Called to Court

The clang of steel echoed across the training grounds, rhythmic and sharp, like a song only soldiers knew.

Caelan's blade collided with a recruit's, sending a tremor up his arms. She pivoted, disarmed him in a heartbeat, and stepped back with practiced ease. Her recruits, sweat-slick and panting, stood in loose formation under the mild morning sun.

"Again," she said flatly, eyes sweeping over them like a hawk.

Just then, a servant came sprinting across the courtyard, breathless and flushed.

"Sir Grey!" he called, stumbling to a stop. "His Highness requests your presence. Immediately."

Caelan exhaled, rolling her shoulders. "Very well."

She sheathed her sword and turned toward a blond-haired boy nearby. Lucian stood off to the side, small hands gripping the hilt of a training sword. His brows were furrowed in quiet frustration — determination etched into his otherwise gentle face.

She approached him, and with a half-smile, ruffled his hair.

"Train a bit more on footwork," she said. "Then spar with Arin."

Lucian gave her a look that could only be described as mournful, the kind of wide-eyed gaze that made her feel like she was abandoning a puppy in the rain.

Before she could soften, she turned toward Arin, who was already mid-stretch and barely paying attention.

"Arin," she said, sharp as a whip. "If he gets so much as a scratch…"

Her glare did the rest.

"Y-Yes, Captain!" Arin saluted so hard it nearly knocked his head back. "No scratches. No bruises. No accidental tears. Got it!"

She gave a faint nod, then leaned slightly toward Ryeon, her second-in-command, who stood quietly watching near the equipment racks.

"Keep an eye on those two while I'm gone."

"Of course." he responded with a nod.

Without another word, Caelan turned and walked off the field, steps steady and precise. The weight of her sword at her hip. The wind teasing at her cropped hair. Duty — again — called.

And this time, she had a feeling it wouldn't be a simple debriefing.

◇◇◇◇

The scratch of a quill was the only sound in the room.

August sat at his desk near the tall windows, bathed in the soft light of midmorning sun. Ink pooled faintly on his knuckles, a half-finished letter stretched before him. The furrow in his brow said he hadn't slept much — again.

A knock came at the door.

"Enter," he said, without looking up.

Caelan stepped inside, posture straight and boots quiet on the polished floor. She paused a few paces in, waiting for acknowledgment.

"You called for me?" she asked.

August didn't lift his head. The quill continued its slow movement, elegant even in haste.

"There's a court meeting today," he said flatly. "But His Majesty will be the one presiding."

A flick of his wrist ended the sentence. He set the quill aside with a soft clink, though his eyes never left the document.

"Some of the nobles have complaints. We've been told to arrive late — after they've had time to speak."

Caelan's eyes narrowed slightly. A familiar ache settled between her shoulders — the court never called her unless it needed a scapegoat or a symbol. She didn't like being paraded around.

"Very well," she replied with a nod, voice cool.

She turned on her heel, her cape brushing lightly behind her.

"I'll change into formal attire," she added before exiting, her tone unreadable.

The door clicked softly shut behind her, leaving August once again alone with the scent of ink, parchment, and the distant sound of the city preparing for another exhausting performance.

◇◇◇◇

[Court Assembly, Late Morning]

The king sat reclined upon the throne, his hand resting lazily on a goblet of watered wine, while several nobles clustered before him. Today's topic: war expenses and the recent expedition to the north.

Viscount Blare Durent, dressed in garnet brocade and polished boots, stepped forward with the smooth confidence of a man who had rehearsed his every word. His curled hair was oiled to perfection, and his tone was honeyed.

"My king," he began, bowing low. "I come not with complaint, but with concern. As you know, the Crown Prince's northern expedition has extended far longer than anticipated. Supplies continue to pour toward the front. Our coffers, already strained, bleed more with every passing week."

A few nobles murmured in agreement, nodding behind their fans.

"Of course, we all wish for the stability of the north," Durent continued, "but I fear this prolonged absence may be—"

A sudden knock echoed from the side doors of the chamber.

One of the royal guards stepped forward, leaning in to speak quietly to the king.

"Commander Grey requests entry, Your Majesty."

The king raised his hand without much interest. "Let him in."

The large chamber doors opened with a low creak.

Commander Caelan Grey entered first — clean, composed, her black formal uniform crisp with violet embroidery along the cuffs. And behind her came Crown Prince August Voltair.

August moved with quiet confidence, expression unreadable, his violet eyes scanning the chamber like one already aware of every conversation that had taken place.

"Apologies for the delay, Your Majesty," Caelan said with a bow. "We were summoned and came as swiftly as we could."

The entire court fell into a stunned silence.

Durent froze, words half-formed in his throat. His expression flickered—first confusion, then disbelief, and finally, a creeping horror.

They were back?

Since when—?

Why hadn't anyone told him?

August stepped calmly beside Caelan, his eyes landing directly on Durent.

"It's always encouraging to hear such concern for my well-being, Lord Durent," he said smoothly. "Especially since it's been a full week since our return."

Caelan tilted her head ever so slightly, her expression almost neutral — but not quite.

"A shame," she added lightly. "If we'd known, we would've arrived sooner. Might've saved you the trouble of preparing that speech."

Durent's lips tightened. He dipped into a quick bow, trying to hide the red climbing up his neck.

The king chuckled, clearly amused.

"A week, and no word reached you, Durent? You really must update your informants."

A few nobles laughed behind gloved hands.

Durent stepped back into the shadows, teeth clenched behind a polite smile. Caelan's gaze lingered on him — sharp and unblinking.

She didn't grin.

Not yet.

But her eyes shimmered with quiet, satisfied mockery.