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His name always felt like honey when it fell from her lips. She called him with love, she called him with care and adoration. He was her little boy, and she was his mother, one with warm arms to shelter him from the snow, and with stories to fill his head with wonder. 

He adored her soft skin and the way she smelled like almonds and old books, and he grinned when she put the large, heavy crown on his head when no one was looking. It was crooked, and it usually fell off within minutes, but for these few moments he was a king, and she was just a woman who gave birth to him, one that he swore to protect with his life to thank her for her love. 

He wondered often about his father, but he hated the way his mother’s smile fell when he asked; thus, he stopped asking. Looking at himself in the mirror, he wondered; were his father’s eyes as black as his? Did his hair have the same pink color? Did he have freckles? His mother’s skin was porcelain pale, so they had to come from his father’s side of the family.

He created an image of his father in his head; a warm, yet strict man who would praise him when he did well during sword practice and etiquette lessons and give him guidance to become better, and when the wet nurse tucked him in, covering him with richly embroidered comforters, he could swear he heard a deep, gentle voice bidding him good night. The bed smelled like lavender and almonds, and he slept with a smile, like a child he was, unaware of the rot that bubbled outside of the thick walls of the castle. 

He learned how to dance, and in the evenings, in front of the fireplace, he would practice with his mother, who seemed to get shorter and shorter as the years passed by; was he the one getting taller? He would spin her around, and she would giggle like a young maiden when he kissed her hand. Waltzes were her favorite, and the one-two-three rhythm echoed in the chambers deep into the night, as they both spun and laughed, mother and son, two bound souls. 

When the teacher began bringing in books about the arts of war instead of fairytales about mythical heroes and beasts who brought chaos, he didn’t pay it heed; it was a reading material nevertheless, and an interesting one at that. When he first brought up the theories of war to his mother, he swore he saw her smile waver for a moment, before she engaged him in a long, detailed conversation about strategy, theory, and application. Was it then that she realized that the boy in front of her was no longer a child? He sat in the same armchair his father used to sit in, and he was quickly growing even taller than him – his coming of age ceremony was closing in, scheduled for the first snowfall next year. Still, he was her son, her boy, her child, and even though they talked about bloodshed and conquer, she still combed his hair and kissed his cheek when he returned from his studies. 

He adored the blade, and the blade favored him. He was quick and nimble, quickly gaining a reputation amongst the guards and swordsmanship teachers. With a smile on his face, he knocked the swords out of his opponent’s hands, and he claimed them as their own, laughing happily at his victory. He was beloved in the training grounds, and his mother often sat by the window to her study while working, just to hear his cheers and bubbly laughter. Her pride couldn’t fit in her chest; her son was growing up handsome, strong, and intelligent, but most importantly, happy. 

As she handed yet another order to the general, she thought of his smile and the warm way in which he called out to her, and the ice in the throne room felt almost bearable. 

He was a son of winter, born minutes after the start of the new year; the priests declared it a blessing from God and a mark of a prophesied ruler. His cheeks were pink as his mother held him and spoke his name for the first time, her words like morning dew, her touch like feathers. When he walked into the common room on the day of his coming of age ceremony, his cheeks were just as rosy as on the day he was born, and she laughed as she put down the book she was reading, kissing her son on the forehead when he bowed down to greet her. 

“Happy Birthday, sweet thing.” She whispered, and sweet thing felt honey on his tongue. 

“Thank you, Mother.” He answered, and she smiled, filling the room with light. 

They chatted briefly, going over the schedule for that important day, making jokes about the nobles that would be attending the ball in the evening. They would have talked longer (oh, how he wished that they talked longer that day), but he was quickly ushered out of the room by his personal attendant, who chirped on and on about sitting down to breakfast, bathing, doing paperwork, and changing into the intricate outfit that was prepared for tonight. As he passed the doorway, his mother waved at him and he shot her a wide smile, one that made his mother’s face bloom into the same expression.

A thirteen-year-old boy sat in front of his mirror, smelling like lavender and almonds, his hair still slightly damp. His attendant was in the process of drying it gently with a pristine cloth. He never saw her face; it was always covered by a thin white veil, but she was always at his beck and call, and he appreciated the anonymous devotion. His short pink locks framed his face. Usually, it would be his mother that would brush them and style them, but today? Today he needed extra care. Today was his debut into the high society – today he was going to be officially presented as the Crown Prince of the country, as his mother’s successor. 

The ornate comb glided through his hair, pushing the pink hair away from his eyes. He has grown during the last years. He lost the baby fat from his face, his eyebrows were thicker, the small fangs that used to poke him in the upper lip now protruded proudly, the symbol of his royal lineage. He was wearing clothes he has never seen before, ones that the attendant brought in with a skip in her step. A pristine white shirt, fitting black pants, boots with a golden buckle, a corset, a red satin sash – he knew them only from the books, describing the previous kings. Pride swelled in his chest as he looked at himself in the mirror. The woman grabbed a simple golden crown, a symbol of his status, and placed it on his head, the ring fitting his head like it was made especially for him. He looked like the next king. He smiled at his image, adjusting his collar, all while ignoring the scolding of his attendant who stepped away just for a moment to grab something from his bed. 

“Your Majesty, please don’t fiddle with the collar! The button is hanging on by a thread, and Elisabeth isn’t here to sew it back on before the ceremony if it breaks!” she huffed as she grabbed a bundle of red fabric from the bed so gently, as if it would break if she squeezed it too tightly. “If you would please stand up, I need to attach the cape, sir.” 

The man sighed, pushing back the ornate chair as he stood up, towering over the servant, who had to slightly crane her head up to look him in the eye. 

“I thought I told you to call me by my name, Iskra.” He said, turning around. Iskra shook her head, draping the heavy material over his shoulders, fiddling with the golden chain that kept it together.

“That won’t do, Your Majesty. If Queen Mother heard me addressing you with such frivolity, I don’t think I would keep my head on my shoulders.”
The chain snapped into place as the prince laughed heartily, adjusting the fur that now covered his shoulders. He turned back around, allowing the attendant to make last corrections; patting down the stray wrinkle on the shirt or double-checking if no thread is hanging loose. 

“My mother adores all of the servants. There is no way she would get angry at you over something so trivial. Just do it, Iskra. Make it my birthday present.” He said, and the woman hidden behind the veil sighed, giving up. 

His name leaves her lips once, and he grins, bowing to her as if she was a lady asked to dance. 

