Archive of Our Own

It was a cold night in Monaco. The Christmas lights from the Casino Square shone brightly  across the city. They lit up the night’s darkened sky, the bright colours spilling into Charles’ quiet room.

He looked out towards the square, watching the expensive cars roll in around the tree, some carrying presents, some musicians and one even bringing Santa Claus to the Principality.

What a joke.

It’s hard for the 19 year old not to scoff at what the Christmas traditions have turned into back home. He was sure once, in that very same city square, he had sung carols about angels, soft sheep and a miracle happening in Bethlehem in front of his family. He could still remember clearly the proud smile on his father’s face, even in the cold weather. The way the older man had picked him up in his arms after the performance, twisting him around until Santa Claus had come to them, handing them the nicely wrapped gift. But Charles knew that even then, he hadn’t cared that much about what toy his parents had neatly wrapped up. But that he was spending this time with them, basking in the bright lights of the Christmas tree in the middle of the city.

But his father was gone now.

And so were the days of their shared holidays together.

“Hey, Charlie,” came the sweet voice of his mother as she cracked open the door to his room. However, the teen didn’t move from his spot on the bed, holding his knees tighter to his chest. “Me and your brothers are getting ready to go to mass. Do you want to come?”

Charles lifted his gaze to his mother for only a brief moment before looking back out the window, toward the glowing square below. From there, he could see the cathedral, its stone facade bathed in soft golden light. The sight pulled a quiet ache from him. He shook his head.

The last time he had stepped inside that cathedral, he hadn’t been there for a celebration. He’d walked the aisle behind his father’s coffin, each step feeling heavier than the last. He remembered the hollow tolling of the bells, the way the sound had seemed to settle deep into his bones. He remembered his mother’s broken sobs, his own tears streaming hot down his cheeks. Even now, at just the memory, his eyes stung. He wiped at them quickly and shook his head once more.

“I’m not going,” he murmured.

His mother didn’t answer right away. Instead, she crossed the small room and sat beside him on the edge of the bed. Her hand found his hair gently, her fingers threading through the strands the way she’d done since he was a child. When she finally spoke, her voice was soft and warm.

“You know… we miss him too. Your brothers do. I do.” Her hand paused, smoothing delicately over his head. “But that doesn’t mean we need to hide from the world while we grieve. Life goes on, even without the people we care about.”

At her words, Charles really did try to let her teachings settle somewhere inside him. But they only made the tightness in his chest grow. He looked away, shaking his head again.

He wasn’t ready. Not to move on, not to let go, not to pretend the hole in their family wasn’t there.

His mother sighed quietly. She rose from the bed, smoothing her coat. “We’ll be leaving soon, then.” she said softly. “Please don’t forget to leave milk and cookies for Santa under the tree, alright?” She offered him one last small smile before slipping out of the room and closing the door behind her.

The silence that followed felt too large.

Charles lay back in bed, tugging the duvet tightly around himself, feeling almost like a shield from the rest of the world, the happiness that had never felt so fake before. He wasn’t sure how long he stayed just like that, curled in on himself, staring at the shifting colours of the Christmas lights as they danced faintly across his ceiling. The apartment was still and he was all alone.

He didn’t really want to get up, go through these motions he knew were meant for children. What was the point, after all? He knew who had eaten those cookies every year in the past. And now, if he did set them out, they would sit untouched, growing stale, the milk warming into something sour.

But something inside of him still wanted to follow the tradition. It tugged at his feet to get him up. After all, his father would’ve wanted him to still do it… wouldn’t he?

So, with a low breath, Charles pushed himself upright.

His limbs felt heavy as he padded through the dim hallway and into the main room. Their tree stood in the corner, quite small and humble, but glowing proudly with handmade ornaments and old family pieces that had been passed down through generations. It hurt to look at it. To think of his father standing right here with them each year, laughing as he steadied the star at the top or pretended to tangle himself in the lights.

Charles turned away before the pressure in his chest could grow any sharper.

In the kitchen, he reached for the familiar plate with the blue painted patterns that had been his father’s favourite. And for the bright yellow mug, chipped near the handle from years of use. He could still remember hunting through every shop in Monaco with his mother to find it after the old one had been broken in a baking accident.

He filled the mug with milk, set the cookies neatly on the plate and carried them back to the living room. He placed them beneath the tree, under the branches glowing with warm light, beside the pile of presents waiting for morning.

