Buried Wounds

The candlelight flickered between them, casting golden shadows over Kaelith's sharp features. His fingers traced the rim of his cup, but his gaze was distant.

Seraphine waited, sensing that whatever came next would be heavier than mere politics.

Kaelith finally spoke. "When I was young, my father nearly disowned me."

She blinked, caught off guard. "Why?"

His jaw tensed. "Because I was not the son he wanted. Not ruthless enough. Not obedient enough." A bitter smirk tugged at his lips. "He thought to make me stronger by breaking me first."

Seraphine's chest tightened. "What did he do?"

Kaelith took a slow breath. "He sent me away. Not to study, not to learn—but to survive. Stripped of rank, of title, thrown into the harshest of training with men who cared nothing for my bloodline." His voice was low, steady. "I learned to fight not as a prince, but as a man with nothing."

Seraphine's fingers curled against her lap. The Kaelith she knew—the sharp, unyielding warrior—had been forged in fire.

"He expected me to crawl back," Kaelith continued. "Beg for his favor." His lips curled. "I did not."

Seraphine exhaled slowly. "And yet, you still serve the throne."

His gaze met hers, something dark and resolute within it. "Not for him. Never for him. I serve because I will not see my kingdom fall into the hands of men like him."

Silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken truths.

Finally, Seraphine reached forward, covering his hand with hers.

"You are not your father, Kaelith."

For a moment, his grip tightened beneath hers—as if grounding himself in that truth.

And in that moment, Seraphine knew:

He trusted her.

Completely.

To be continued…