CHAPTER 143: CHAPTER 143: THE MORNING AFTER

Sleep had taken Cassian like a thief in the dark—unwelcome, uninvited, and yet ruthless in its grip.

He hadn’t meant to rest. He couldn’t. Not when his mind roared like a storm-tossed sea, each thought colliding with the next in a relentless churn. There had been no peace, no stillness. Just a mess of tangled emotions, sharp fragments of shame, and the ghost of Prince Dorian’s hands still echoing across his skin.

But his body had its own will, and it betrayed him—just like always. Bone-deep exhaustion dragged him under the moment his frame hit the bed. Still damp from the bath, hair curling at the nape of his neck, he hadn’t even bothered to dry off before collapsing beneath the quilt. Somewhere between one breath and the next, he’d lost consciousness.

When he finally stirred, the world around him was softened by morning light. Gold streaks filtered through the gauzy curtains, stretching across the polished stone floor in long, serene patterns. His limbs felt impossibly heavy, as if he’d been turned to marble in his sleep.

The air carried a warm scent—clove, cinnamon, and something faintly floral he couldn’t name. It curled around him like a memory, calming, almost tender. Slowly, he blinked the haze from his eyes and that’s when he noticed the tray.

Placed neatly on the low table beside the bed, it wasn’t extravagant, but it was thoughtful. Comforting in its simplicity.

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Steam rose gently from a bowl of porridge, its scent nutty and spiced. Next to it, fresh fruit had been arranged with surprising care—slices of pear, pomegranate seeds glistening like rubies, wedges of citrus curled just so.

A ceramic cup rested nearby, pale and smooth. When he reached for it, the warmth of it grounded him, pulled him back into the present.

His stomach responded instantly, growling in protest.

Cassian winced, pressing a hand to his abdomen. Right. He hadn’t eaten a thing last night.

He barely remembered how he’d made it back to the room. The last clear memory was of sitting in the bath long after the water had gone cold, letting the silence press against him while the heat tried—and failed—to scrub away what had happened.

He hadn’t dried off. Hadn’t dressed himself properly. Just wandered, half-numb, into the bed. And yet now he was clean, warm inside the bed.

"Did someone help him while he was asleep?" because he did not remember taking care of himself last night.

Someone had helped him without making a sound. He hadn’t even noticed, and now he just hoped it was the servant—because he didn’t want to think about who else it could be.

He pushed back the quilt and sat up slowly, his body sluggish, aching not with pain but with a deep-set fatigue that clung like a second skin. Beside the tray, he noticed a fresh set of clothes, folded with precision. These weren’t the same as before that made Cassian breath a sigh of relief.

The pants were made of deep black silk that shimmered faintly under the morning sun. The tunic that rested above them was burgundy, rich and structured, with golden embroidery in delicate, sweeping patterns—flames curling into vines, wings unfurling across the fabric. It was elegant and refined.

It wasn’t like the previous one, which looked like it was made for seduction. He had denied that thought at first, but after the incident last night, it returned—and now he was certain. That outfit had been made for exactly that purpose.

That much was obvious.

But this dress wasn’t about allure. This was about royalty and status.

The water was lukewarm, just enough to wash away the exhaustion clinging to his skin. He scrubbed quickly, not letting himself linger. The silence echoed around him, it was broken only by the sound of water trickling down the stone basin. When he stepped out, the air felt cold against his damp skin, grounding him in the present.

After drying off, he touched the fabric with hesitant fingers before finally slipping into the clothes. They fit him perfectly, tailored to move with his body while offering a sense of dignity. Still, he avoided the mirror. He didn’t want to see himself. Not like this.

Because if he looked... everything from last night would come flooding back.

The way Dorian had touched him.

The way he hadn’t stopped it.

The way some part of him—a part he hated—had wanted it.

His jaw tensed as he reached for the brush and worked through his damp hair, tying it back with a simple ribbon tucked near the tray. Another thoughtful gesture.

He ate in silence. Each spoonful of porridge warmed him from the inside. Each bite of fruit, a strange kind of tenderness he didn’t know what to do with.

He had spent so long in survival—where food was rationed and trust was currency. Where warmth always came at a price.

To wake up like this—fed, clean, dressed in luxury—it didn’t feel right. Or safe. Or permanent.

He finished the last bite just as a knock came at the door. It was soft and tentative.

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He stiffened, fingers tightening around the edge of the cup.

A servant entered, young, look like a human or at least human enough. There was no horns or strange wings. He bowed respectfully.

"My grace," the servant said, his tone careful, neutral. "It is time for the Grace’s etiquette instruction. Shall I escort you?"

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Cassian blinked, the words slow to sink in.

"Etiquette?" he repeated, setting the cup down. "What kind of etiquette?"

The servant only offered a faint smile. "You will understand once you arrive."

Of course. No answers. Just more rules.

Cassian nodded and rose, the silk garments whispering softly with each movement. The tunic settled around his shoulders like armor, his posture unconsciously straightening as he followed the servant out.

He said nothing as they walked, his thoughts swirling in silence.

What was he now? And what would Prince Dorian do to him? He didn’t know. No matter how hard he tried to guess, his mind stayed blank.