The attendant smiled as she left the room, explaining that the chamberlain will come get him once the ball has begun. He could already hear the wheels of the carriages pulling up to the palace, and it took every ounce of his self-restraint not to look out through the mirror-like a gawking child. He entertained himself with a book that he has already read from cover to cover many times, awaiting the knock at the dark, wooden door. The pages of the book were wrinkled, and he swore a page was missing from chapter seventeen, but he read on nevertheless, whispering more impactful paragraphs to himself. Someone brought him a cup of water and a snack, and he devoured it within seconds, his eyes not tearing from the old pages. 

“Your Majesty?”

“Hm?”

“It’s time for us to go.”

“Hm. Give me a moment.”

“Your Majesty, the archduke has arrived, you are required to greet him-“

The book slammed shut, startling the chamberlain who collected the empty dishes on the desk that was pushed against the window. The young prince clicked his tongue in annoyance as he gently set the book down as if he was trying to apologize to the inanimate object for treating it so roughly. 

“I was hoping he wouldn’t come. Did he bring his son with him?” he asked, taking one last glance at the full-body mirror. The chamberlain avoided his eyes, and the man felt all solace and happiness leave his body. “I’ll assume that’s a yes, Leon.”

“You’re correct, my lord.”

“Damn.”

He walked out of his room without saying anything further. The cape that was placed so gingerly on his shoulders now flapped behind him as he walked down one of the many corridors of the castle, heading for the courtyard. Everyone he passed instantly stopped in their tracks, bowing to him as he walked by, and it was a small triumph that made this soon-to-be sour situation a bit more bearable. Someone tried to inquire about something related to the ball as he stomped down the halls towards the entrance, but he simply waved his hand and they went quiet. Another person raced after him, their long skirt hiked up and breath heavy; it was probably Iskra, who had orders to follow him as his attendant. He slowed down just the tiniest bit, allowing the woman to catch her breath. 

It didn’t take him long to arrive at his destination; the handmaidens and butlers that stood by the doors, awaiting the archduke’s luggage instantly folded themselves into a ninety-degree bow, returning to standby only when he dismissed them. On the other side of the heavy, oaken door laughter rang out, both male and female – his mother has already met the archduke. The prince took a moment to compose himself, calm down the anger that was bubbling in his stomach, and only then did he walk outside, gaining the attention of the small party that was stationed by the landing of the grand stairs. 

“Crown Prince! It’s such a pleasure to see you again, congratulations on this grand occasion!” A man, shorter than the boy by at least a head spoke, extending his hand for a shake as the prince descended the stairs. For a second, he wanted not to return the gesture, but his mother’s inquisitive glance cleared that thought from his head. He gripped the archduke’s hand tightly, and the man in front of him roared with deep, guttural laughter. “Ho! Your Majesty, you’ve grown so strong! Your hands are so calloused too, you must have worked hard on your swordsmanship!” 

“Thank you, Archduke Squid. I’ve been training daily.” He answered dryly and shook the hand off, discreetly wiping it against his cape. He swore he could hear Iskra’s soul leave her body behind him. 

Archduke Anastasius Squid was someone who could be considered one of the hearts of the empire; only the Queen and the royal family had more power than him. Anastasius, however, unlike the royal family, had one fatal flaw – he still was able to socially climb, and even though Crown Prince’s mother has assured him many times that Anastasius has no ill will against the throne, he could see the way the Archduke looked at him and his mother. 

An obstacle, that’s all they were to him, and gossip about him gathering a military force in his land that was spreading across the country didn’t help his cause. Crown Prince avoided contact with him as much as possible. During audiences, he didn’t speak. During banquets, he didn’t even look at him. Still, the pest kept coming back, and that day, he was not able to avoid his grubby hands that most likely itched to snatch the crown from his head. 

“You just have to spar with my son one day! Perhaps you could come to our estate before Eliot’s coming of age ceremony? It’s scheduled for early spring; we’ll make sure an invitation is sent to the palace. Right, Eliot?” The Archduke stepped to the side, revealing a lanky boy who was currently making his way out of the carriage. Even though the Crown Prince and Eliot Squid were nearly the same age, they couldn’t have looked more different. Their builds were completely different; the young master of the Squid house looked like he would break if a stronger wind blew, and the Crown Prince was way more muscular, trained by the best of the best.

‘Sure, if you want me to kill him’ pressed onto his lips, but he bit the words back, instead accepting the bow from the boy that was yet to speak.

“He’s still so shy, but he’s smart! He’s great at calculations; he even brought forward a new way of maximizing agricultural output! It’s hard to believe he’s still twelve!” Anastasius ruffled his son’s hair, and through the deeply seeded anger and disgust, the Crown Prince felt… sadness? Longing? 

“Father, please, not in front of Your Excellencies.” The child muttered, his voice surprisingly low for his age. The archduke continued to laugh and handed over his fat suitcase to an awaiting butler, who scurried inside of the castle, another one taking his place. 

“Well, Elliot, your father has a point!” the queen spoke, motioning for her assistant to come closer. She grabbed a small book from her hands, and with a flourish handed it to the young boy, who was nearly pressed into his father’s side at the moment. “Your theory helped the country immensely. I heard that you were a connoisseur of literature; I hope that you will at least accept this tome as my personal thank you.” She smiled, and the Crown Prince frowned. A reward for what? Saying that they should move harvest a week later? Stupid.

Eliot blinked a couple of times, before carefully plucking the book from the woman’s hands. 

“Thank you, Your Majesty…” he muttered, pressing the book to his chest. Crown Prince glanced at the tome, but unable to see the title he scoffed and looked away. 

If he looked just for a moment longer, he would have noticed Archduke Anastasius’s grin.

Soon, they all moved back inside the castle, the guests lead to their rooms, and the carriage stationed safely in the designated building. Not forced to pretend to be nice anymore, the Crown Prince slumped in his chair, a seat which he took the very second the father-son duo left his field of vision. He was feeling way too exhausted, and the ball didn’t even begin; it wouldn’t start for a couple more hours. 

“Iskra, do you know what book did my mother give to the Squid brat?” he asked, remembering that Iskra’s mother was the queen’s personal assistant. Iskra hummed for a moment, racking her brain for a title, before letting out a small noise in realization. 

“Oh, I do actually know! Mother said that it was The Art of War if I remember correctly.” She said but quickly recoiled when the prince sprang from his chair, leaning to where he thought her eyes would be. He was so close that he could almost make out the shape of her eyes from under the thick veil.

