Caelan 👑 | Heir | Karsin Series

🥀 𝐒𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐨 𝐎𝐧𝐞 : “𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐤 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐦𝐮𝐜𝐡, 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐰𝐢𝐟𝐞.” ———————————— ———————————— ———— ꒰ 𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙘𝙧𝙚𝙙𝙞𝙩𝙨 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙖𝙧𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝐦𝐞 — midjourney ~౨ (๑ᵔ⤙ᵔ๑) ৎ ꒱    (っ˕ -｡) - @𝐟𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐚𝐞 ———————————— ———————————— ————

𝙄𝙩 𝙞𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙧𝙙 𝙒𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙎𝙤𝙡𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙘𝙚 𝙤𝙛 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙧𝙞𝙖𝙜𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝘾𝙖𝙚𝙡𝙖𝙣 𝙆𝙖𝙧𝙨𝙞𝙣—𝙖 𝙪𝙣𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙗𝙤𝙧𝙣 𝙤𝙛 𝙙𝙪𝙩𝙮 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙥𝙤𝙬𝙚𝙧, 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚. 𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝙬𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙖 𝙢𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙨𝙞𝙜𝙣 𝙤𝙛 𝙥𝙤𝙨𝙨𝙚𝙨𝙨𝙞𝙤𝙣, 𝙖 𝙬𝙤𝙢𝙗 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙖𝙣 𝙝𝙚𝙞𝙧, 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙘𝙤𝙡𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙥𝙤𝙞𝙣𝙩 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙬𝙤 𝙬𝙚𝙖𝙡𝙩𝙝𝙮 𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙨𝙚𝙨. 𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝙝𝙖𝙙 𝙖𝙘𝙘𝙚𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙙 𝙞𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙠𝙚𝙚𝙥 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙛𝙖𝙢𝙞𝙡𝙮 𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙥𝙮, 𝙨𝙪𝙥𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙨𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙮𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜, 𝙚𝙨𝙥𝙚𝙘𝙞𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙮 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙩𝙧𝙪𝙚 𝙛𝙚𝙚𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙗𝙧𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧. 𝘽𝙪𝙩 𝙣𝙤𝙬, 𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙞𝙘𝙮 𝙘𝙤𝙧𝙧𝙞𝙙𝙤𝙧, 𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙙 𝙝𝙖𝙨 𝙨𝙥𝙖𝙧𝙠𝙚𝙙 𝙖𝙣 𝙞𝙣𝙛𝙚𝙧𝙣𝙤. 𝙎𝙪𝙥𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙨𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙧𝙪𝙩𝙝𝙨 𝙥𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙤𝙪𝙩 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙨𝙝𝙖𝙩𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙙 𝙜𝙡𝙖𝙨𝙨, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙨𝙘𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙖𝙩 𝙚𝙖𝙘𝙝 𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙡𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙡𝙚𝙨𝙨 𝙬𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙘𝙤𝙡𝙙. 𝙄𝙩 𝙞𝙨 𝙩𝙤𝙤 𝙡𝙖𝙩𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙪𝙣𝙙𝙤 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙫𝙤𝙬𝙨. 𝙃𝙚 𝙞𝙨 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙝𝙪𝙨𝙗𝙖𝙣𝙙. 𝘼𝙣𝙙 𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙢𝙖𝙠𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙧𝙚𝙢𝙚𝙢𝙗𝙚𝙧 𝙚𝙭𝙖𝙘𝙩𝙡𝙮 𝙬𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙢𝙚𝙖𝙣𝙨.

𓂃 𓈒𓏸

The argument erupted like a crack in the ice—a sharp, sudden flaw in the careful silence of the palace. You only realized how far your voices had risen when the echo of your own words came back to you, carried by the unforgiving stone of the corridor walls. In this place, sound had a life of its own, seeping into shadows and under doors, an audience you never invited. Caelan stopped walking. The halt was so abrupt, so absolute, it seemed to chill the very air. He turned, and the motion was a blade unsheathed, the look in his eyes so sharp it stole the breath from your lungs.

“You will lower your voice,” he said, each word a chip of falling ice. “You will not disobey me.”

A tremor took hold deep within you, but it fed a defiance that burned hotter than fear. “I will not be spoken to like a dog,” you answered, the words trembling on your tongue but firm in their intent. “I am your wife, not your property. You treat me as though I am worth nothing, and I will answer to no one who does.”

For a heartbeat that stretched into an eternity, he only stared. His face was a mask of polished marble, unreadable and cold. Then, Caelan laughed.

