The door closed with a whisper of ancient wood, heavy with the weight of unspoken things. Caelan stood at the threshold of Elion's private chamber, the flickering candlelight casting elongated shadows across the dark stone walls. A few magical orbs hovered near the ceiling, glowing with a soft bluish hue, dimming and brightening as though sensing the tension between them.
"Well," Elion finally said, folding his arms over his chest, "should I offer you tea, or are you here to interrogate me about why I dared to breathe in your presence again?"
Caelan arched a brow, stepping in with the poise of a born ruler, though his gaze flickered to the unfamiliarity of the room. "I didn't realize sarcasm was part of the royal advisor's duties."
Elion smirked, his back to the prince as he walked toward a high-backed chair and a low table littered with crystal vials and old scrolls. "Only when I'm addressing arrogant princes."
Caelan's lips twitched, dangerously close to amusement. "You're bold."
"I have to be," Elion replied, eyes not meeting his. "This court will eat me alive if I'm not."
Caelan's eyes narrowed slightly, not out of anger, but curiosity. He stepped farther in, letting the door thud shut behind him. The chamber was warmer than the rest of the palace, a subtle enchantment likely woven into the stone itself. The scent of old books mixed with something spicy—cinnamon or clove?—clung to the air. Intriguing. Like Elion himself.
"Why did the Queen choose you?" Caelan asked, circling the table. "There are other mages. Older. More... compliant."
Elion finally met his gaze, and the impact was immediate. Storm-grey eyes, cold yet smoldering, held no hint of fear. "Because I'm not compliant. Because I know how to deal with the darkness spreading under this palace like rot. And because I'm not one of your simpering sycophants."
Caelan stepped closer. "You think I surround myself with sycophants?"
"I think you want to believe you don't," Elion murmured. "But when you've lived your whole life inside a throne room, you don't always notice the chains are velvet."
That struck a chord. Caelan's expression darkened—not with anger, but recognition. He hated it. The way Elion could peel back a layer of him without permission.
"I didn't come here to be analyzed," Caelan said, lowly.
"Then say what you came to say, Your Highness."
The words hovered. The air between them thickened. Magic hummed under Caelan's skin. Not his own—but Elion's. Subtle, coiled like a serpent, brushing against his senses as if testing his boundaries.
"I need to know what kind of magic you wield," Caelan said at last.
Elion raised a brow. "You saw the reports."
"I don't trust reports. I trust what I see. What I feel."
Elion paused, then extended a hand. "Then feel."
Caelan hesitated, then stepped forward and took it. The moment their palms touched, his breath hitched.
Magic surged. Not violent, not painful—but intense. It was like plunging into a winter stream—sharp, awakening, alive. Images flashed behind his eyelids. A bleeding sky. A broken crown. Hands reaching for someone in the dark. A whisper of his own name, not from Elion, but from somewhere deeper.
He jerked back.
"What—what was that?" Caelan asked, shaking his head.
Elion's voice was soft. "It's called a Pact Echo. It happens when two bloodlines meant for binding touch. It's rare. Dangerous."
"And you didn't think to warn me?" Caelan snapped.
"You wouldn't have believed me," Elion said, though there was a flicker of concern in his eyes. "No one ever does—until the magic takes root."
Caelan turned away, jaw clenched. "This—whatever this is—it complicates everything."
Elion stepped closer. "Maybe. Or maybe it clarifies things."
"Don't," Caelan said sharply, turning to face him again. "Don't make this into some fated nonsense."
Elion smiled faintly. "You're scared."
"I'm calculating."
"Same thing."
Their eyes locked again. It felt like lightning meeting sea. Wild. Untamed.
Caelan exhaled through his nose, trying to banish the residual heat from the Echo. His heart was pounding in a way it hadn't since the last war council.
Elion, damn him, looked utterly unbothered. "Do you always react so strongly to magic? Or is it just mine?"
"Do you always flirt with your superiors?" Caelan countered.
"I don't think I see you as superior."
Caelan actually laughed. It slipped out, surprised even him. He hadn't laughed—truly laughed—in months.
"You're going to be a problem," he muttered.
"And yet, you're still standing here," Elion said, voice dropping a note lower.
Caelan's eyes flicked to Elion's lips. Just for a second. But it was long enough.
The silence pulsed.
Elion stepped back. "You should go. Before you forget who you are."
Caelan didn't move. "And who am I?"
Elion's smile was knife-sharp. "The crown prince of a dying kingdom who's about to make a very dangerous mistake."
Caelan's fingers twitched at his side. The temptation to prove him wrong—or right—was like fire in his veins.
But instead, he turned toward the door. "We'll meet again. Tomorrow. Strategy room."
"Of course," Elion said. "I'll wear something scandalous."
Caelan paused with his hand on the door handle. "Don't tempt me."
And then he was gone.
Elion stood still for several long minutes, the candlelight dancing across his face. He lifted his palm, the one Caelan had touched. The residual heat from the Pact Echo still shimmered faintly.
He hadn't lied. Their bond was dangerous. And inevitable.
But what the prince didn't yet know—what no one in this palace knew—was that the true enemy wasn't outside these walls.
It was already here.
Watching.
Waiting.
And it had no intention of letting Caelan or Elion escape the fate tangled between their bloodlines.