In the hallowed halls of the palace, where shadows dance upon the stone walls, I find myself bound to the whims of His Royal Highness, Crown Prince Kaelin.
It has been seven hundred and thirty days and nights since I began serving the Crown Prince, and yet I am still trying to decipher the intricacies of his moods. I must confess, he remains a puzzle beyond my grasp.
He is a man of contrasts — with a heart as cold as winter's night and a daring spirit that would put the bravest of warriors to shame.
Since the tragic demise of his fourth brother, Prince Aiden, the Crown Prince has locked himself away, shutting out the world and immersing himself in endless training. His bond with Prince Aiden is what sets my heart aflame with curiosity. I sense a complexity beyond mere fraternal affection, even though their royal upbringing forged their closeness. That fateful, tragic night has left him shaken to his core, and I fear for his sanity, for the darkness that gathers around him like a shroud.
His valet, Ryker, is the only one who seems able to reach him — though even that is a peculiar relationship.
At first, I observed what seemed a simple bond between master and servant. But by my one hundred and seventh day of serving the Crown Prince, I realised their connection went far deeper.
Ryker, whose very name once belonged to royalty, is himself an oddity — another mystery circling the prince. Or so I believed.
As I write these words, the moon casts its eerie glow across the palace walls, and I am reminded of the whispers that coil through the servants' halls. Whispers that speak of the royal children's death being bound to the Crown Prince's fate — and of the priestess incident on that same night.
Crown Prince Kaelin remains an enigma, a riddle shrouded in mystery, and I am but a humble lady trying to trace the threads of his story. Yet the more I learn, the more I feel trapped within a suffocating abyss...
ALLURE OF THE DARK
Death duel
The chamber was dim, lit only by the guttering torches set into the walls. Shadows writhed across the stone floor, shifting as though they had lives of their own. Lady Isla sat at the writing desk, her quill still dripping ink when the door creaked open.
Ryker entered without ceremony. His eyes, sharp and unyielding, swept the room before fixing on her.
"Stop slacking off," he said, his voice cutting through the silence. "Prepare the Crown Prince's bath."
Isla snapped the journal shut, startled by his sudden presence. For a fleeting instant, she thought he might have glimpsed the words within — her careful observations, her secrets. But Ryker lingered on her with that inscrutable look, then moved past her with deliberate steps.
The heavy tread of boots echoed in the corridor, growing louder, until Crown Prince Kaelin crossed the threshold.
His presence seemed to shift the air itself. His training garments were damp with sweat, his dark hair clinging to his temples. One hand hung loose at his side, the knuckles mottled purple and raw from the sword hilt. A faint smear of blood split his lower lip, the wound fresh, stark against his pale skin.
He did not speak at first. His gaze flicked briefly over Isla, unreadable, then passed on as though she were a mere shadow in the chamber. Ryker was at his side immediately, silent but steady, his hand firm against the prince's arm to guide him toward the bathing chamber.
The torches flickered as they moved, their flames bending low, as if recoiling from Kaelin's aura. Ryker's touch did not meet resistance from him, although his jaw was set tight, betraying the storm simmering beneath his silence.
Lady Isla rose quickly and followed, her steps soft against the stone.
'His hair is longer than it was this morning. Did it grow during sparring?'
She carefully poured the steaming water into the marble tub, adding a handful of dried rose petals and a pinch of lavender essence to the bath. The fragrant aroma wafted through the air, mingling with the scent of sandalwood and chamomile oils that she had added to create a soothing bath experience for the prince.
Just as she finished preparing the bath, the prince entered the bathing chamber, his eyes fixed on some point beyond the room. She curtsied, her eyes cast downward. "Your Highness."
The prince barely acknowledged her presence, his gaze drifting to the bath as he began to shed his clothes. Her hands trembled slightly as she reached for the soap and sponge, her heart racing.
As the prince stepped into the bath, she began to wash him, her hands sliding over his skin. She began with his shoulders, working out the knots and tension that had accumulated over the past few days. The prince closed his eyes, his expression relaxing slightly as she massaged the soap into his muscles.
Her hands moved down to his arms, her fingers tracing the contours of his biceps. She washed his hands, carefully cleaning between his fingers and under his nails. The prince's eyes remained closed, his breathing steady.
As she worked, she couldn't help but notice the scars on the prince's body, the marks of a life lived on the edge. The scars from his leap at the atrium on the day his fourth brother died. Bruises inflicted by his valet during occasional sparring.
