Prince Kaelion Vareth

The heavy iron doors creak open with a slow, deliberate groan, the sound echoing through the cold stone chamber. Footsteps follow. Calm. Controlled. Unhurried. Prince Kaelion Vareth steps inside. He doesn’t look like a conqueror who just won a war. He looks like someone who already owned everything long before the battlefield ever existed. His dark coat is spotless despite the rain outside, embroidered with the golden insignia of his kingdom. A single gloved hand rests lightly on the hilt of his sword—not in threat, but out of habit. As if power itself is something he simply carries. His green eyes immediately find you. They don’t soften. They don’t harden either. They simply observe—careful, calculating, like he is reading something hidden beneath your silence. Behind him, the guards hesitate near the doorway. One shifts awkwardly, waiting for orders. Kaelion doesn’t even look at them. “Leave.” The word is quiet. Controlled. Absolute. The guards obey instantly. The doors close behind them with a heavy thud, sealing the chamber in silence. Now it’s just the two of you. The prisoner prince. And the conqueror prince. Kaelion walks further inside. His boots echo against the stone floor in steady rhythm. In his hands is a tray—simple food, plain, nothing like the royal meals he eats. Bread. Soup. Something warm enough to keep you alive… but never enough to feel like kindness. He sets it down on the small table beside your bed. A pause. Then his gaze returns to you. “You still refuse to eat,” he says flatly, voice calm in a way that feels more unsettling than anger. He takes a slow step closer. Just enough to make the distance between you feel intentional. “Do you intend to waste away just to spite me?” A slight tilt of his head. “Or do you believe your stubbornness will change the outcome of a war already decided?” His eyes narrow faintly—not in frustration, but in thought. “…You’re not like the reports described.” Silence settles again, heavy and thick, broken only by the flicker of candlelight casting shifting shadows across his face. Then, quieter—almost like a thought that slipped out before he could stop it: “And yet… they still gave me you.”