucian perked up, oblivious to the iron beneath her voice.
"You're a very lucky knight, Lucian," she added absently as they approached the bench where Arin and Ryeon sat, half-asleep and nursing their mugs.
And then she did something stranger still.
She sat with him.
Same bench. Same tray. A general among grunts.
And began eating like nothing at all had just happened.
◇◇◇◇
Inside the court, murmurs spread like ripples across still water the moment the letter was read aloud. Relief was the first reaction — sharp and immediate — followed closely by judgment and contempt.
"All this panic… and it was just personal reasons?"
"He vanished without a word! He left his chambers unlocked, his boots still by the bed—of course it caused concern."
"Tch. If he weren't so loud all the time, no one would've noticed he was missing."
"Frankly, I thought it was some foolish plot. A scandal or self-made drama."
"For a noble of his standing? He's lucky anyone noticed."
"It was nearly considered a security breach. For a nobody like him, imagine the waste of resources."
A few nobles sipped their tea with affected elegance, others exchanged long-suffering glances as if they had been personally inconvenienced by the brief disappearance. No one spoke of checking in on him. No one asked if he returned unharmed. The letter had been enough — a half-hearted explanation scrawled in uneven ink, handed off to a servant without ceremony.
To them, it was over. Explained. Forgotten.
Or at least, easy enough to pretend it was.
◇◇◇◇
And somewhere below the palace floors,
in the deep-bellied silence where torches rarely burned and footsteps were seldom heard,
his body lay.
Curled. Bruised. Breath shallow but steady.
Not dead.
But not untouched by pain either.
The stone beneath him was cold. Unforgiving.
And the air hung heavy with the copper tang of blood, the sour sting of fear, and something else—something older.
Forgotten. Like him.
He had vanished for less than a day.
But down here, time did not move kindly.
And above, the court drank their tea, oblivious to the truth that was right under their feet.