The cold was a steady companion.

It gnawed at Prince Caelum Aelthar’s bones as he sat hunched on the stone bench, fingers loosely clasped before him, his breath curling visibly in the stale air of the dungeon. Light from the small, barred window above his cell had long since faded into twilight. The air stank of damp stone and rusting iron. Somewhere down the corridor, a prisoner coughed — wet, broken, like a man already halfway dead.

Caelum had grown used to the silence between footsteps — long, dreadful silences that meant he might yet live another hour.

But tonight, footsteps came.

They echoed softly, deliberately. Lighter than a guard’s boots. Softer, more elegant — like a dancer in a place meant only for suffering. Caelum didn’t look up. He assumed it was another trick of his starved mind. Another ghost of the court walking down to remind him who he used to be.

The steps stopped at his cell.

A delicate clink of keys. A pause. Then the metallic screech of the door sliding open.

Still, he didn’t lift his gaze.

“Prince Caelum?” a gentle voice spoke. Female. Soft, but confident. Clear. Real.

He raised his head slowly.

In the dim light of the torch behind her stood a young woman wrapped in silver and navy silks, a velvet cloak draped over her shoulders, the hem of her dress held up slightly so it wouldn't touch the floor. Her hair was pinned back in an ornate style — a lady-in-waiting by dress, posture, and perfume.

Caelum’s voice was rough from disuse. “You have the wrong cell,” he said hoarsely.

“I don’t,” she replied with a small, tight smile. “My name is Lady Selene Mirth, first attendant to Her Highness Crown Princess Arianne of Caerthwyn. I was sent by her directly.”

He blinked, not moving. Every muscle in his body remained tense, coiled like he expected a blade instead of news.

She stepped inside, undeterred by the filth or the heavy air. Her hands were clasped before her, and she held his gaze with unexpected steadiness.

“The war is over. The judgment passed. And your execution... was meant to be tomorrow.” Her voice softened. “But Her Highness intervened. She pleaded for mercy — for you. Not to be released to freedom, but... to purpose.”

Caelum narrowed his eyes. “What purpose?”

Lady Selene tilted her head, watching him closely. “Service.”

He laughed, bitter and quiet. “You mean slavery.”

“No. I mean servitude.” Her expression didn’t falter. “The King has agreed. The axe will be stayed, and in return, you will live within the palace walls, under the authority of the Crown Princess. You will not be imprisoned, but neither will you be free. You’ll serve her household as a servant — a cupbearer, a scribe, a silent presence when summoned. You will wear no crest, no colors of your fallen house. You will answer only to her.”

“And if I refuse?”

“Then you die tomorrow at dawn.”

The silence between them stretched like the dark velvet of her cloak. He studied her — not the way a prince studies a lady, but the way a ghost studies the warmth of a fire he’s not allowed to touch.

“Why would she do this?” he asked finally. “Pity?”

Selene hesitated. “Perhaps. Or perhaps she sees something in you still worth saving.”

Caelum slowly stood. His legs were sore from disuse, his back stiff. The embroidered black coat he wore was dirt-streaked and threadbare at the edges. The last piece of Aerthandor remained on his shoulders, but it no longer meant anything.

He walked closer until he stood within arm’s reach of the open cell door — a door he never thought would open again.

“And if I accept,” he asked, his voice low, “will I ever get to speak to her?”

“Eventually. When she allows it.” Selene's tone was factual, not cruel. “She’s not a fool, Your Highness. You were a symbol of an enemy. That will not be forgotten overnight.”

He looked back at her, and though his pride screamed in protest, his voice was calm.

“I accept.”