The Night He Asked

The day faded into dusk, casting long shadows across the palace halls. Caelan stood at the washstand in her quarters, loosening the belt of her formal uniform with a low sigh. The tight fabric clung uncomfortably to the bandages around her ribs and chest — reminders of a battle already fading into the past.

She rolled her shoulders, muscles stiff beneath the wrappings, and peeled off the top layer of her uniform, revealing the plain tunic beneath. It was simple, soft, and loose enough to let her breathe. She had just begun unbuckling her boots when a knock came — soft, tentative.

Caelan didn't need to ask who it was.

"It's open," she called out.

The door creaked open, and Lucian stepped in, dressed in his nightclothes — a loose, pale-blue shirt that nearly reached his knees and a pair of linen trousers. His long blond hair was slightly damp and tangled at the ends, and in his arms was the stuffed lion he never admitted he still cared about.

He stood at the threshold, hesitating.

Caelan raised an eyebrow as she sat on the edge of her bed to unlace her boots. "Lucian?"

He looked down, then up at her, then back down again. "Can I sleep here tonight?" he asked softly, voice wavering.

That was new.

Usually, he snuck in — silent as a shadow and curling into her side by the time she noticed. This time, he had knocked. Asked.

Caelan's expression softened. She nodded and gestured with a hand. "Come on, then."

She watched as the boy padded inside barefoot, crossing the room carefully. His lion was clutched by one arm; with the other, he rubbed at his eyes. Once at the bed, he hesitated again, waiting. She nodded once more, and only then did he climb into the bed, settling near her side, his lion tucked against his chest.

Caelan rose to close the door, then returned and sat beside him again, now dressed down to her comfortable tunic and trousers. She leaned back on one arm, watching him pull the covers up to his chin.

"No nightmares tonight?" she asked.

Lucian shook his head. "No… just wanted to be near you."

Caelan's hand rested gently on his head, fingers threading into his still-damp hair. "Alright."

They stayed like that for a while. Caelan sitting upright, one arm draped over Lucian's head, slowly patting the soft, tangled strands of his hair. The boy had gone quiet, nestled under the covers beside her, his breathing slow, steady… but not quite asleep.

Then came the soft whisper.

"Father?"

"Mm?" Caelan murmured without opening her eyes.

"You said you loved me… right?"

Her hand didn't stop. "I did. I do love you, little sun."

There was a pause. One that lingered longer than before.

"Then… why don't you touch me like Mama?"

Caelan's hand froze.

Her eyes opened, slowly, her face still calm — but her body went still, alert. "And… in what way does your mama touch you?" she asked, keeping her voice gentle, cautious.

Lucian hesitated. His fingers tightened around the fabric of his stuffed lion. "Well… I… she hugs me…"

Caelan let out a quiet breath, tension easing just slightly. "Like this?" she asked softly, shifting to pull him into a gentle, secure embrace.

Lucian let himself be drawn in, cheek pressing against her shoulder.

But then he stiffened again — just slightly. The silence stretched.

"What is it?" Caelan asked, barely above a whisper.

Lucian was quiet for a few seconds longer. Then, with a hesitant voice, he answered:

"That's not how Mama does it…"

Her muscles tensed again.

"How does she do it, then?"

Lucian's voice was barely a murmur now. "She…"

And then he told her.

Caelan didn't interrupt. She didn't move. She let him speak — all of it — every word whispered in the darkness, every broken detail coming from an eight-year-old too ashamed to look her in the eyes.

By the time he finished, her jaw was clenched tight.

And her eyes, hidden in the low flicker of the wall lamp, glowed with a silent, deadly red — rage simmering behind her irises, too controlled to explode, too vast to ignore.

Caelan finally spoke, her voice low and steady, though her grip on Lucian didn't loosen.

"Did your mama tell you… that people who truly love you would touch you like that?" she asked gently, carefully.

Lucian nodded hesitantly, eyes wide, unsure.

"Does that mean… you don't really love me?" he asked, voice breaking as he looked up at her. His eyes were already filling with tears.

Caelan shook her head slowly, then pulled him into a tighter embrace.

"No, sweetheart. I do love you. With all my heart," she whispered against his hair. "It just means… your mama lied to you."

She held him tighter, protectively.

"This… this is a real hug. This is how someone who loves you should hold you. Safe. Warm. Never to make you feel strange or uncomfortable."

She stroked his back slowly. "What she did… is something adults do. But only when they're older. When they're married. And when both people agree."

"Like Mama and His Majesty?" Lucian asked softly.

"Yes," Caelan said, though her jaw clenched with the weight of her own lie — because even that wasn't true, not in the way it should be.

Lucian went still in her arms.

"I told Mama once that I felt weird… when she touched me…" he said, voice barely a whisper.

"She said that's just how love feels like…"

His breath hitched. "She said… I should be grateful she even loves me like that…"

A sob broke in his throat as he clutched Caelan's tunic tighter.

"She said… I'm more obedient than my brother. Than August. And that… if he was more like me, she would've shown him some love too…"

Lucian's sobs melted into soft hiccups as he buried his face in Caelan's chest, tiny fingers gripping the fabric of her tunic.

Caelan's hand moved gently along his back, but her eyes stared past him — far, sharp, and glowing with a slow, controlled rage.

She had always known.

Not in detail. Not with evidence.

But the signs were there.

The way August froze at unexpected touch.

The flinches.

The aversion to women.

The nightmares.

The disgust in his own voice when intimacy was even mentioned.

She didn't need anyone to tell her. She had known.

Someone had hurt him.

But she never knew who.

Until now.

Lucian — innocent, sweet Lucian — had given her the final piece. Not with accusation, not with malice… but with confusion. With pain. With the need to understand why a hug from her felt different. Why "love" didn't feel safe before.

And now Caelan knew the name.

The one August had refused to speak.

The one he buried so deep even he didn't realize he feared her.

Sakino.

The king's concubine.

Lucian's mother.

August's curse.

Caelan didn't move. Didn't flinch. Her voice remained a calm hush, her touch steady. But inside, a furnace roared.

She held Lucian tighter. "You're safe now," she whispered again.

He nodded sleepily against her chest. "You won't leave, right?"

"No," she murmured, her jaw clenched. "I won't leave you."

But in her mind, she wasn't here anymore. She was pacing a palace corridor, blade in hand, eyes blazing red.

Because now she had the name.

Now she had the target.

And when Sakino returned from the east — because women like her always did — Caelan would be waiting.