The kitchen was quiet that night, the clatter of pans and the chatter of servants long since faded. Ael sat near the dim glow of the hearth, peeling vegetables absentmindedly. His hands moved with practiced ease, but his mind refused to stay in the present. Again and again, his thoughts returned to the library… to Kaelen.
---
The palace lay in silence, but Kaelen could not sleep. He stood near the tall window of his chamber, the moonlight spilling across his face, a half-empty glass of wine resting forgotten in his hand.
Why do I care what he thinks? Kaelen asked himself, frustrated. Why does his silence feel heavier than any argument?
He set the glass down and pressed his hands against the cold windowpane, his reflection staring back at him with questions he could not answer. For the first time in years, the prince felt uncertain—not of his kingdom, not of his strength, but of the strange, unexplainable pull toward the quiet boy from the kitchens.
--
The long dining table glittered under the soft morning light, filled with golden trays and polished silver cutlery. The fragrance of fresh bread, honey, and spices floated across the room as the family gathered for breakfast.
Kaelen sat quietly in his chair, a steaming cup of tea before him. His mind, however, wasn't on the food—or even on Serene, who sat across, smiling politely. His thoughts kept drifting to the dream he had last night… to Ael. Why did it feel so real? Why did jealousy burn inside me when I saw him laughing with another? He tapped his fingers lightly against the cup, impatient, waiting for Ael to appear through the doorway.
But Ael never came.
Instead, Kaelen's gaze fell on one of the younger kitchen aides entering with a tray—Rowan, the cheerful kitchen boy who had always admired Ael. Rowan carried himself with an ease that irritated Kaelen for no clear reason. Is he too close to Ael?
Meanwhile, Serene's soft voice broke the silence. "Yesterday's ride was wonderful," she said with a gentle smile, glancing at Kaelen. "Thank you for guiding me. It reminded me of old days… when you used to teach me. You haven't changed much." Her tone carried a question, almost a hope: Do you still feel something for me?
Kaelen gave a brief nod, his expression unreadable.
At that moment, the Head Chef stepped forward and bowed. "My king, my lords… Ael sends his apologies. He is unwell this morning, and could not attend the table. But he has prepared one dish for the household—a delicate saffron and almond porridge, sweetened with honey and garnished with dried fruits. He asked it be served warm."
The maids placed bowls of the golden porridge on the table, alongside platters already spread:
Freshly baked bread with butter and fruit preserves.
Seasonal fruits—apples, grapes, and pomegranate seeds.
Cheese and cold cuts for the princes.
Boiled eggs sprinkled with herbs.
Sweet rolls dusted with sugar.
Freshly pressed juices—orange and pomegranate.
Milk and tea for the table.
Everyone praised the porridge, remarking on its delicate flavor, but Kaelen hardly touched his food. His eyes lingered on the empty space at the servant's entrance, where Ael should have been.
After breakfast, when the hall grew quiet and the servants cleared the last of the dishes, the King touched Kaelen's shoulder.
"Come with me, son."
The two walked in silence until they reached the King's private office. Inside, the grandness of royalty seemed to melt away. Here there were no courtiers, no watchful eyes. Only a father and his son.
The King closed the door and looked at Kaelen carefully. "Tell me honestly," he began, his tone more tender than stern, "what lies between you and Serene? She came with expectations, yet I see nothing from you but distance."
Kaelen's eyes hardened, though sorrow weighed heavily behind them. He turned slightly, unwilling to meet his father's gaze.
"Father," he said, voice low, "six years ago… she broke something I cannot mend. It wasn't my fault then, and it is not my fault now. But if I let her near again, if I let her think there is still hope, I will only reopen those wounds."
The King's brows knit, but he stayed quiet, letting his son's voice tremble into the stillness.
"I cannot bear to give her false promises," Kaelen continued. "She betrayed what we had, Father. She made choices that tore us apart. And if I pretend—if I let her believe in something that no longer exists—It will only destroy her again. I cannot endure that, not for her and not for myself."
His words faltered. For the first time in years, Kaelen's composure cracked, his throat tightening as though he was close to tears—but he forced them back, lifting his chin in silent defiance of his own pain.
The King rose and placed a steady hand on his son's shoulder. His voice was deep but kind.
"You've carried this grief far too long. It was never your fault, Kaelen. And though she may have caused the wound, I fear you are the one who keeps bleeding from it. Remember—you don't have to face this alone. You have me, always, not as your King… but as your father."
For a moment, Kaelen let the comfort settle, though the ache of the past still lingered, sharp and heavy in his chest.
When Kaelen left his father's office, the weight of their conversation still pressed on his chest. He walked through the long, silent corridors until he reached his chamber. The tall windows spilled light across the room, but it did little to warm the coldness in his heart.
He set aside his cloak, loosened his collar, and finally sank into the edge of his bed. A sigh escaped his lips—half weariness, half longing.
Prince Kaelen entered his chamber slowly, the weight of his talk with his father still pressing heavily on his chest. The silence of the room wrapped around him, but it gave no comfort. He sat down on the edge of his bed, hands resting loosely on his knees, his gaze falling on the window where the morning light streamed in.
Unbidden, the past crept in. Six years ago… Serene's voice, her laughter, the way her hand had once clung to his sleeve, begging him not to walk away. The betrayal. The unbearable silence that had followed.
He closed his eyes, his jaw tightening. Why does it still burn? Why does it still return when I've sworn to bury it?
He ran a hand through his hair, frustration spilling in waves. For all the strength people saw in him, his heart still carried scars he could not erase.