“Are you sure it that that book?” he asked, his voice colder than the snow that covered the ground outside of the castle. Iskra simply nodded, and the man in front of her kicked the chair he was sitting on. It cluttered down the corridor, and he found himself gasping for air out of anger. “That’s a royal tome! That’s something I was supposed to get! I worked for these tomes for thirteen years, and mother gives one to the Squid brat just for talking about potatoes? I don’t understand!” 

“Your Majesty, you have already read that book, haven’t you? I don’t understand why it would be detrimental to you-“ Iskra started speaking, but the Crown Prince was in her face faster than she could finish her sentence. 

“That’s because it was supposed to be mine. My father had that book, my grandfather had that book, and his father had that book also. It contains things that were taught to all previous kings, and mother gave it to who? To Eliot Squid, whose father is so obvious about wanting to take over the throne it hurts! And who he would put on the throne?” he asked, and Iskra answered, even though she felt her knees shake.

“Young Master Eliot?”

“The brat. Yes.”

The hall was silent as the Crown Prince exhaled shakily, trying to calm himself before he would start swinging. The guards who were just supposed to enter the corridor turned on their heels, not wanting to be on the receiving end of Prince’s fury. 

“If I may say something, Your Majesty…” Iskra spoke, regaining her composure. The man glared at her from under his messy hair but waved his hand in a silent signal to continue. Iskra took a deep breath. “Why don’t you inquire with Queen Mother to why she passed on such a precious tome to the Squid House? I’m sure she would explain it to you if you just asked.”

“As if that would change anything! The book is already in his hands, and even if I asked for it back it would be a massive faux pas towards the archduke… I could always steal it, but if I got caught- Man!” He was now pacing back and forth down the corridor, biting the nail on his thumb. “I think I will have to speak to mother though. I don’t understand why would she give him something that precious to both of us. Do you know my mother’s schedule?”

Iskra retrieved a small notebook from the hidden pocket of her skirt.

“If my mother’s notes are correct, Her Majesty the Queen should now be heading for gown fitting for tonight. If you hurry you can catch her in the west wing, and after that, you would probably be able to only meet her during the ball and immediately after it.”

Before she could even finish speaking, the prince was off, heading towards the west wing. He passed guests who stared at him with wide eyes, seeing him for the first time in their lives, the staff that was making last-minute adjustments to the hall in which the ball would be held, guards who stared at him in pure confusion, before sliding into the West Hall, calling out to his mother who was just turning the corner, about to enter the staircase that led to the Astronomy Tower. 

“Darling! What’s wrong, you look feverish-“ the Queen raised her hand to touch his forehead, but the prince nudged it away, instead staring his mother right in the eyes. “Sweet thing?”

“Mother, why did you gift The Art of War to Eliot Squid?”

A large array of emotions ran across the queen’s face in that short moment. From confusion, to shock, through remorse and grief; the prince was experiencing a whole spectacle. His heart began beating faster. He needed an explanation, and he needed it now.

“My son, I know how much the Royal Library means to you…” the woman began speaking, but the prince was faster, his nerves already in shambles.

“If you knew how much it meant to me, then why didn’t you consult this with me, mother? Am I still a child so small that I can’t take care of my belongings?” he barked, and the queen frowned.

“The Library isn’t exclusively yours.”

“Neither is it yours!”

The queen let out a long, shaky breath, before dismissing his assistant who disappeared into the shadows of the staircase. The prince, heaving in anger, leaned on one of the columns that supported the hall, the light from the stained-glass windows bathing his face in reds and golds of heroes whose stories he could recall by heart. His mother looked at him with adoration for a moment, admiring the man he has become, before speaking, her tone curt and cold.

“Son, you know very well what Archduke Anastasius wants. He wants the crown.” She said, and ice took over the prince’s heart. So it was true. What was his wild speculation was just confirmed, and the thirteen-year-old boy, covered in light, suddenly felt much, much older than he actually was.

“Yes, that much I have figured. What does it have to do with father’s books?” he spoke before he thought, and the pang of guilt on his mother’s face didn’t escape his keen eyes.

“He needed to be satiated. The entire country knows of the Royal Library. I thought that If I gift one of the tomes to his son, he would feel like he has achieved something and would stop his attempts, even for a while.” The queen explained calmly, but her son wasn’t having it.

“Mother, you might have as well handed him the crown itself! You already know he was gathering a battle force, and you, quite literally, gave him the means to lead it! It’s full of knowledge on battle theory, human psyche, strategies- Mother, what have you done?!” he cried out, but his mother’s face remained stone cold, unmoved by his son’s emotional outburst. The prince heaved, having screamed out the last of the air in his lungs. “You could have at least chosen another book. The Theory of Human Mind would have done just as well, why this one! Is this your way of saying you don’t want to rule this country anymore? You’re just handing over your power? I’m - “

“Shut your mouth, son.” She said, and the young prince suddenly forgot how to breathe. Where was the last time his mother spoke to him in that tone, with these words? He couldn’t recall. It stung his heart, but he straightened his back and looked his mother right in her honey-colored eyes. 

“Explain it to me.” He demanded, and the queen looked at him with so much disappointment that he almost collapsed to the floor where he stood. “Please.” He added.

For a brief moment, all was silent in the hall. Someone ran by the entrance, not minding the two that stood in the evening sun. The footsteps were almost as loud as the crown prince’s heartbeat.

“I know that you are attached to the Library. Sometimes we have to give up the things we love for a greater cause, you know? That book was the most important one, yes, but that means that we will gain more time.” She spoke slowly, and the boy’s heart burned in anger and disappointment. “I know it hurts you, but you have to understand, sweet thing; I am doing this for you. I am doing this so you can ascend the throne safely, and so you won’t have to worry about the archduke.”

“It’s crown this, crown that.” The prince muttered, looking away from his mother’s conflicted face. “Why won’t you consider your son’s feelings and not the ones of the crown prince?” 

“Darling-“

“I’m sorry mother. I need to have some time to myself. I’ll talk to you during the ball, okay?” he spoke, surprising even himself with how calm he was. Gently taking off his mother’s hand off his shoulder, he gave her a bow and left the hall, not looking back once. 

The corridor felt so cold, and he shuddered when yet another cold draft whipped him across the face. He couldn’t hear his mother’s footsteps anymore, and he brought the cape closer to his body, enveloping himself in the scent of almonds, that now felt thick and choking.

“Your Majesty?” someone asked, and he only hummed in response. “Would you like me to fix your appearance before the ball?”

Iskra.

“Yes, please.”

It was the coldest January in his life.

