An Unhealthy Obsession Part 1

By the time Caelan returned to the prince's chambers, the candlelight had dimmed into a sleepy flicker, and the air was thick with silence. She nudged the door open gently with her shoulder, balancing the tray.

There he was — slumped in his chair by the desk, head tilted slightly, black hair falling into his face like soft ink spilled across parchment, catching the firelight in muted glimmers.One hand still clutched the parchment he must've been reading before sleep stole him away, the other resting limply at his side.

Caelan's steps slowed.

She placed the tea down with care, not letting the tray clatter or rattle against the wood. The scent of chamomile drifted upward, but August didn't stir.

He looked too exhausted to dream.

She stood by his side for a long, quiet moment, her eyes tracing the shape of his brows, the softness of his mouth — a mouth that, not long ago, had struggled to speak clearly in front of those jackals who dared to call themselves nobles.

She had to clench her hands to keep them from twitching.

So delicate, she thought. So breakable.

And they all think they can prod him like an injured animal. Laugh when his hands tremble. Smile when his voice catches. She had seen it all — even when others missed it. She noticed every little twitch, every flinch, every breath that took too long to steady.

He was porcelain. And the world was far too rough.

Her fingers hovered above his hair, never quite touching — only ghosting. She memorized the curve of his lashes, the faint furrow between his brows. Even asleep, he looked burdened.

She'd give anything to take the weight off his shoulders.

But she couldn't.

Not directly.

Instead, she turned away. Moved to the bed. Her hands were practiced as she pulled one of the lighter blankets from the corner, shaking it out silently before returning to him. He didn't stir even as she draped the blanket across his shoulders.

Still too cold.

She bent slightly, arms sliding beneath him. One under his knees, the other steadying his back.

He didn't weigh much.

She lifted him carefully, as if he might crack open with the wrong movement — and maybe he would. She cradled him with the same reverence she gave her blade: with control, precision, and the constant fear that even the slightest mishandling would lead to ruin.

His head fell lightly against her shoulder. She didn't dare breathe.

She carried him to the bed and lowered him down with practiced care. Tucked the covers over him with silent, almost ritualistic grace. She smoothed a fold near his collarbone before stepping back — not daring to linger longer than she already had.

She didn't belong at his bedside. Not really.

But that didn't stop her from watching him a few more seconds.

Then she turned, stood by the wall right next to the door, arms folded across her chest, eyes closed in practiced stillness. The flickering fire warmed one side of her face while the cool stone pressed against her back. She wasn't resting — merely listening, breathing, keeping watch like a blade left unsheathed.

The quiet was broken by the soft shuffle of footsteps and hushed voices echoing faintly from the corridor.

"Have you seen the way Lord Dair was laughing when he stepped into his room?" one maid whispered, her voice sharp with contempt.

"I know what you mean. He had a smug look on his face, like he'd won something."

"I heard he's one of the lords backing that obnoxious Viscount Durent."

"Mm. And I heard he's trying to cozy up to him because he believes the viscount's daughter will be empress one day."

Caelan's eyes snapped open, brownish-red irises glowing faintly in the dim light.

"Do you remember the incident with Lady Nyrella?" the other maid added, her voice dropping lower. "I heard he was behind it too…"

A soft gasp followed, and the girls' voices trailed off as they continued down the corridor, unaware of the knight listening just beyond the shadows.

Caelan didn't move. She stared into the fire for a long moment, fingers tightening around her arm.

So that's the kind of man who dares smile while August falters.

A snake wearing lace gloves, hiding behind lesser men and prettier daughters.

If he ever—

No.

She didn't let the thought continue.

She wouldn't let him do it again.

He'd been given more than one chance to repent — and every time, he grew more arrogant.

Every time, he walked away untouched.

Her fingers twitched at her side, blood humming in her ears like the low drone before a blade is drawn.

She looked at August one last time, asleep beneath the heavy blankets, his dark hair tousled against the pillow. His breath was soft and even now, but she could still see the traces of tension that sleep couldn't smooth away.

That bastard laughed while he faltered.

Caelan turned from the room without a sound and pressed her hand against the back wall — a spot no one else would think to touch. A panel shifted with a soft click.

She slipped behind it and was gone.

The corridor behind the walls was narrow, pitch black, and cold — but she moved through it like water in a stream she'd memorized long ago. Fast. Silent. Focused.

Victor Dair was still inside the palace, holed up in one of the guest rooms.

She knew. She could hear him.

Through the thin crack in the stone, his voice carried, low and mocking, paired with the lazy clink of a wine glass.

"Hmph. That arrogant little know-nothing bastard," he scoffed. "Thinks he's something just because he's the prince."

A sip.

"But no matter. In no time, Durent will marry off his daughter, and she'll have him on a leash."

A wet chuckle followed. Ugly.

"Then he'll walk like a dog."

The glass clinked again, louder this time, as he poured himself more.

Caelan stared through the crack.

Eyes unblinking.

Unmoving.

She didn't even realize she was holding her breath.

Not until her fingers brushed the hilt of the dagger strapped to her thigh.

Not yet, she told herself.

But soon.

Let him keep laughing.

Let him choke on it.