After all that, Charles let himself sit there for a moment. The gifts looked almost cheerful wrapped in bright papers, soft ribbons or in bags that were arranged neatly. He knew exactly what was hidden in some of them. The new bicycle helmet for Arthur, bought with weeks of saved allowance so his brother wouldn’t complain about the old one hurting his head anymore. A tie for Lorenzo, as he now worked in a proper office and insisted he should “dress like an adult.” And for their mother, the new set of scissors for the salon that the three boys had pooled their money to buy.

And for the first time in nineteen years, there was nothing for his father.

At that thought, Charles felt a pained sigh leave his chest. He was about to push himself to his feet when a flash of red paper caught his eye as he noticed that one of the bags near the back of the tree sat slightly crooked. He reached forward to straighten it, only to stop in his tracks when he saw his own name written across the tag in his mother’s familiar curved handwriting.

Curiously, Charles hesitated just a moment before sliding his hand inside, fingertips brushing against something soft.

Could it be fabric? …Maybe she’d bought him a sweater. Or a scarf?

No one was home to scold him for peeking early.

So, he pulled the bag closer, pushing aside the tissue paper until he could see inside. Something brown and fluffy sat on top. Confused, the teen grabbed it and lifted it out.

…It wasn’t clothing. Or anything remotely practical.

It simply was a lion plushie. Round, soft, with an adorably oversized snout and dark eyes ringed faintly with blue. It looked goofy, maybe even endearing to some people… and just so childish.

His mother had bought him a toy? At nineteen?

Heat prickled at the back of his neck. Was he really acting so broken that his mother thought he needed something like this? Did he look that fragile? That childish? Did they all think he was incapable of handling his grief?

With a frustrated breath, he shoved the lion back into the bag as deep as he could, burying it beneath the paper. He even pushed the gift behind the other presents as far as it would go. With any luck, his mother would forget she’d even bought it. He knew he didn’t want to see it again.

After all that, Charles once again felt exhaustion pull at his body. It really felt to him as if his room was the only place where he could breathe without the world watching him fall apart, so he turned away from the tree and walked back down the hall.

The bed was cold when he snuck back into the covers. To calm his racing thoughts, Charles closed his eyes and willed himself to fall asleep. It was the only way he would escape the cruel reality of Christmas, of his broken family, of the gaping hole his father’s death had left in their house.

The sleep didn’t seem to come easily, though. Every time he thought he would slip away into the land of dreams, something inside the house would creak, or the fridge would make too loud of a noise. At one point, it had felt as if his own body were falling through the mattress.

The creaking got louder and louder, it honestly seemed as if the whole house was against his falling asleep. Charles tossed around in his bed, turning to face the door. With a blurred view, he saw weirdly shaped shadows across the walls in the light of the Christmas tree. Maybe it was  some ornament dangling from the tree. Or some of the shadows of the city moving across the white plaster in the hallway. And yet, they didn’t necessarily look human.

There was a head to the shadow, sitting on top of broad shoulders. The nose of the figure was long, so long that it seemed to resemble a snout. And then another head came into view. And then another. And another.

Charles roughly wiped at his eyes, willing the monstrous figure away. However, it didn’t seem to want to go.

It probably was just a weird figment of his imagination. And he was sure it would go away once he convinced himself whatever was in the hallway was just a part of his sleeping mind. So, quietly, he sat up, putting the plush slippers back on his feet and stepping towards the door. The teen softly pushed the door open, peeking his head out. The shadow was still there, however, reaching past his head and across his whole body. With a peaking curiosity, Charles took the remaining steps down the hallway, the tree coming into view.

A breath caught in his throat as he stared at the figure towering over the tree. Its ears twitched against its multiple heads, low grunts leaving its lungs as its appendage tried to reach behind the tree. Every time the tail moved, a rancid smell spread into the room. At its feet, the cookies were long gone and the milk mug sat tilted, the liquid having spilt onto the wooden floorboards.

He must be imagining this. There is no way something like this was happening to him.

He must still be dreaming.

Being careful to not make a noise, Charles tightly pinched the skin on his arm. He tightly closed his eyes as well, having spots dance around his eyelids.

And yet, when he opened them again, the menacing monster was still there, still searching, still hovering over the one thing that was still uniting his family.

He hadn’t meant to let a scared whimper leave his trembling lips. Even if he’d thought it was small as it was, it carried across the room and into one of the disgusting ears. It convulsed once more, its whole form twisting unnaturally as its multiple heads snapped toward him. Charles stumbled backward in a rush of terror, nearly slipping on the wooden floor as he ducked into the hallway. He pressed himself against the wall, squeezing behind the corner where the shadows were thickest, his heart thundering so loudly he feared the creature might hear it.

The ground trembled beneath him as the figure shifted its weight, each movement accompanied by the sharp clatter of ornaments crashing to the floor. Something metallic rolled across the tiles. A glass bauble shattered.