***

“Announcing, The Crown Prince of the Welan Kingdom, His Majesty, Sun of the Plains-“

The sound of his own name was lost in the creak of the heavy door that led to the ballroom. Hundreds of eyes stopped on his figure, and just for a split second, he felt his knees shake. He stood there, at the top of the stairs, for a moment, taking in the sight of many figures looking up at him in wonder and interest, seeing him for the first time in their lives; he could clearly see Archduke Anastasius looking at him through half-lidded eyes from the corner of the room, twirling a glass of alcohol in his hand, his son as always pressed against his side. 

He moved forward slowly, descending the stairs in the most sophisticated way he could possibly manage, enjoying the ovation from the partygoers and the cheers shouted his way. Waving to people he recognized, he made his way down the stairs, through the hall, and finally to the elevated platform on top of which his mother sat on her throne, another, equally royal, prepared next to her, empty, waiting. 

The woman smiled at him gently, though the smile was strained, the remnants of their talk still heavy in the air. He bowed, his eyes meeting the floor, and she placed a gentle hand on his head, saying a quick prayer for his health. The ballroom buzzed with excitement as he brought himself back to standing position, taking a step back as his mother walked to the edge of the platform, facing the guests.

“Thank you all so much for attending, and deciding to spend this joyous occasion with us. In the name of the crown prince of this kingdom, I would like to offer my deepest gratitude for all the gifts offered to him, and for all the wishes of health and prosperity, as well as- “ the queen chuckled to herself, looking away from the crowd just for a second. “-as well as many engagement propositions, through which I promise I will look after the ball is over.” 

The guests laughed, and the prince felt an embarrassed blush creep up his neck. He didn’t notice the way his mother glanced back and smiled when she saw him in a better mood.

“Aside from that…” The queen began speaking again, grabbing a tall champagne glass from an awaiting maid. She spun the glass gently, making the transparent, fizzy liquid inside slosh around, and she reached out towards the party. “I hope you enjoy yourselves tonight! Do partake in the drinks and the food, and most of all, dance! There is only one coming of age in a prince’s life, and I’m hoping we can all make the most out of it.” She turned towards her son fully, and she clinked her glass against his, which he, just like the queen, retrieved from a passing attendant. “Happy Birthday, my son.”

“Thank you, mother.”

The champagne was sweet and sour at the same time, and the prince had a hard time not shuddering after he swallowed it. He wasn’t a fan of alcohol; he could barely stomach wine, and champagne was quickly climbing up the ladder of ones he could not handle. He put down the glass with a small ‘tink’ and he watched the nobles couple themselves up and venture to the dancefloor. Anastasius was still looking at him, now with a small smile rather than the obnoxious grin he held before, and the prince felt something churn in his stomach as their eyes met. They held eye contact for a moment, before Anastasius looked away, asking the closest noblewoman he could locate to dance. 

With a small sense of victory, the prince sat back in his chair, the comfortable material gently supporting his body. His mother, already seated, glanced at him with an amused expression.

“The youngest daughter of Marquess Leone has been looking at you all night, son.” She whispered in his direction, and the prince followed her eyes. The young girl was indeed peeking at him from behind her richly embroidered fan, covering her entire face with the dark green material when she realized he was returning the gesture. “Fancy asking her for a dance?” 

“Over my dead body, mother. You know how fast gossip spreads; the Leones would skyrocket in social standings within minutes.” He muttered back, making sure that the young girl was no longer making attempts to garner his attention. She was at her mother’s side, telling something to her sisters in a very animated way. The prince could only hope it wasn’t something that included him.

“How about Duke Winchester’s daughter?”

“No.”

“Viscount Eliezer’s granddaughter?”

“Again, no.”

“Duke Farhan’s son, then?”

“Mother!”

The queen laughed, staring at her son’s embarrassed expression. The said son hid his face in his hands, muttering curse words under his breath, quietly enough to not reach his mother’s ears and to mix with the upbeat music. The party continued, the chatter and clinking of glasses and tableware filling the painted walls of the ballroom. Servants scurrying around, nobles gossiping, toasts being raised to the future ruler of Wela; it was just like any other banquet, just with more pomp. The prince wondered where his excitement from that morning went – did it flutter away like a moth to a lamp while his mother told him off in that hall? Or was it the moment when the Squids arrived at his home and took away his property? He tapped a rhythm on the armrests of the throne, and it followed the melody that the violinist played. 

The Queen, having already spoken to most of the nobles, approached her son again, this time with a mischievous expression, unfitting of a woman her status. She bowed in front of him like a court lady would bow to their lord, and with a smile on her face she asked;

“Your Majesty, Sun of the Kingdom, would you mind sharing a dance with the Lady of the House of Wela? This patient one has been observing you all night, my prince, and you have not enjoyed your birthday so far, so it seems.” She said, and the prince couldn’t help the smile that broke his stony façade.

“Would the husband of the beautiful Lady of Wela be fine with me stealing his dancing partner for the night? I would not like to become the object of his scorn.” He answered, but he was already on his feet, taking his mother’s hand and bringing it up to his lips for a polite kiss. 

“Lord of Wela trusts you can keep me company, Your Majesty.”

“A waltz then?”

“It would be an honor.”

They were in front of the fireplace again, mother and son, spinning and laughing, the argument that bloomed in twilight long forgotten as he held his mother’s delicate hands and devoted himself to the one-two-three rhythm, one that he practiced for so long, just for this one night. The familiar scent of almonds pushed his mind into overdrive as he let out a loud laugh, a rare smile splitting his face. People stared, people talked, people joined in to dance to the same familiar tune, but it didn’t matter, as he was enjoying himself, enjoying the birthday he should have been enjoying since the very beginning.

“Thank you, mother.” He said as the music reached a heart-racing crescendo, and his mother only nodded, allowing herself to be dipped towards the dancefloor in a flourishing motion. “I’m sorry for snapping at you earlier.”

“All’s forgiven. I also have to apologize for being harsh, I should have known that-“ she spoke, but her tongue tangled up as her eyes unfocused for a moment, the music in the background fading into another tune, one that was faster, more festive. “I’m sorry, sweet thing, I think I need to sit down, my head is spinning.”

“Oh! Of course, my apologies. Iskra, can you fetch Queen Mother a glass of water?” the prince spoke as he led his mother back to her seat, and his assistant, having emerged from the shadow of the throne hurried towards the many tables with drink and food. The older woman let out a deep sigh as she sunk back into the pillowed surface of the ornate chair, and glanced at her son, who, worry written across his face, sat down on his own throne. 