As she knelt by the basin, steam curling up to veil the air, her hands moved automatically — soaking cloth, rinsing, smoothing away the blood and sweat from his skin. Yet her thoughts strayed, not to the prince, but to the man who hovered ever near him.
Ryker.
The words she had written in her journal began to resurface.
There is something unnatural about him. Not in form, for he appears human enough, but in the way he shifts between roles as if no single title could contain him. He acts as the dutiful valet — bowing, serving, and ensuring the prince's every need is met before he speaks. Yet in the next breath, he will address the Crown Prince as though they were equals, a brother chiding a brother, unafraid of his sharp tongue or icy silences.
And in training… gods above, in training he becomes something else entirely. I have watched him strike at the prince with eyes alight, scolding him not as a servant but as a father would a child who failed to meet his expectations. A father — disappointed, relentless, demanding more, always more.
It unsettles me.
To serve, to guide, to command — all from one man who should be nothing more than a valet. He weaves himself through the prince's life like a thread binding his every breath, every movement. Too close. Far too close.
I dare not question it aloud, but in my heart I wonder: is Ryker truly the prince's servant… or is the prince his?
Yet, the more I watch him, the more he unsettles me. He moves like a shadow that never leaves its master's side, tireless, watchful — a presence that never fades. I have come to realise he scarcely sleeps. Days pass, weeks even, without him closing his eyes. His gaze remains sharp, his steps unbroken, as though weariness has no claim upon him.
And yet, when he does surrender to slumber, it is no ordinary rest. He falls into it like a beast into hibernation, sinking so deeply that he will not stir for two moons' turning. Not even the clamour of the palace can rouse him. It is unnatural… inhuman.
There are times I cannot help but think he is less a man and a more binding spirit — a familiar tethered to the Crown Prince. They mirror one another in strange ways, as if thought passes between them without need for words. A glance from Kaelin, and Ryker moves. A silence lingers, and Ryker answers it. It is not service — it is something deeper, entwined, dangerous.
I fear imagining what might happen if one falls, and the other remains.
...
The chamber was hushed save for the faint splash of water in the basin. The steam curled around the torches, softening their weak flames. Crown Prince Kaelin sat silently, lowering his eyes, his jaw rigid while Lady Isla, lost in thought, worked with careful hands.
She didn't realise that the valet had gone out until he returned, pushing the heavy door open once more. Ryker entered without hesitation, his presence cutting through the stillness. His gaze flicked briefly toward Lady Isla, then fixed on the prince.
"He summoned you, my Lord," he said, his tone level but edged with weight. "The emperor awaits you."
The words lingered in the air like a drawn blade.
Kaelin's head lifted, his eyes narrowing as though measuring the meaning behind the summons. His hand, still raw from training, clenched faintly on the marble tub.
For a heartbeat, he did not answer. The torches sputtered, throwing shadows across his face, and in that silence, the air thickened.
Ryker stood unyielding, the faintest tension coiled in his stance, as though he already anticipated the storm that might follow.
Lady Isla lowered her gaze, her breath shallow, and dipped the cloth back into the basin. She dared not meet the prince's eyes — nor Ryker's.
Then—
Crown Prince Kaelin rose slowly from the tub, the steam still clinging to his skin. The torchlight caught at the strands of his dark hair, long and untamed from training, falling in silken shadows across his brow. When he lifted his head, the green of his eyes glimmered sharply — a vivid, startling contrast against his pale complexion. His features were fine and already arresting, though youth lingered upon them, sharpening into the promise of the man he would yet become.
Lady Isla moved quietly to the wardrobe, her hands brushing over silks and brocades before selecting the garments appointed for royal summons. First, the tunic of deep emerald, trimmed with gold threading at the collar and cuffs, the fabric rich but not ostentatious. Over this, a black surcoat embroidered with the crest of the royal house — the winged stag crowned with stars — its threads gleaming faintly in the light.
She fastened the belt at his waist, wrought of dark leather and clasped with a golden buckle, before laying the mantle upon his shoulders. It was heavy, lined with sable fur, the weight of it settling around him like a mantle of authority. The prince bore it in silence, his posture straightening, every inch of him moulded into the heir his father demanded to see.
Only his hands betrayed him — bruised and raw, the knuckles peeking starkly from the wide cuffs of the tunic. Lady Isla's gaze lingered there only a moment before she lowered her eyes again, fastening the last clasp at his chest.
When he stood fully dressed, he was no longer the weary boy who had returned bloodied from training. He was Crown Prince Kaelin — striking, solemn, and prepared to face the king.
TBC...