Then came the voice. Or rather, the voices.

“My child, don’t be afraid.”

Three tones layered over one another, speaking in a perfectly distorted unison, dripping with something that felt far too familiar, far too monstrous at the same time. It made Charles’ breath stutter painfully in his throat.

The creature shifted again, the shadows swelling with its movement, twisting grotesquely along the walls and panic started clawing its way up the teen's spine. Charles dared to sneak another glance at it, walking slowly with its three heads tilted in disjointed motions, lips peeling back over yellowed teeth. The voices continued, overlapping and splitting, rising just to plummet. The sound crawled across Charles’ skin like icy fingers.

My dearest…
         Come here…
                   Do not fear…

The creature took one monstrous step forward, claws scraping against old floorboards. That’s when the one voice he’d wanted to hear so much in the past few weeks came back from the creature’s throat. 

“Don’t worry, son,” it said in this warm tone, heartbreakingly gentle, just like his father had always said it. “Come to me. All will be well.”

Charles’ breath caught violently in his lungs.

His knees buckled, sending him slipping down the wall until he was half-sitting, half-collapsed on the hallway floor. Tears pricked at his eyes, blurring the already shifting shadows into something shapeless and terrifying.

It couldn’t be. It just couldn’t be.

“Papa?” he whispered, the word stumbled out of his mouth before he could stop it.

At that, the creature drew nearer, its massive form surrounded by the faint glow of the Christmas lights. Its three heads bent toward him, with the snarling mouths hung open, wet and glistening, their combined breath warm on his face as it bent down.

And yet, it carried the voice of his father. Maybe that was how he’d managed to come back, in this awful form. Charles squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head.

“It’s not real. It can’t be real. You’re not here,” he whispered. “It’s just a dream. Just a dream…”

…Was he going to die? Is that why he was hearing his father now?

That was when his thoughts were interrupted by a loud smack against the floor. His hands flew around his head, crouching even lower onto the floor.

It was quiet. Charles could only hear his own panicked breathing in the house. He peeled his eyes open slowly, the hallway coming back into focus along with the shining lights. In the twinkling lights he noticed the monster laying toppled on its side, its limbs twitching softly.

It was then that it let out a terrifying huff, making Charles crawl even more into himself.

Focusing more on the weirdly shaped figure in front of him, the weirdly shaped blob standing atop the creature’s heaving stomach moved slightly. The boy narrowed his eyes, noticing the short figure standing upright with its feet planted wide, seams glinting faintly under the Christmas lights.

The wild cotton mane stood proudly on top of the plush lion’s head.

Its stitched paws were curled tightly around a tiny wooden sword, lifted high above its head like a soldier would. Its stitched blue eyes seemed fixated in a piercing stare on the downed creature.

Charles simply froze. He couldn't do anything but watch as the lion turned its gaze away from the collapsed monster and up toward him. The threads that made the shape of its eyes and snout caught the glow of the tree lights, gleaming with something that seemed alive.

It was then that the toy hopped off the creature’s stomach with a soft thump, landing neatly on the wooden floor. It began padding toward him, its tiny sword dragging a faint line behind it. The closer it got, the louder Charles’ heart started beating. 

“Stop-stop!”, he yelled out. “Don’t come any closer or I’ll… I’ll hurt you!” he shouted, snatching one of his slippers and pointing it forward with a trembling hand.

The lion halted mid-step. It stared at the slipper for a long, almost offended moment.

With a soft tilt to its head, it placed one plush paw atop the shoe pushing it down to the floor with a slight pressure. With its other paw, the lion softly came to rest its paw against the back of Charles’ shaking hand.

“Charles,” it started in a soft yet certain voice, marked by a strong accent that he seemed to recognise from somewhere, yet couldn’t quite place it. “You have to trust me.”

The teen’s brain stuttered at hearing the plush toy speaking. Touching his hand. Looking at him with oddly expressive, embroidered eyes.

“What… how…” he managed, but the lion didn’t wait.

“We must leave,” it said firmly. “Or you will be in the hands of the Rat King.”

“Rat… King?” Charles echoed dumbly. He flicked a terrified glance toward the monster still twitching on the floor. “W-what’s going on?” he asked out loud, heart beating wildly in his chest. “Am I dreaming? I have to be dreaming…”

“Please,” the lion urged, stepping closer, its tiny sword clinking against the floor. “Your mother sent me to protect you. You must believe me.”