“I suppose I’m not as young as I used to be.” The queen laughed softly, her eyes scanning the ballroom, stopping at some of the young couples that danced their hearts out. “Just a little bit of spinning makes me weak in the knees.” 

“It’s fine, mother, just rest. Would you like to retire to your chamber earlier? I’m positive that I’ll be able to handle the ball.” Her son asked, grabbing a crystal glass from Iskra’s hands and handing it over to the older woman in front of him. She downed it quickly, but still with poise worthy of her status.

“Dear, I am still the Queen of this country. I can handle a ball.” She said a quiet thank you to Iskra and passed the glass back into her awaiting hands. “I’m just tired. We both had quite an eventful day, didn’t we?”

Now he really was feeling guilty. 

“Mother-“

“Shh. Now you should focus on someone else, I think.” The queen said with a smile, her tired eyes already hidden under a well-trained persona. Her son frowned and looked around, cold sweat running down his back when he realized who was looking back at him from the bottom of the platform. 

“You didn’t…”

“I asked Eva to pass a note to Duke Winchester’s daughter, asking her for a dance. It seems like she’s more than eager to take ‘you’ on that offer, sweet thing.” She grinned and the prince groaned, for a moment forgetting that he is a part of the royal family. “Don’t worry, Winchesters will gain nothing from seeing you two together. They have status and money guaranteed with their bloodline. Go, have fun!” she waved her hand, and reluctantly, his mother’s sickness-stricken face still vivid in his memory, he stood up, turning around just to whisper, his brows furrowed;

“I’m only doing this because you asked me, mother.”

“You’re welcome, darling.”

***

The dawn barely broke the cover of the night when the door to the prince’s chamber slammed open, the sudden noise snapping the man out of his peaceful slumber. He instantly reached for the dagger under his pillow, but before he could throw it at the assailant, his vision focused, and he spotted a woman in his doorway, panting heavily while leaning against the doorframe. He didn’t recognize her at first, the black hair and blue eyes completely unfamiliar, but the way she moved told him that it just could be Iskra, dressed in her nightclothes.

“Your Majesty!” she wheezed out, gasping for air, and the prince shot out of his bed, rushing towards the woman. “I’m sorry for showing up indecent but-“

“Calm down. What’s wrong? Assassins? Is there someone trying to hurt you?” he asked, checking his assistant for injuries. The woman shook her head, attempting to calm her heart enough to speak.

“Your Majesty, the queen!” Iskra gasped, and the prince felt his blood run cold. “The queen is dying!”

His brain shut down. If he looked back at that night, he probably wouldn’t be able to recall helping Iskra sit down, racing across the castle towards his mother’s chambers, shoving past people crowding in front of her door, and tripping over the carpet as he raced to his mother’s bedside.

He would, however, remember his mother’s tired eyes, which she struggled to keep open, he would remember her shallow breathing and sweat-covered face. The priest and the doctor kept saying something about an antidote, about poison, but it went completely over his head as he squeezed his mother’s hand with his own feverish ones, salty tears streaming down his face as he begged her to fight and to hang on. She didn’t speak, she was probably too tired to do so, but her face still looked so gentle, so angelic as she raised her hand and cupped her son’s cheek, brushing away the tears.

She stared at him with love and adoration until all light disappeared from her eyes, and the scent of almonds faded from the air.

***

“It has to be the work of the Ardentian Empire! Retribution for the war thirteen years ago!”

“Silence, you fool! The peace treaty between the Welan Kingdom and the Ardentian Empire is already thin, how do you think the Emperor will react if he hears about you speaking such nonsense?”

“Who else would poison the late queen then? Her son?!”

“Grab your sword you imbecile, I will deliver judgment upon you for saying such nonsense!”

“Come at me, Viscount!”

“Announcing the king-elect of the Welan Kingdom.”

The room instantly went dead silent, the two warring Viscounts putting away their weapons in a flash and taking their respective spots at the meeting table. As announced, the crown prince, no, the king-elect entered the room, his body poised, but his face so, so tired, looking more like it belonged to an elderly philosopher rather than a boy whose coming-of-age just passed. He was still dressed in the ornate funeral clothes he donned to lay his mother to rest that morning, and it all felt so foreign, so alien on his body – he couldn’t wait to go back to his room and just lay in silence, staring at his ceiling. For now, however, he had to deal with the emergency assembly, one that Archduke Anastasius called in his stead.

“Good evening, gentlemen.” He spoke and took his seat at the head of the table.

“All hail The Sun of The Kingdom!” a cheer ruptured through the hall, around fifty nobles speaking up at the same time to greet their new ruler. Iskra, dressed in all black, took a spot next to her mother, now demoted to head of maids, by the door. She held the king’s sword in her hands, as a symbol of the goodwill of the ruler, and his willingness to communicate and talk things through.

Viscount Eliezer, the one who was just fighting with his seatmate, spoke up first, bowing his head slightly towards the king.

“Your Majesty, I would like to offer you my most sincere condolences.” He said, and the monarch hummed in response, his face even more crestfallen than before.

“I do think, however, that the queen’s death should be the last straw in our relationship with the Ardentian Empire. There is no doubt into my mind that an assassin sent by the emperor was the one who poisoned the late queen.” He said, and the man next to him began to visibly shake. The king looked at him with pity, before waving his hand in his direction.

“Duke Winchester? You look like you want to say something.”

The duke stood up, slamming his hands on the table.

“The idea of Ardentian Empire breaking the peace treaty is preposterous! Our previous king didn’t waste three years of his short life for them to just trample over it like a herd of wild horses!” he shouted, and some of the nobles supported him with their voices. Viscount Eliezer grit his teeth.

“Like I said! Who else would poison the queen!? Are you implying the culprit is one of the nobles; one of us?”

The room quieted down a bit, and the king-elect hid his face in his hands. He had a stinging feeling about who arranged his mother’s death, but he had no evidence other than a smirk that no one else saw, and the eye contact that would not serve as any tangible proof. Still, Archduke Anastasius sat on the opposite side of the table, and through his rough fingers, the boy could still see him staring daggers at his figure.

“Bah, the nobles couldn’t possibly do such a thing. The queen was a good and gentle person, her son a great crown prince – I’d look at the staff if I were you, Eliezer!” a Duke whose name escaped most of the heads at the table, and the buzz intensified, causing the dull pounding in the king-elect’s head to intensify. His eyes stung, his head was splitting apart and his mouth was dry; this day was going terribly, and with how things were going, it was about to become even worse.

