Chapter Text
The kingdom of Étoile had been burning for months.
From the ramparts, Prince Cavendish of Étoile stood, head high as ever, hair gleaming like liquid gold even in the smoke-clogged air. His people whispered that he was as beautiful as a painting—but beauty meant nothing compared to enemies closing in every moment.
The enemy pressed closer each day, and yet Cavendish refused to falter. He, alone, sword at his side, voice steady when giving orders, fend off every single one of them everytime. Still, when night came, exhaustion dragged him down, and the shadows of doubt whispered that perhaps Étoile would fall made him clench his teeth.
But fate, as it often does, had a crueler sense of humor.
On one moonlit night, a commotion broke out in the harbor. Soldiers dragged forward a prisoner—a man in ragged black, with spiked green hair and a grin that made the guards visibly uneasy. His hands were bound, but his swagger remained.
“Your Highness,” the captain of the guard announced, shoving the stranger to his knees. “We caught this pirate sneaking through the port, according to his words, his name is Bartolomeo."
Cavendish’s lip curled. “A pirate?”
Bartolomeo smirked, not even bothering to bow. “Fancy prince, don’t look at me like that. I didn’t come here to mess with your shiny kingdom. My ship got blown off course. Storm dropped me right into your little warzone. Not my fault.”
The prince’s eyes narrowed. “You admit to being a pirate, yet you have the audacity to expect me to believe your bold words? Spare me the lies.”
Bartolomeo chuckled, sharp teeth flashing. " Suit yourself, believe what you want. But if the rumours were correct, you wouldn't possibly let a soldier of stream hm?”
The rudeness made the guards reach for their blades, but Cavendish lifted a hand to stop them. His pride bristled at the pirate’s tone—yet there was something, undeniably, proving that the pirate was indeed not bluffing. A pirate is very troublesome, yes, but strong too.
The prince tilted his head, voice smooth and cutting. “You expect me to trust a musclehead who doesn’t even know how to kneel?”
Bartolomeo leaned forward, chains clinking. “Trust me? Nah. But you’re stuck in a war, pretty boy. And when battle is broken out, you don’t get to choose what kind of people...or monsters fight beside you.”
For the first time in weeks, Cavendish felt the corner of his mouth twitch. It wasn’t amusement—it was irritation. His pride told him to not trust this pirate, but his kingdom screamed otherwise. He hated this pirate.
And yet, the battlefield does not give you time to think, he is in desperate need of soldiers. He's stuck with this pirate, isn't he?