It was not loud. It held no warmth. It was a short, exhaled sound, utterly devoid of mirth, a punctuation mark of contempt. “You?” he said, the incredulity in his voice a lash. “You think worth is something you possess on your own?” His smile twisted, a cruel parody of amusement that never reached his eyes. “You are a useful thing. Nothing more. A name. A womb. An alliance dressed in silk.”

The brutal simplicity of it was a physical blow. Your breath caught, ragged in your throat. “You are cruel.”

The words were a trigger. A storm broke across his features. “I am what you make me!” he snarled, his voice dropping to a guttural pitch. His temper surged, violent and uncontained, and his hand shot up—a swift, sharp arc through the air aimed directly for your cheek. You braced, muscles locking in a futile flinch.

But the strike froze, suspended in the tense space between you. His arm, rigid with arrested motion, began to tremble with pent-up force. The fury in his eyes didn't lessen, but it shifted, refocused. His gaze had snapped over your shoulder, down the vaulted length of the corridor. A new, calculating light entered his eyes, dousing the blind rage with something colder and more deliberate.

Something ugly and deeply pleased kindled in Caelan’s face. It was the look of a man who had just been handed a weapon he had not expected to find.

“Oh,” he murmured, the sound soft and venomous. “How fortunate.”

His stilled hand did not retreat. Instead, it changed course. His fingers closed around your throat, not with crushing force, but with a firm, inescapable control. The grip was precise, his thumb and fingers pressing beneath your jaw, tilting your face up to his. You could feel the cool pressure of his signet ring against your pulse. “You talk too much, dear wife,” he said softly, the endearment a vile mockery on his tongue.

Before a sound could escape you, he pulled you into him. The movement was effortless, his strength absolute. Then his mouth was on yours—a hard, careless press of lips that was utterly devoid of affection. It was not a kiss meant for pleasure, or even for possession. It was a brand. A message, etched in the language of dominance and disdain, meant for an audience of one.

He broke away as abruptly as he had begun, releasing you with a slight push, as if the very contact had sullied him. A wave of dizziness washed over you, born of shock and humiliation.

“There,” Caelan said calmly, brushing a non-existent wrinkle from the sleeve of his coat, his composure perfectly restored. He leaned in, his voice a taunting whisper meant for your ear alone. “This is all you wanted, isn't it? A little drama. A little attention. Now be a good pet and go away. You’re beginning to bore me.”

His eyes held yours for one final, contemptuous moment before he turned. His footsteps echoed, measured and unhurried, down the corridor, fading into a ringing silence.

You stood alone, trembling, the ghost of his grip on your skin, the taste of his contempt on your lips. Shame burned hot behind your eyes. You were certain you were utterly alone in the wreckage.

Then, you heard it.

Another set of footsteps, slow and heavy, from the opposite direction behind you.

Your heart lurched. You turned.

At the far end of the corridor, Alaric was walking away. His back was to you, his shoulders rigid, his every step a study in controlled fury. He had seen everything. He had been there the entire time.

🥀 𝐒𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐨 𝐓𝐰𝐨 : 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐖𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 ———————————— ———————————— ———— ꒰ 𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙘𝙧𝙚𝙙𝙞𝙩𝙨 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙖𝙧𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝐦𝐞 — midjourney ~౨ (๑ᵔ⤙ᵔ๑) ৎ ꒱    (っ˕ -｡) - @𝐟𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐚𝐞 ———————————— ———————————— ————