“As far as I remember-“ Anastasius spoke gently, and all the heads at the table turned towards him, including the boy who glared at him from across the room. “-the late queen has not eaten anything during the ball. She did, however, drink. First, champagne, but many of us drank from the same bottle, so that couldn’t be it. Then, after the king’s dance, she drank a cup of water.” The Archduke looked the young man straight in the eyes, and for a second, he thought he saw hell itself in his brown irises. “The one who brought the glass, and then took it away was His Majesty’s assistant, wasn’t it? That, and she was the one that came to his personal chambers to wake him after the late queen has fallen sick.” Anastasius shook his head in exaggerated disapprovement.

“I don’t like what you’re implying, Archduke Squid.”

“I’m just stating the facts, Your Majesty. Or will you say that no such thing happened when it was so obviously witnessed by the guests and staff?”

The muttering and humming became louder and louder as some of the nobles reached for their weapons. Iskra gripped the sword she was holding tighter but didn’t move from her spot, fully aware that any of her actions could be taken against the king-elect.

“None of my attendants, maids, butlers, or any of the castle staff had any ill wish against the royal family, so I’d watch my tongue if I were you, Archduke.” The king spoke and the tension lowered a bit. Not enough for Anastasius Squid to stop talking completely, though.

“There is one more thing, Your Majesty, that I would like to discuss.” He said, and the king felt his blood pressure rise even higher than it already was. “If you would grant me permission to speak, of course.”

“I’m unsure if I want to speak with someone who questions the allegiance of my staff.” The boy said, and the temperature in the chamber dropped by at least ten degrees. “Say what you need. I don’t want to interact with you longer than I have to.”

Archduke Anastasius Squid smiled.

“Your Majesty, me, as well as most of the nobility of Wela gathered in this room, think that the best course of action after a successful assassination would be for Your Majesty to retire to the summer palace for some time, while we solve this situation, and smoke out the traitors in our midst.”

Hums of agreement echoed in the room. The king himself wasn’t amused.

“Really. The queen has just passed and you are taking the only remaining royal family member away from the castle. That’s rich.” He snarled, forgetting his poise and rank. Anastasius shook his head.

“That’s exactly why we want you to leave for a while, Your Majesty! The assassin must still be in or near the castle, and as the remaining member of the House of Wela, you must practice utmost caution.”

“I hate to be the one to tell you this, Archduke, but I am still the king of Wela, and I will be the one making such decisions.” The boy slammed his hands on the table, making the water in the crystal pitcher slosh around dangerously close to the rim. “Now, does anyone want to discuss anything else-”

“King-elect of Wela. I hate to be the one to tell you this-” Anastasius cut into the speech like a sword slicing flesh. “-but you haven’t been crowned yet, thus the rule falls to us, the Lobby of the Elders.”

He forgot how to speak for a moment, and so did many of the people on both sides of the gathering. Many of them looked from Anastasius to him, looking for an explanation, and for many something just clicked, and they just nodded, looking at him with scorn.

What the archduke was saying was true – even though his mother passed just the day before yesterday, his coronation couldn’t be scheduled for any time before next month; with many holidays and traditions in the way, he was just a crown prince waiting like a sitting duck to be allowed to ascend the throne. Usually, the parent of the crown prince would hold the power while the prince prepared for his coronation; in this case, however, there was no such figure, and the law stated, that in absence of a crowned ruler, the Lobby of the Elders, a gathering of highest ranked officials and nobility would take over that role. The young boy had a terrible, slimy feeling about what was about to happen.

“We figure that leaving as soon as possible will guarantee you the most safety and comfort possible. We have already contacted the best of sell-swords to be your bodyguards, as sending the royal guard with you could garner the attention of the assassin.” Anastasius was speaking without filter, a dangerous grin dancing on his face, completely ignored by the gathering. “Tomorrow at dawn, Your Majesty will depart from the castle, and you should arrive at the summer palace before sunset if the party will keep a decent pace. No servants, no luggage needs to be taken from the palace – everything Your Majesty could need will already be waiting at the estate.”

“Do you think I will just say yes to all of this? It smells of a trap.”

“You wound me, Your Majesty. How could you accuse me so after I went through all the trouble of preparing this journey for you? You will rest within the chill walls of the summer palace, and we will take care of everything, from the assassin to the coronation. You only need to focus on coming back in glory.”

It was a trap. It was so obviously a trap, and yet there was nothing he could do to not step into it. A hundred eyes stared right through him as he glared at Archduke Anastasius, who was now playing with his glass of water, almost as if he was taunting him with the way his mother passed. He felt his nails dig into the wood. There will be an entire night to think about how to get out of this situation. For now, it was better not to antagonize the rest of the un-lobbied nobility.

“Fine.” He said, and the widest smile the boy has ever seen split Anastasius’ face. “Iskra, go and pack our bags.”

“Your bags, Your Majesty. I thought I mentioned that you need not take any servants with you.”

The king-elect grit his teeth so hard that for a second he thought his gums popped.

“Pack my bags, then.”

***

“I’m counting on you, good sir. You’ll receive the rest of the payment once His Majesty reaches the summer palace.”

A jingle of coins within a leather pouch and a solid, firm handshake. His fate was sealed. The king-elect gripped the reins of his horse tight enough for them to cut off the circulation in his hands. Nothing came from the sleepless night during which he thought relentlessly about a way to get out of this, most likely, one-way trip; he was still woken up before dawn, basically forced out of his chambers and to the courtyard without even getting a say in the case. Before he could say a prayer, he was already on his horse, his luggage loaded onto the simple cart – he was starting to get nervous. It was a miracle that they didn’t take away the ornamental sword that was clipped to his belt; there was at least that he could protect himself with if the worse comes to worst.

Augustus approached the horse with a swagger in his step, Iskra following close behind, acting almost as if she was trying to stay out of Archduke’s reach.

“Your Majesty, I wish you safe travels.” He said, and the young man, now even taller than the archduke since he was on a horse, rolled his eyes. “The men guarding you today are from the Sunrise Company, they are all trustworthy, and if anything, and I mean anything feels odd to you, you can talk to the man with the golden hair; he’s the guide.”

“Sure. Do you have anything else to say, Archduke?” he asked coldly, and the duke only smiled in response, stepping to the side, allowing the assistant to approach the horse, the woman having to crane her head up to look at her liege. She extended her hands, handing him a small bundle wrapped in a white, embroidered handkerchief. It clinked as he grabbed it from her expecting hands; potions? Something else? He double-checked if Anastasius was watching before he delicately lifted one of the corners of the cloth to see what’s inside. A health potion, an invisibility potion and something that didn’t quite had the shape of the usual flask in which the potions were stored; he opened up a little bit more of the handkerchief just to instantly press it back, his face pale.

