The corridor leading to the eastern wing of the royal residential quarters was quieter than the rest of the palace. The hush here wasn't due to the absence of life, but rather the presence of someone… formidable.
Caelia held a woven basket close to her waist, filled with freshly laundered sheets and folded linens. Mistress Ilena had instructed her to change the bedding in one of the private chambers—no names, just a curt gesture to the door at the very end of the hall.
The moment she stepped in, she knew this room was different.
The air felt colder. Not unpleasantly so, but purposeful—like it had been stripped of warmth on command. Heavy velvet drapes in a deep obsidian hue hung on either side of towering windows, drawn just enough to let slivers of light pour in like cut glass. The walls, painted in shades of charcoal and slate, bore minimal decoration save for a single, large painting above the hearth: a midnight battlefield, lit only by pale moonlight and the gleam of steel.
A long table by the far end of the room held maps, scrolls, and what looked like military insignias. Swords—real, gleaming steel—rested mounted above a dark oak cabinet. There was no mess. No clutter. Everything was arranged with precision. Every corner was sharp.
It wasn't just a bedroom.
It was a fortress.
And yet, Caelia—unaware of who it belonged to—continued with her task. She moved slowly, her eyes roaming the room with quiet awe. She pulled back the old bedding and began replacing it with fresh linens, her hands smoothing across the fabric as she tried to ignore the odd chill prickling down her spine.
Then, she heard it.
The softest creak. The whisper of a door opening.
She turned, blinking toward the far end of the room, where a narrow door—previously unnoticed—swung open.
Steam curled out in soft tendrils.
Her breath caught.
Caelia's eyes widened as a tall figure stepped through the doorway, strands of damp dark hair brushing against his forehead. Water clung to the planes of his chest, sliding slowly down sculpted muscle. He wasn't wearing a thing.
Absolutely nothing.
Caelia froze.
The linen she was holding slipped from her fingers and onto the floor.
The man's gaze locked with hers.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
He didn't flinch. Didn't cover himself. His expression remained unreadable—calm, cold, and utterly composed. But those eyes… they were black as obsidian and sharp enough to carve through silence.
Caelia couldn't stop staring. Her mind blanked. Her heart raced.
This wasn't just any man.
This was him.
The midnight heir.
Prince Caelum.
Heat rushed up her neck as realization struck her like a bolt of lightning. She gasped and spun around, nearly tripping on the linen at her feet.
"I—I'm so sorry," she stammered, facing the wall, voice barely above a whisper. "I didn't know anyone was in here—I thought—"
Silence.
No footsteps.
No commands.
Just the quiet sound of dripping water.
And his eyes, still watching her.
"I'll leave," she managed to say, bending quickly to grab the linen, her fingers trembling. "I'll—"
"You've already seen what's not meant for your eyes," he said finally, voice low and smooth—like winter wind through a blade of glass.
It wasn't angry.
It was worse.
It was indifferent.
Caelia's chest rose and fell rapidly as she backed toward the door, keeping her eyes fixed on the floor.
"I didn't mean to—"
"You're assigned here now," he interrupted. "That won't change."
Caelia looked up slightly, shocked. "But... I thought—"
"You thought wrong," he said, already turning his back to her, walking toward his wardrobe without care.
And that was it.
No scolding. No punishment.
Just cold dismissal.
As if her presence, her embarrassment, her shame, meant nothing.
Caelia quickly fled the room, her heart pounding against her ribs like a war drum.
Behind her, the door closed with a soft click.
The midnight heir had a face now.
And she would never forget it.