Cael returned to the dukedom with the twins, and everything was—peaceful. Too peaceful.
The mornings were filled with soft laughter, clingy arms, and the scent of breakfast he never got to finish. The afternoons were spent chasing the twins from rooftops, pulling them out of fountains, and patching up innocent victims of their mischief. And at night... they clung to him like children afraid the world might vanish.
It felt too perfect.
So perfect it started to feel wrong.
Rowan hadn't shown any signs of movement. No letters. No shadows. No whisper of his name. It was as if the storm had passed, as if Rowan hadn't seen him at all that night in the palace. As if the terrifying certainty in those eyes had been a lie.
Cael, cautious as ever, secretly sent messages through coded letters to the crown prince. Aurelian's reply came like clockwork:
"Everything is normal. He's busy negotiating eastern trade routes. He hasn't mentioned you at all."
And for a moment, Cael believed it. Let his guard down.
He let the illusion cradle him.
He let himself breathe.
But he forgot the oldest rule in war.
It's always quiet... before the storm.
Rowan was busy. His days were filled with council meetings, merchant negotiations, and a dozen treaties bleeding ink from the east.
But tonight, he had time.
He made time.
The chamber was dim, lit only by a single candelabra whose flames danced like secrets. The guards had been dismissed. The air was still. And the man—or rather, the thing—he summoned stood just inside the threshold, fingers twitching, eyes cast to the floor.
Rowan studied him.
Trembling. Desperate.
"You're frightened," Rowan said softly, voice smooth like velvet laced with iron. "You should be."
The man flinched.
Rowan smiled—radiant, angelic, utterly wrong on his face.
Then, without breaking eye contact, he tossed a pouch onto the table between them. It landed with a heavy thud. The sound of gold.
A lot of it.
"Will you do it?" Rowan asked gently.
There was no explanation.
No name.
No job.
Just a question and the weight of a devil's smile.
The man stared at the bag. Hunger lit in his eyes like fire eating oil.
Then he dropped to one knee.
"Yes... my lord."
Rowan leaned back in his chair.
"Good," he murmured. "Then let the game begin."
And just like that—
The first piece moved across the board.
___________
When the twins' sword instructors began quitting one after another—bloodied, bruised, and shaken—it became painfully clear that no ordinary knight could handle them.
"Let me do it," Cael said calmly one morning, watching the guards scatter.
The knights turned pale.
"Y-You mean... personally?"
Cael nodded, arms crossed. "They need someone stronger. I'll take care of it."
Panic swept through the estate.
No one doubted Cael's intelligence, his calm, his patience—but to face them? With blades?
The twins refused immediately. Not because they didn't believe in Cael.
But because they were afraid.
"What if we hurt you?" Viel mumbled, eyes down.
"I don't care about the others," Eryx said. "But you—if you bleed, I'll go mad."
Cael just smiled.
"You won't hurt me. I promise."
⸻
They were wrong, of course.
Cael wasn't helpless.
The first swing of his sword silenced the entire courtyard. His form was clean—fluid, precise, deadly. Each strike flowed like water, yet hit like thunder. His footwork was flawless. His parries—impeccable.
Every knight watching from the sidelines gawked.
This wasn't a nanny.
This was a master.
One of the finest swordsmen the capital had once known.
Even Rowan—who always won their sparring matches—had once admitted, "You're gifted, Cael. I have to work to keep up."
And now, the twins watched, wide-eyed.
Awe blooming in their chests like firecrackers.
"Cael..." Viel whispered.
"So cool," Eryx added, completely starstruck.
Their Cael.
Was perfect.
⸻
From that day on, Cael's responsibilities doubled. He was no longer just their caretaker.
He became their teacher, too.
The training ground echoed with the clash of wooden blades.
Cael stood in the center, sweat at his brow, heart pounding—but more from astonishment than fatigue.
The twins had progressed terrifyingly fast.
Their strength was already inhumane—bones like iron, reflexes like beasts—but now, under Cael's guidance, they were learning technique.
And that was the scariest part.
The only real flaw left was their patience. Especially Eryx—the eldest—whose energy burned like a wildfire. He fought head-on, reckless, explosive, his strikes louder than thunder and twice as fast.
Viel, by contrast, was calm—almost too calm. He watched. Calculated. When his brother charged in, Viel circled like a shadow, watching every move, planning the next.
Cael saw it clearly: In battle, Eryx would be the sword. Viel would be the brain.
And within a week... they had nearly won.
⸻
Cael wiped a bit of sweat from his cheek as the two circled him.
Smart.
Coordinated.
Dangerously close to beating him.
But Cael wasn't about to hand them victory on a silver platter.
So, he played dirty.
His eyes suddenly widened. "What the hell is that behind you?!"
Eryx spun.
Viel blinked and turned instinctively.
There was nothing.
"Wha—?"
Too late.
Cael swept their feet out from under them in one fluid motion, sending both flying back into the dirt.
Silence.
Then coughing.
Then—
"You tricked us!" Eryx groaned, glaring up at him from the grass.
"That's cheating!" Viel added, brushing dirt from his hair.
Cael smirked, sheathing his blade.
"It's called survival."
He offered a hand to each of them. "And trust me... it works. Especially when your opponent is stronger, faster, or more desperate than you."
The twins stared at him—then broke into laughter, breathless and amazed.
They didn't care that they lost.
Because it was Cael.
And anything Cael said... was worth listening to.
Even if it meant losing a fight.
_________
But what Cael and the twins didn't notice—hidden just beyond the edge of the training field—was the presence of eyes in the shadows.
Unblinking. Patient.
Watching.
A silent figure cloaked in dusk, recording every movement with unsettling focus.
And far beyond their laughter, fate had already begun to shift.
Something was coming.
And it would not be kind.