It was an Ender Pearl, something that was expensive and precious, reserved to noble families and the royal court because of the danger that came from harvesting it. Even though he was the king-elect, the young man has only seen them with his own eyes a couple of times, most of them being during his classes and in the castle armory. He glanced at Iskra, his face both surprised and terrified of what did his attendant had to do to obtain it. Unable to answer his silent questions, the veiled woman only bowed, and with a quiet ‘stay safe, Your Majesty’ she scurried back into the shade of the palace, joining the rest of the attending staff. He wanted to ask questions, but instead, he stuffed the items into the inner pocket of his clothes, praying that none of the sellswords or even worse, Anastasius didn’t see the glint of the bottles. Now left with only the handkerchief, he quickly tied it to his belt before the leader of the Sunrise Company yelled loudly, signaling the party to move onwards.

With a kick to his horse’s sides, the king-elect left his home, not looking back once. There was no one to look back at anymore; something squeezed at his heart as the trees began to grow thicker and closer to each other. He wanted his mother to tell him that it’s going to be all right – was he afraid? Alone in the world, among people he didn’t know. Was it his fate to be the last king from the House of Wela? His head was beginning to hurt again, and he caught himself sweating just a little bit too much. The blonde guide decreased his speed to match the young royal, and he looked at him with concern. Their eyes met for a moment, and, if God existed, the king-elect prayed that the man next to him didn’t feel the blinding, raw fear that emanated from his body.

He was a caught prey, heading for his execution.

The sun was reaching its summit when the company reached a clearing in the forest, and the leader hailed his horse, calling for a break. Everyone was laughing and chatting among themselves, dismounting their horses and sharing supplies; the young king’s pocket felt heavy as he carefully climbed down his steed, attempting not to make noise by clinking the bottles against each other. He stood awkwardly next to the horse, watching everyone, his hand fiddling with the handkerchief at his side anxiously.

The company kept glancing at him in-between words, and something in his gut, something that never failed him before, screamed and tore at his insides, telling him that he’s in danger and that he should do something quickly, lest he will find his final resting place right there, under the thousand-years-old trees. His fingers wrapped around the round shape of the ender pearl, but before he could throw it, someone gently tapped him on the shoulder.

“Hey young man. Are you feeling all right? You’re pale.” The blonde guide who rode alongside him during the journey was now standing behind him, leaning on the horse. His entire body was covered by a brown cape, just the tips of his unruly, blonde hair sticking out from under the simple hood. The king-elect didn’t speak, deciding to instead take a step away from the guide, eyeing him suspiciously. “Oh, I see. Fair, fair, I wouldn’t trust anyone if I was in your situation either.”

The man dug in his pouch for a moment, and the royal braced himself for an attack. Instead of a slash to the chest, however, he blinked in confusion when the guide extended his hand to him, holding an apple in his grasp.

“Lunch. Dig in, Young Majesty.” He waved the apple around for a moment, not minding the suspicious glare the boy was shooting him. “Do you want me to take a bite out of it first? It’s a pretty small apple though.”

“No need. Thank you.”

“No problem. Eat up.”

The moment that the apple reached his lips, he heard something else, however.

“Cover your lips with the apple so they can’t read them.” The guide muttered, and his blood ran cold as he glanced at the man who offered him food. “And don’t look at me. Focus on something in front of you.”

The company was bustling around; eating, sparring, cleaning their weapons – it wasn’t hard for the boy to focus on something inconspicuous. It was silent for a moment before the guide spoke up again.

“They are going to kill you the moment the rest ends.”

Well, this was as much as he expected, but he still couldn’t help the beads of sweat that stained the back of his white shirt. The glint of the freshly polished weapons suddenly made a lot of sense.

“Did Archduke Anastasius paid you all off?”

“Most of us, yes. Some of us are… freelancers that just tagged along.”

“And you’re one of these freelancers?”

“Exactly.”

“So you’re also going to attack me.”

“Not really, no.”

The boy furrowed his eyebrows, swallowing a piece of the apple that he was chewing on. He averted his eyes from one of the sellswords who gave him a weird look after he stared at his shoes for way too long. The guide handed him another apple, and he accepted it without a word. He stayed silent for a moment, battling with his thoughts, evaluating his chances of survival. Twenty – no, nineteen armed men, if he was to believe the guide, versus his ornamental sword, ender pearl, and two potions. Even though he did train for most of his life, these men were, unfortunately, bulkier and much more experienced in real-life combat than him. If he didn’t do anything, this would be the place of his demise.

“Guide? What’s your name?”

“Philza Soot. Call me Phil though, my full name’s a mouthful.”

“All right, Phil. You said you wouldn’t attack me; would you be willing to help me?”

The guide hummed from behind his apple, his surprisingly long fingernails playing with the red skin. This was it. This was the do or die.

“Yes, sure. I’ll try to help you. Do you have any sort of a plan, or are we winging it?”

“I have an ender pearl. If you could just distract them, I could run into the forest.”

Phil choked on the apple, and it took him a good second to get his breathing back in order. He looked completely baffled at the mention of the artifact, and even though his face was almost completely obstructed from view, the boy swore he could see a pair of wide, shocked, blue eyes peeking from underneath the simple hood.

“Well, this changes the situation completely, Young Majesty. Head west, and don’t turn around. I’ll catch up.”

“Thank you, Phil.”

“I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if a child died here. Brace yourself. This is the signal.”

A sharp whistle rang in the air, and all sound in the clearing instantly ceased. Phil exhaled gently, and threw the core of the apple he ate behind himself, his other hand fiddling with the button of his cape. The boy’s hand clenched around the ender pearl in his pocket, and he hoped it wouldn’t slip from his grasp.

“Terribly sorry about this, Your Majesty.” One of the sellswords spoke as he grabbed an arrow from his quiver. “Business is business.”

“Hold,” Philza muttered, the cape now loose on his shoulders. The boy looked at him, and for a second, he swore that the material over his back bunched up in the strangest way he has ever seen. “Take one step back.”

The boy obeyed, and the men that surrounded him laughed, amused at the fear in the boy’s eyes. The sound of swords being drawn from their sheaths was as loud as thunder, the only louder sound in the area being the thumping of the king-elect’s blood in his ears. They stayed in equilibrium for a moment, flexing their muscles like predators about to jump their prey, before one of the swordsmen took a bolder step forward.