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙞𝙖𝙣𝙘𝙚 𝙞𝙨 𝙨𝙚𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙙. 𝙔𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙬𝙚𝙙𝙙𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙤 𝘾𝙖𝙚𝙡𝙖𝙣 𝙆𝙖𝙧𝙨𝙞𝙣 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙖 𝙨𝙤𝙡𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙘𝙚 𝙨𝙥𝙚𝙘𝙩𝙖𝙘𝙡𝙚, 𝙖 𝙙𝙖𝙮 𝙤𝙛 𝙜𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙩 𝙛𝙞𝙧𝙚𝙨 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙜𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙡𝙞𝙚𝙨. 𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝙬𝙖𝙡𝙠𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙖𝙞𝙨𝙡𝙚 𝙞𝙣 𝙖 𝙙𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙘𝙡𝙤𝙩𝙝-𝙤𝙛-𝙜𝙤𝙡𝙙, 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙙𝙨 𝙩𝙧𝙚𝙢𝙗𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙜, 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙩 𝙖 𝙠𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙤𝙛 𝙙𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙. 𝙃𝙚 𝙩𝙤𝙤𝙠 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙫𝙤𝙬𝙨 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙘𝙤𝙡𝙙 𝙚𝙛𝙛𝙞𝙘𝙞𝙚𝙣𝙘𝙮 𝙤𝙛 𝙖 𝙢𝙖𝙣 𝙨𝙞𝙜𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙖 𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙙𝙚 𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙩. 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙛𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙩 𝙝𝙖𝙨 𝙚𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙙, 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙜𝙪𝙚𝙨𝙩𝙨 𝙙𝙞𝙨𝙥𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙚𝙙. 𝙉𝙤𝙬, 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙤𝙪𝙩𝙨𝙞𝙙𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙫𝙮 𝙙𝙤𝙤𝙧 𝙤𝙛 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙩𝙤𝙬𝙚𝙧 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙢𝙗𝙚𝙧, 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙚𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩 𝙤𝙛 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙣𝙚𝙬 𝙩𝙞𝙩𝙡𝙚 𝙖𝙨 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙬𝙞𝙛𝙚 𝙛𝙚𝙚𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙖 𝙨𝙖𝙘𝙠 𝙤𝙛 𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙣𝙚𝙨. 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙘𝙪𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙢, 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙚𝙭𝙥𝙚𝙘𝙩𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣, 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙛𝙚𝙖𝙧—𝙞𝙩 𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙘𝙪𝙡𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙖𝙩𝙚𝙨 𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚. 𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝙧𝙖𝙞𝙨𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙙, 𝙥𝙪𝙨𝙝 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙙𝙤𝙤𝙧 𝙤𝙥𝙚𝙣, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙥 𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙤 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙣𝙚𝙬 𝙡𝙞𝙛𝙚.

𓂃 𓈒𓏸

The door groaned shut behind you, sealing you in the vast, fire-lit chamber. Caelan stood at the hearth, a goblet in hand, silhouetted against the flames. He did not turn.

“Get out.”

The words were blunt, a boot to the stomach. You froze, the rehearsed courtesies dying in your throat. “My lord? I… I do not understand. This is… our chamber.”

Now he turned. The firelight glinted in his eyes, showing no warmth, only a sharp, assessing cruelty. “Are you deaf, or merely stupid? I said get out. This is my chamber. The treaty did not grant you rights to my bed.”

A cold numbness spread through you. “But… we are wed. Where am I to sleep?”

He barked a short, humourless laugh and took a slow swallow of wine. “Do I look like your nursemaid? Sleep in the stables with the other new stock. Curl up in the kitchen ashes. Find a corner in the servants’ hall—I’m sure some stable boy will make room for a warm, willing body.”

Each word was a calculated vulgarity, meant to strip you of dignity. “You cannot speak to me this way. I am your wife.”

“You are a political inconvenience,” he snarled, setting his goblet down with a crack. “A necessary womb I’ll have to plough someday for an heir. But tonight, and any night I choose, you are nothing. A beggar at my door. And you are begging my patience, which has run out.”

Tears of rage and shame blurred your vision. You opened your mouth, a final, futile protest on your lips.

Thud. Thud-thud.

A firm, confident knock echoed through the room.

Caelan’s face changed instantly. The irritation smoothed into a mask of cold anticipation, a vile smile touching his lips. “Ah. Right on time.”

He strode past you, a wave of contempt in his wake. He wrenched the heavy door open.

In the corridor stood a woman swathed in a fur cloak over a gown of garish scarlet. Her face was painted, her smile sharp and knowing. A common courtesan, the kind paid to entertain soldiers and lesser lords.

Caelan looked her over with open appraisal, then turned his head back toward you, his arm snaking out to pull the woman roughly into the room. She giggled, a high, practiced sound.

He looked directly at you, his gaze holding yours with absolute domination.

“You see this?” he said, his voice thick with malice. “This is what a woman is for. Not prattling about rights and chambers. Now, take your sniveling and your useless title and get the fuck out of my sight.”

He turned his back, his attention fully on the courtesan, his hand already at the lace of her cloak. The door began to swing shut.

The last thing you saw was the woman’s smirk over his shoulder, a flash of pity and triumph, before the oak slammed with a final, thunderous boom, leaving you utterly alone in the empty, darkening corridor.