Both Caelan and Alaric lunged at each other again, utterly dismissing August’s words like a breeze passing through the room.

Caelan struck first, sharp and precise, pinning him beneath her with a triumphant smirk.

“You always underestimate my moves.”

But Alaric slipped free with practiced ease, rolling out from under her and flipping her momentum.

“And you always assume I’ll go down that easily,” he winked — just before pinning her with one arm twisted behind her back, a knee pressed between her shoulder blades.

“You’re only this fluid because you can’t keep your manhood to yourself,” Caelan gritted, twisting and kicking him off — her foot just barely missing a very vital area.

Alaric barked a laugh. “You’re just jealous I’m popular in bed.”

“Me? Jealous of a stray mutt high on hormones? Yeah, as if!” she snapped, grabbing him by the collar just as he reached for hers.

There they were — tangled on the floor like feral siblings, hair tousled, breathing heavy, snarling back and forth about absolute nonsense.

And then — thwack!

A pillow slammed squarely into Caelan’s cheek, her expression freezing in stunned silence.

Alaric burst out laughing—right before thwump! — another pillow struck him across the side of the head.

“Both of you! That’s enough!”

August’s voice rang out across the room.

But there was no anger in it — just barely-suppressed laughter trembling at the edges.

“Or else what?~”

Alaric teased with a grin, sprawled across the rug.

“You can’t tell your loyal hound to kick me out,” he added, jerking a thumb toward Caelan, “because he was part of this too.”

A soft thump followed as Caelan raised a pillow and promptly bonked it over Alaric’s head.

“Don’t bother His Highness with your teasing.”

But Alaric only laughed, rubbing his head.

“I wasn’t talking to His Highness. I was talking to August.”

Caelan sighed, but her tone was patient — just slightly exasperated.

“Then don’t call me a loyal hound. To August, the two of us are friends.”

Alaric shrugged with a crooked smile.

“True. But you’re always extreme when it comes to him.”

August let out a dramatic sigh — then hurled two pillows at them.

“The two of you! I was talking!”

“Enough with this nonsense!”

One pillow hit Caelan.

The other bounced off Alaric’s shoulder.

Alaric caught it mid-air and tossed it right back at August.

“Are you suggesting a pillow fight, Your Highness?”

August blinked — then smiled.

And then… giggled.

Light, soft, like a child on the edge of mischief.

He threw the pillow back without hesitation.

Soon, all three of them were laughing like little kids.

The pillows had become weapons of chaos — thrown with the force of warriors, swung like swords, dodged with the grace of seasoned fighters.

It was a war of feathers and laughter.

A battlefield of rugs, silk sheets, and flushed faces.

August — for the first time that night — forgot the sting in his chest.

He forgot the touch he never wanted, the memory still fresh in his skin.

All he knew now was the sound of Caelan’s rare laughter, the obnoxious cackle Alaric never bothered to suppress, and the weightless joy of a moment stolen back from darkness.

Caelan, somewhere between a duck and a dive, managed to catch Alaric’s eye.

A soft nod passed between them — subtle, but full of meaning.

“Plan worked.”

Alaric gave a lopsided grin and nodded back.

“Damn right.”

Eventually, the chaos ebbed. The pillows lay scattered, the silence now filled only with the sound of slow, steady breathing.

Caelan and Alaric lay sprawled on the floor, tangled in disarray — two of the strongest fighters in the kingdom, brought low not by swords or war, but by laughter and soft linen weapons.

August, now stretched out across his bed, lifted his arm and studied the bandages wrapped neatly around it.

Funny…

He hadn’t even noticed Caelan tending to the wound.

Hadn’t felt the pull of the bandages, the sting of salve, or even the press of fingers against his skin.

No pain.

No fear.

Only quiet.

It was always like that.

Whenever the darkness crept too close — Caelan was there.

Quiet, steady, constant.

Not with grand gestures. Not with noise.

Just like the first time.

When he’d shut himself off from the world.

When he’d kicked everyone away.

When he first began to hate women.

The first time he’d locked the door and sworn he’d never trust again.

He sighed — long, quiet, heavy — and rolled to his side.

He didn’t want to remember those moments.

Didn’t want the memories clawing their way back.

Not tonight.

He just wanted to enjoy this silence.

This rare, peaceful stillness.

The soft breathing from the floor, from two defeated friends who, he knew deep down, would walk through fire and cross kingdoms if it meant protecting his smile.

The warmth still lingering in the room.

The faint scent of lavender and clean linen that still clung to the air.

And the simple truth that, for now...

He wasn’t alone.

That night, both Caelan and Alaric remained in the prince’s chamber, close enough to hear each other’s breathing in the hush that followed the pillow war.

Alaric lay lazily across the couch, boots kicked off and resting on the floor, his shirt halfway unbuttoned.

He sighed heavily.

“What is it? Did someone dump Mister Oh-So-Handsome?” Caelan teased, a grin tugging at her lips.

“No...” Alaric replied, voice tired.

“It’s about my last expedition to the northern borders, near the Forbidden Forest...”

He shifted slightly, sitting up as he caught August’s gaze. The prince was reading a book but paused, interest flickering in his eyes.

“What is it? Did those black sludge monsters show up again?” August asked.

Caelan left the hearth she’d been tending and stepped closer.

“Are you here to ask for aid?” she inquired.

“No, nothing like that,” Alaric said, his tone serious.

“It’s just... lately, there have been rumors about a golden creature appearing wherever the monsters gather.”

Caelan tilted her head slight " A giant golden creature?"

"A golden  ancient dragon" Alaric answered.