“Go!” Phil shouted before the cape fell from his back, exposing a pair of large, black wings. The boy bit back the urge to gawk at them, instead turning his back towards the crowd and chucking the pearl he yanked out of his pocket as far as he could west. At the same time, Philza beat his wings a couple of times, bringing up sand and dirt in the air, attempting to obstruct the Sunrise Company’s vision. As promised, the boy didn’t look back, booking it in the direction of the pearl.

For a second, he felt weightless. His brain short-circuited and his vision went white – he felt like he was drowning, he felt like he was flying, he felt like he was everything and nothing; the feeble contents of his stomach flipped around and he choked on his tongue for a moment. Who was he in that second? He felt like a god.

He blinked and he was in another clearing. His body tumbled down a grassy ravine, and he groaned as a rock dug into his side; he hoped the potions were safe, he didn’t feel glass digging into his skin yet, so there was hope.

It took him a second to get to his feet, his head still spinning; which side was west, and which side was east? He could hear swords clanking in the distance – his survival instinct told him to sprint in the opposite direction.

“What are you doing away from camp?” he heard, and his heart jumped to his throat as his head whipped around, facing a very confused member of the Sunrise Company. He cursed under his breath; did he not notice someone leaving camp to patrol? The boy grabbed at his sword, and the sellsword instantly switched into an attack position. He could take him; it was a one on one battle, and he fought with guards bigger than the swordsman in front of him. Still, his head was spinning, and he was feeling extremely nauseous; not to mention, his grip on the ornamental sword was getting very clammy, and fast. The man in front of him glanced towards the noise, and with a grimace glared at the king-elect.

“I’ve no idea what happened back there, but I can’t let you go any further, Your Majesty.” He growled, and just like that, he was off, the sword pointed right at the boy’s throat. His body answered before his mind did, raising the sword into a defensive position, deflecting the blade to his right, bringing his foot down, and curving himself to the left, aiming for a low cut to the assailant’s stomach. He could already feel the blade enter the swordsman’s flesh, he could already smell the spray of blood, and the serotonin rushed to his head, clearing his consciousness for a split second, just enough for him to dodge the back of the sword that was almost brought down onto the back of his head. The low blow forgotten, the boy stepped back to recalculate, hoping to look for an opening.

Then, the blade came down.

From the hilt position, the assailant spun the sword around, and brought it down right onto the boy’s face, slashing perfectly down the left side of his face.

For a split second, the king-elect felt… surprised? He has never experienced such an intense feeling before; the swords he trained with were duller, never sharp enough to cut flesh, the bruises he gained were instantly healed, and the hits he took never hard enough to scar over his skin. Now, the place where the sword landed stung. Throbbed. Tore his face apart. It hurt.

It hurt.

The swordsman brought his body back for a final hit that would end the boy’s life; he took his time adjusting his position as the child in front of him grabbed at his leaking eye and cried out curses and threats. Then their gazes met. Anger met rage, and the swordsman realized, with a start that he had no idea where the other hand of the crying child was, nor where the sword was located.

The sword found him first, jammed into the man’s thigh, and dragged down, slicing his thigh open. Using the newfound distraction, the child scurried back, out of the swordsman’s reach. His face was bleeding profoundly and he couldn’t move his eye; he was pretty sure it was lost. Still, the health potion tucked away against his skin gave him hope, and as he looked at his opponent who was now pressing onto his shredded thigh with his hand, his blade loose in his other hand. The child could end him. Through the blood streaming down his face, he snarled as he readjusted his grip on the sword. Just like he was taught, through the neck. The muscles in his legs tensed and he let out a long breath, attempting to channel the pain into his momentum. Their gazes locked again, fury and desperation.

And then he was flying.

His feet left the ground, and the swordsman in front of him did a double-take in confusion as the child soared into the sky, seemingly ascending towards the sky without any support. He was too shocked to move, and for a moment he just stared down at the bloodied man on the ground, the blood on his face falling down like red rain. Only when the clearing disappeared from his obstructed view, did he realize that someone or something was holding him under his arms leaving his body dangling several feet over the trees, the pain in his face now mixing with fear.

“What-“

“Stop kicking, Young Majesty! It’s me, Phil! Calm down!”

The source of light flickered over him, and suddenly he was in the shade, a large body covering his own. He glanced up, and the faintest of smiles danced on his face as he spotted a pair of large, black wings spread wide open, covering the harsh sunlight. The boy craned his head up, facing Phil who was now scanning the ground in front of them, navigating the wind. He looked down for a moment, wincing when he noticed the nasty gash on the boy’s face.

“I helped myself to your invisibility potion, I hope you can forgive me.” He sighed, turning his head back to the front. “The other vial got completely obliterated, I hope it wasn’t anything expensive, because I won’t be able to pay you back for it.”

What?

The boy patted his shirt, searching for the potion that he felt before. He fished it out, only for his face to fall when he realized it was an empty container, clear and pristine. Phil swapped his things when he wasn’t looking.
He suddenly felt very weak, the blood loss catching up to his body. Phil shook him gently, keeping him awake, but he was drifting away, the adrenaline leaving his body all at once.

“Hey, young man! Speak to me, don’t fall asleep-“

“Sorry…”

“What’s your name?”

The boy frowned in confusion.

“You already know it… Why ask?”

“No, no, I mean- What do you want me to call you? I can’t possibly call you Your Majesty all the time, and I don’t think that you’ll be going back to the castle any time soon, so…”

The boy’s mind was already racing when Phil asked him that. The final thread, one that was holding him connected to the House of Wela, was frayed, thin, and on the verge of breaking. He would be proclaimed dead when the sellswords arrive at the summer palace, claiming to be jumped by a wild animal or a band of bandits. Anastasius would take over the government, and he would either push to be the new king or change the way of ruling completely. And him? An empty coffin will be buried next to his mother, and he will be forgotten to history, just another foolish king trapped within the pages of ages-old chronicles.

The crown prince died at his mother’s bedside.
The king-elect died in that clearing.

By this point, he was only an artificed blade, created from his sheer will of survival and desperate grasping at every possibility.

Techna. Cunning trick, artifice; he remembered trying to learn Latin to make his mother proud. He had to stop when other studies came into play, but he liked annoying his mother by throwing Latin words into everyday conversations.

His heart clenched.

“Technoblade. My name is Technoblade.” He whispered, and his body went limp. Phil switched the grip he had on the small boy, hooking a hand under his knees, holding him closer to his body.

“It’s nice to meet you, Technoblade.”