I followed the Duke to the carriage. The knights stood in a row beside it, each holding their reins with quiet precision, their faces unreadable beneath polished helms. None of them looked directly at me, but when we approached, they bowed—not deeply, just enough that I noticed. Enough to remind me this wasn't pretend.
One of them stepped forward and opened the carriage door. He held out a hand to help me in. I didn't take it. Not from pride. Not from rudeness. Just… I didn't know how. No one had ever held a hand out to me like that before. What was the right way to reach for someone like that? What was I supposed to do with my fingers? My thumb? Were you meant to lean or let them lift you? Would I look clumsy? So instead, I climbed in on my own.
The inside was warm. Not just from the sun. There were two pale blue cushions on each seat, soft and full, like sitting on a cloud that had been taught how to behave. The window frames were gilded, but not showy. The trim was embroidered, quiet and precise. The air inside smelled faintly of something clean—lavender, or mint.
I sat on the far cushion and placed my satchel on the floor beside my feet. Caelum climbed in after me and took the seat across. The door shut behind us with a dull, final sound. The carriage began to move. I barely felt the shift. No jolt. No rattle. Just the distant creak of wheels and the steady rhythm of hooves striking packed dirt.
I looked out the window. The orphanage stood still at the edge of the garden. Gray and leaning slightly to one side, roof patched with boards that never matched. Laundry still hung on the line, flapping like it didn't care who had left. The door was already shut. No one stood at the porch. No one waved. The cat was gone.
I waited a moment longer, just in case. But he didn't return. Maybe that was for the best. I reached for my wrist and touched the ribbon—the one he gave me on my birthday. It was still wrapped there, soft blue satin with silver trim. My name was stitched in the smallest, neatest thread I'd ever seen.
I had worn it every day since. Slept with it. Bathed with it. Tucked it beneath my sleeve whenever the Matron looked too closely. It hadn't frayed once. It hadn't lost color. It hadn't loosened. It looked… new. Still new. Like it was made of something that didn't understand time. I never asked how he did it. But somehow, I felt like I didn't need to know.
I lowered my hand and leaned back. The silence between Caelum and me stretched, but it didn't tighten. He didn't try to fill it. He just sat there, one hand resting on his knee, the other still gloved, his posture straight but not stiff. His coat had silver buttons, and his boots were polished so precisely they looked almost liquid in the light. But nothing about him felt fake. He wore his stillness like a second skin. Not armor. Just… comfort.
Eventually, he spoke. Not loudly. Not to command. Just simply.
"I know this is a lot," he said. "And I know I'm a stranger. I imagine you don't want to talk. That's alright."
Still, I stayed quiet.
But he wasn't annoyed. He didn't press. He leaned back slightly in his seat, resting one hand on his knee, the other on the windowsill beside him. His gloves were gone now, folded neatly on the cushion beside him. His hands were pale. His nails trimmed. Not soft like someone who'd never fought, but careful. Trained.
I looked at his face again.
It didn't change much. But his eyes were kind. Not soft. Not distant. Just… sure. Like someone who knew where he was going and didn't mind letting me take longer to catch up.
Then he said, "You and I—by blood—we're supposed to be brothers. That's not in question. But publicly… it will be better for you to be introduced as my son."
I blinked. Not "my nephew." Not "my ward." Not "a noble foundling." Son. He said it like it was easy. Like the word didn't carry weight.
"You'll be safer that way," he continued. "No one will challenge the connection. And it will allow you to remain close to the royal family without drawing too much attention too quickly."
I still didn't speak. He didn't mind.
"You don't have to call me Father," he said, quietly. "Not unless you want to. You can call me Duke. Or Caelum. Or nothing. It doesn't matter right now."
I looked at the floor. The ribbon brushed my wrist again. I rubbed the back of my hand over it once, like I was checking to see if it was still there. It was. Caelum leaned back slightly, his gaze flicking toward the window. He didn't sigh. Didn't shift. But something about his presence relaxed—just a breath.
"We'll arrive in a little less than four hours," he said. "The first gate will recognize our seal and let us through. Then the guards will take over. You'll be given a room, clothes, a bath, a physician check. Nothing invasive. Just safety."
I finally asked, without meaning to, "A room?"
He nodded once.
"Your own. With a key."
I looked down again. The floor of the carriage was lined with a soft rug—navy blue, trimmed with silver thread, like the outer crest on his coat. I had never had a key before. Or a door that locked from the inside.
The world outside the window passed slowly. The trees were taller here. The grass brighter. The road smoother. I didn't realize I was staring until Caelum spoke again—this time softer.
"You've never ridden in a carriage, have you?"
I shook my head.
He smiled, but not in a condescending way. It was a real smile. A soft one. Like he understood something he didn't need to say.
I noticed something then. A mark. On the side of his neck, just below the ear, close to the curve of his jaw. At first I thought it was a scar. But when he turned slightly, and the light shifted, I saw it clearer. Silver. Subtle. A tattoo. Not ink. Not dye. Something else.
The shape was smooth. Elegant. A wolf. Howling. Its body formed of lines that curled like wind. The symbol shimmered faintly. Almost like it had been etched beneath the skin itself. I couldn't stop staring.
He noticed. He didn't hide it. Instead, he raised a brow. "You see it?"
I nodded. His fingers brushed the edge of the mark, and he gave a small chuckle—not loud, not showy. Just a breath of amusement.
"It's called a Sigilmark," he explained. "A symbol of our house. Every La Caelith receives one when they come of age. It doesn't fade. It can't be removed. It glows when we're near danger… or family."
His gaze lingered on me after that. I didn't know how to answer. But I didn't look away either.
"It hasn't glowed like this in years," he added quietly.
Then he dropped his hand, rested it on his knee again, and turned his eyes back to the window like it meant nothing at all. I pressed my fingertips gently to the side of my own neck, mirroring the spot. There was nothing there. Nothing yet. But the skin tingled faintly beneath my touch. And I wondered if one day, it might glow too.