Before politics. Before court titles and alliances. Before everything turned into a game, there was a cliff, a boy, and the sea.
Caelan remembered it clearly. And he remembered exactly why it happened.
Not the polished version Alaric shared years later at social gatherings. Not the one retold with smirks and laughter, the story that made it sound like a harmless accident. Caelan remembered what really happened: a tense summer full of competition, bruises, and pride.
They were young then. Teenagers from powerful houses, expected to train together and build camaraderie. What really happened was different. They competed. Constantly. It wasn't just sparring matches or riding drills. Everything became a contest, who woke up first, who stayed on their horse longest during endurance rides, who could recite more historical passages without error. Their rivalry became its own kind of training, one layered with tension no instructor ever really noticed.
Alaric had an audience most days. Pages, minor lords, and instructors who found his charm disarming. Caelan had results. He didn't speak as easily or joke as well, but his accuracy, timing, and discipline spoke for him. The problem was, results didn't always get recognition. Alaric's victories were loud and celebrated. Caelan's were quiet, often twisted into jokes or written off as luck.
Once, during a series of archery trials, Caelan hit every target dead center. Alaric missed one, then turned it into a story about being distracted by the sun. The instructors laughed. Caelan didn't. Another time, Caelan finished a grueling obstacle course first, only for Alaric to delay the timer by joking with the observers, who didn't question it. Caelan had grit. Alaric had timing. And timing often won the favor of a crowd.
Caelan trained harder. He pushed himself to prove he wasn't just a name. He was faster, better with a bow, more precise in close combat. But Alaric had charm. He used it well. When Caelan outdid him, Alaric would joke it away, spin the truth, make it look like nothing. And most of the time, the instructors let it slide.
One day after a hunt, the two of them stood on a cliff near the sea. The tutors had gone back to camp, thinking the boys were just admiring the view.
Alaric bragged about the stag they'd brought down, claiming full credit. He went on and on about how clean the shot was, how quick the kill. Caelan had held his tongue long enough, but eventually he corrected him. He told the truth—that it was his arrow that brought the stag down first.
Alaric stopped laughing.
The air shifted. Alaric gave a grin, but it didn't reach his eyes. He stepped closer, clapped Caelan on the back harder than necessary. "Don't be so sensitive," he said.
Then he leaned in.
"You always need credit for everything, don't you?"
Caelan didn't move. "I just don't like liars."
The moment stretched. Alaric's expression didn't change, but something passed through his eyes.
Then he pushed.
It looked like a stumble. Like a joke gone too far. If anyone had been watching, they might not have seen the intent.
But Caelan knew.
He slipped backward. His foot hit loose gravel. The edge of the cliff gave way. He went over.
He didn't have time to shout. He went over, hitting rocks, then water. The impact knocked the air from his lungs. Something struck his head, and everything faded.
Later, he would replay the moment in his mind, the instant before Alaric pushed, and the cold calculation in his eyes. Caelan never brought it up again, but he never forgot it either.
Fortunately, Seraphina was there. She had been out walking with a falconer and had wandered near the beach. She saw him, ran to him, and didn't hesitate.
He woke up choking on seawater, the world blurry and muffled. Something soft brushed his lips—a warm pressure followed by air being pushed into his lungs. He coughed violently, gasping, and his eyes fluttered open.
That's when he saw her.
A girl in a red riding cloak. Hair tied back. Her face hovered close to his, wide-eyed and focused. She had just finished a breath of mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, and now her hands moved to check his pulse, her expression tight with concern.
He didn't know her name. She didn't ask his. She helped anyway.
She worked quickly, checking his injuries and using what magic she had to stop the bleeding. When he coughed and gasped, she steadied him, murmuring reassurances. She didn't leave his side until someone else arrived. Ofcourse, Alaric never admitted to anything. Caelan knew what had happened. And Alaric knew Caelan hadn't forgotten.
The court moved on. So did the world. Years passed.
Later he learned her name. Seraphina.
He never told anyone what really happened. He stuck to the version that wouldn't raise questions. A fall. A mistake. No blame.
But after that day, something changed. Caelan started following Seraphina's life from afar. He kept track of her appearances at court, the rumors tied to her name, and the decisions her house made. Quietly, over the years, he built his career not just for duty or ambition, but because he wanted to be worthy of her. He told himself that one day, when he was established and proven, he would return to court and ask for her hand.
In the days that followed, as he recovered, he found himself thinking about her constantly. The way she'd looked at him, not with fear or hesitation, but with certainty. He replayed the moment over and over, wondering how someone so young could carry such quiet strength.
He imagined what she might have said if they had talked longer. What her voice would have sounded like if they weren't in an emergency. He wondered if she remembered him afterward, or if he had been just another stranger she helped. For him, it had meant something.
He started picturing a future that included her. A life outside the court and its expectations. He thought about returning, about seeing her again, not as the wounded boy on the shore, but as someone who had earned a place beside her. He imagined speaking with her in quiet corners of the palace, writing to her, even one day offering his hand.
It was foolish, maybe. But it gave him something to work toward. Something that mattered.
Caelan joined campaigns. He served along the borders, saw the uglier parts of politics and power. He hardened. He learned when to speak and when to keep his mouth shut.
But that memory never left him. The girl by the water who had helped without hesitation.
But he waited too long.
By the time he was ready, by the time he felt confident enough to act, the announcement came.
Seraphina D'Lorien, engaged to Alaric Vessant.
He stared at the announcement. Cold air came in through the open flap of the command tent, but his chest burned.
It wasn't jealousy. It was disappointment.
She had once helped a stranger with no reason to. Now she would be bound to the one who had pushed that stranger off a cliff.
He had known disappointment in battle and setbacks in politics, but this was different. It hit somewhere deeper. He hadn't even told her how he felt. He had convinced himself there would be time.
He regretted it more than he admitted. He should have said something sooner. Should have thanked her. Should have told her who he was.
Instead, she became a name on paper. A title beside Alaric's. And Caelan was left with the memory of what might have been.
He kept his distance. Watched from afar. He didn't expect her to remember him. But he remembered her.
He asked about her once, carefully, indirectly. Some remembered her disappearance after her father's death. Others said she returned changed. Sharper. More calculating.
He didn't care about the gossip. He just wanted to know she was still herself.
Then she sent him a message.
Direct. Honest. No pretense.
She asked for his help.
She didn't know he was the boy she once saved. But her tone hadn't changed. That was enough.
So he helped. Quietly.
Because she had helped him first.
Not for praise. Not because he thought she owed him. But because she had done something rare - something decent, at a time when no one else had.
He didn't need her to remember.
He just needed to protect that part of her.
He stayed involved from a distance, keeping track of court movement and political shifts. If she needed support, he offered it before she asked. He didn't expect thanks. She had once saved him. This was how he honored that.
And he would always remember what she did.