The stables were quiet, the sounds of the court fading behind stone walls and distance. The rain had started again, tapping softly against the roof above.
The space smelled of hay, leather, and damp earth. One of the younger horses shifted in its stall nearby, its hooves shuffling against the straw floor. The rest of the animals were still. The quiet here felt different from the silence of court chambers, less suffocating, more real. Seraphina had always preferred these places, tucked away from the pageantry. There was no pretense here. No need to perform.
Seraphina sat beside Caelan on an old wooden bench near the storage tack. She focused on wrapping clean linen around the cut on his arm. Her hands moved steadily, tying the bandage without comment.
He didn't flinch. Most people did when someone touched them after a fight. But not him. Not with her.
There was something about the silence between them that didn't feel uncomfortable. She didn't try to fill it. She just worked.
She glanced up once. "Your mask," she said, trying to keep her voice light. "It's like armor. Maybe someday, you'll let me see what's under it."
He didn't respond at first. He just looked at her, his face unreadable behind the mask, then back at the wall across from them.
But something had shifted.
There had always been a quiet understanding between them, but now the weight of it felt heavier. Not dangerous, not unwelcome—just real. Her comment about the mask had been casual, but she hadn't expected the stillness that followed. It was like she had knocked gently on a locked door and, for a second, it had nearly opened.
She returned her focus to the bandage, adjusting the wrap so it sat smooth against his skin. She didn't speak again, sensing that if he was going to say something, it had to come without pressure. She knew the walls people built around themselves. She had lived behind her own for years.
A memory rose, uninvited.
He had been fifteen. Young. Too trusting. He remembered the night clearly. The court had been celebrating something. He couldn't even remember what. There was wine. Too much of it. And he had laughed that night, relaxed for once, unaware of the danger.
She had come to him when the others had left. Older. Confident. Too smooth in the way she touched his arm.
He remembered how her voice had sounded. Low. Sweet. Manipulative.
"Just rest. You're strong... handsome..."
He'd tried to pull away, but his limbs were heavy. Slow. She pushed him back against the bed. Her hands moved fast, tugging at buttons, holding him down.
He had fought, even though his body wouldn't respond the way he wanted. He remembered clawing at her face. The blood under his fingernails. The sound she made, not pain. Anger.
Then the door burst open. His butler. His Warden.
The woman backed away, hands red, face slashed. She stumbled, cursing. The others stood frozen for a beat, taking it in. Caelan had slid down the bedframe, shaking, humiliated.
He never spoke of it again.
That night, he learned the court didn't just use power. It used people. If you weren't careful, it would use your body, your silence, your shame.
That was the last time anyone saw his face without a mask.
Back in the stable, Seraphina tied the last knot in the bandage. Her hands moved with quiet precision. She didn't press him to speak. She didn't comment on his silence. She simply helped. It was easier that way, letting the silence speak for them. The words they might have shared felt unnecessary in that moment, replaced by the small, honest task between them. She knew Caelan wasn't someone who offered pieces of himself freely. That made this, whatever it was, something she wasn't willing to push too hard. Not yet.
He flexed his fingers once, testing the wrap.
"I'll heal," he said.
Seraphina gave him a short smile. "I figured you would. But it's easier with help."
The rain continued to fall in a slow rhythm above them.
She leaned back against the wall, arms crossed.
"They'll make another move," she said.
"Soon."
"They won't wait for an official decree. That's not how they work."
He nodded. "They'll strike where it's weakest."
"And you're still choosing to help me?"
"I'm choosing not to let them win. That's different."
Seraphina watched him for a moment. He wasn't looking at her, but he wasn't avoiding her either. He was just... there.
"You shouldn't be cleaning wounds in stables," he said after a pause.
She shrugged. "Better than bleeding in the council room."
That made him chuckle. It wasn't much, but it was real.
He looked at her directly then.
"You scare them."
She didn't pretend not to know who he meant.
"Good. They should be afraid."
There was another pause.
"But I never meant to scare you."
He was quiet for a long moment.
"You never have," he said.
The rain hit harder now, but neither of them moved.
It wasn't trust yet.
But it was no longer just survival either.
Something had shifted.
Caelan's jaw tensed, and Seraphina noticed. It wasn't pain. It was something else - hesitation, maybe. His usual calm had cracked slightly, the mask in place but no longer as seamless as it had been. She wondered, briefly, what would happen if she asked him to stay, not for protection, but just to talk. She didn't. The thought surprised her.
He had seen her in battle. She had stood her ground, bloodied her hands. And yet, here in the quiet, she felt more exposed than she had all week.
She looked at his hand where the linen lay smooth against his skin.
"You know," she said quietly, "if this all falls apart, I'd still rather be here than standing in the throne room pretending none of it is happening."
Caelan's gaze flicked back to hers. "It won't fall apart."
"You sound sure."
"Because you're not alone in it."
That hit harder than she expected. She looked away and nodded once, hiding the way her fingers had curled slightly into the fabric of her sleeve.
The bench creaked slightly as Caelan shifted his weight. He wasn't the type to offer comfort. But in that moment, he didn't need to.