I was still standing on the balcony when Gabel came to find me. He didn't knock or call from across the room. He stepped softly, like always. I heard his footsteps before I saw him—light, controlled, measured. He stood just inside the door, not speaking until I turned around.
"Dinner will be served soon," he said, bowing his head slightly.
I nodded.
He didn't rush me. He waited until I turned from the railing on my own, until I took a breath and stepped inside again. He didn't reach for my hand or press a hand against my back like the caretakers sometimes did when they wanted us to move faster. He simply walked at my side as I crossed the room.
The night air still clung to my sleeves. The warmth of the palace met it gently as we left my room behind. The dining room looked the same. Calm. Polished. Lit by soft yellow lamps that flickered gently in sconces shaped like blooming flowers.
The table was already set, but this time there were more candles lit in the center. A line of small flames casting long reflections across the silverware and plates.
Caelum was already waiting. He stood when I entered—not sharply, not stiffly, just in quiet acknowledgement. He didn't smile right away. Just looked at me. Then gave a slow nod before sitting back down.
Tilly and Lillian helped me into my chair. They laid the napkin in my lap again, tucking it with practiced ease. I tried not to fidget, but I could feel the fabric brush against the backs of my hands. It reminded me of earlier. Of the weight of the utensils. The spill on my tunic. The way I'd frozen when everything felt too heavy and too much.
I told myself I would feed myself tonight. That I would try. That I'd show them I could do it. But when the food arrived and I picked up the fork, my hands moved slower than I wanted. The meat was tender but slippery. The vegetables rolled when I tried to stab them. The buttered potatoes held still, but my hand was already shaking slightly from trying too hard.
Tilly noticed. She didn't say anything. She just moved a little closer and gently touched the handle of my fork. "May I help?" she asked.
I didn't answer. But I let go. And she took it as permission. She sliced the meat into clean, even pieces, then offered the fork to me again. Lillian stood quietly behind her, holding a fresh cloth in case I needed it. I didn't ask them to help. I wanted to say I could do it myself.
That I didn't need someone to feed me like a baby. That I'd been doing it alone since I was old enough to hold a spoon. That I was three. That I should be able to do this. But when I looked up—at Caelum—he didn't look disappointed. He didn't frown. He didn't clear his throat or fold his hands or say something like "A prince should know how to feed himself."
He just looked at me. Not blankly. Not softly. Just... watching. Present. His elbows rested gently on the table, and when our eyes met, he didn't look away. He gave a small smile. Not a proud one. Not a forced one. Just… a smile.
Then he said something about the hallway's view at night. Nothing important. Just small talk. The kind of thing adults say when they don't want silence to turn heavy. And I tried to answer. I really did. My words were small, careful. I said I liked the balcony. That the sun didn't blind me there. That I could see the maze garden and the tip of the Sun Palace roof.
He listened like it was worth hearing. Like it wasn't just filler. And I thought, maybe, it was okay that I couldn't do everything on my own. Not forever. But for now. Dessert came after. A small, round pastry. Golden on the outside, filled with something red—berry, maybe. There was a dusting of powdered sugar on top and a delicate swirl of whipped cream.
It looked like a painting. It tasted like a lie. I didn't like sweet things. Not in people. Not in food. Sweetness always felt like it was trying to hide something. Like it was pretending. Like it was trying too hard to be liked. And under the sugar and cream and syrup, there was always something rotting a little. Or bitter. Or fake.
I ate a bite. Then another. But halfway through, I set my fork down. No one asked why I didn't finish. Not Caelum. Not the servants. No one made me feel like I was wasting food or being rude or ungrateful.
Tilly simply brought over a cloth to wipe the edge of my mouth, and Lillian brought a cup of warm water with mint. Gabel stood behind them, still as a shadow, his eyes scanning the room—not like a guard, but like someone waiting in case I needed anything else.
When I stood, they helped me down. I didn't need their hands. But I didn't refuse them either. They led me out of the dining room together, quiet and steady, like this was just another part of the evening. Like helping me wasn't strange. Like it was normal.
Caelum didn't follow. He stood at the head of the table as we passed, one hand resting lightly against the back of his chair. When I looked at him—just before turning the corner—he met my eyes again.
He didn't ask if I was full. Didn't ask if I enjoyed the meal. He just said: "Goodnight, Elarion."
His voice was soft. Low. Not the kind of goodnight you gave to a guest. The kind you gave to someone you wanted to rest well. I stopped. Then nodded once. "Goodnight," I whispered.
My voice caught a little. It was almost too quiet to hear. But he smiled anyway. That same smile. The one that didn't stretch too far or shine too brightly. The kind that didn't ask for anything in return. I liked his smile. Not because it made me feel praised. But because it felt true.
Back in my room, the light had dimmed. A lamp had been lit by the desk. The curtains were drawn. The air was warmer than earlier, and my night robe was already set out across the bed—soft white fabric with long sleeves and tiny buttons at the collar.
Lillian helped unfasten the buttons on my tunic. Tilly folded the overalls. Gabel brought a small wooden stool and set it by the bed for me to sit on. They didn't say anything about how long I took to move. They didn't hurry. They only asked one question: "Are you tired?"
I shook my head. A small, honest movement. I wasn't tired. Not yet. They didn't push me. Didn't remind me of the hour. Didn't say "But it's bedtime." They just helped me into the night robe and smoothed the fabric at my shoulders. They trimmed a small thread near the sleeve. They combed through my braid with gentle fingers and offered to retie it.
Then they asked again: "Would you like to go to bed now?"
I shook my head again. Softer this time. "I want to stay up a little," I whispered.
No reason. Just… because. They nodded. And they left. Not in a hurry. Not disappointed. The door clicked softly behind them. And I was alone. But not in the old way. Not the kind where the dark crept in and the cold settled against my skin and silence meant forgetting. This was quiet, not emptiness. Soft, not sharp. A space that waited. A room that listened.
I walked to the window and opened the curtain just enough to see the sky. The stars hadn't fully come out yet. But I waited. And when they did, I let myself believe— That not everything sweet was fake That maybe, sometimes, kindness didn't hide anything. That maybe, I could learn to rest.