Even if its mouth didn’t move along with the words it was somehow speaking, the blue of the lion’s eyes shimmered under the lights with urgency somehow painted on them. And yet, Charles couldn’t get the distorted voice of his father out of his head, or the slight hope that maybe, just maybe, his father had been trying to reach him.

But then the lion tugged at his sleeve insistently, its plush fur lightly brushing against his skin.

Before the boy could decide what to do, the monster behind them let out a loud grunt. Its limbs twitched harder, one clawed arm pushing against the floor as it began to rise.

“There’s no time left!” the lion cried, louder now, mane flying around as it shook its head. “Hold onto me!”

Before Charles could react, the plush creature leapt into his arms, colliding with his chest and knocking the air out of him. Instinctively, he wrapped his arms around it, clutching its soft body as he stumbled backward.

But he never hit the wall.

There was nothing behind him. And he was suddenly falling.

Charles screamed, twisting through cold air as the world dissolved around him. Clouds spiralled past, whirling in strange currents that tugged at his hair and pyjamas. The lion clung fiercely to his shirt, holding tight with its tiny plush paws.

Thud!

His fall was suddenly stopped as he landed hard on something cold, yet soft, his body sinking slightly into what felt like packed snow.

All he could do was gasp as he wrapped his arms around himself, chest heaving. His breath fogged the air above him as he blinked up at a bright sky, painted in colours he’d never seen before: pinks, blues, oranges, reds.

What was worse is that he couldn’t see the place from which he had fallen. It was simply… gone.

And the lion was no longer in his arms.

Charles blinked up at the sky, with his breath still unsteady. He stretched his fingers out across the white surface beneath him, half-expecting pain to shoot up his arms. But, surprisingly, nothing hurt. He was grateful for it and yet… it didn’t seem to make any sense at all.

Slowly, he pushed himself upright, brushing the cold powder from his pyjamas. It clung stubbornly to the fabric and melted instantly against the heat of his palms. The boy looked around, taking in the whole scenery around himself.

Everything around him was white. But not like snow in Monaco. It was softer, and yet also thicker. It seemed to catch the rays of the sun in a blinding way. And the air smelled faintly sweet, like sugar warming over a fireplace.

He had no clue where he was, or how he’d even got there. What had even happened to… to the monster that had haunted him? Or even the talking toy that he had clung to with all his force?

…Maybe he had hit his head. Maybe he was just having a fever dream back in his bed. Or maybe none of this was real.

He raised his eyes again, squinting against the bright sky. There was no sign of the place he had fallen from. No light coming from his Christmas tree. Just the clouds swirled lazily overhead, tinged with pastel colours.

It was then when he heard a soft sound to his right, a shuffle against the blanket of snow.

Charles’ breath hitched as he whipped his head to the source the noise. A white massive shape emerged from behind a mound of snow. Had the monster had followed him? All the way here? The boy felt fear rush through him so hard, that his knees nearly gave away. He crouched instinctively, fingers digging into the soft snow, ready to run the second it lunged.

But the creature seemed unbothered. It looked around nonchalantly before it shook itself, snow spraying in all directions, revealing a flash of bright orange fur underneath. And so, a large lion stepped with it large paws onto the snow path, with its mane catching the bright light.

It huffed, flicking its tail once as it regarded the boy with something close to amusement. Charles swallowed nervously, watching closely every movement of the animal.

“You needn't be scared of me,” it said, its voice low, and steady, similar to a distant thunder.

Charles’ breath stilled as he tilted his head slightly to the side. He didn't know if he should be frightened, or confused. None of this made sense. If he tried to connect the dots of everything that had just happened, he wasn’t sure he’d ever stop screaming.

The lion stepped forward, slow and deliberate, its bright blue eyes focused on him with unsettling clarity.

The boy quirked his head to the side, watching curiously as the lion walked closer to him. It strode right in front of him as Charles' breath stopped. As proud and tall as it stood in front of him, there was a slight gentleness to his gaze. He slowly raised his hand to his snout, feeling the warm puff of his breath against his skin. Shakily, he brought his fingers closer to the soft fur on its face. But his heart was beating so loudly in his chest, so unsure of anything and everything that was happening around him, that he couldn't bring himself to close the distance. So he closed his eyes, shoulders curling inward with fear. For a few long seconds, nothing moved. The only sensations he could register were the frost crawling its way through his thin pyjamas and the cold wind brushing lightly across his forehead. His hand hovered above the lion’s face, trembling.

And then warm weight pressed gently into his palm.

Charles let out a breath as his fingers sank into warm fur. It was thick, plush and warmer than anything in this strange frozen place. Slowly, he cracked open his eyes, noticing that now it was the lion’s lids that were lowered in quiet ease, its breath warm and steady against his wrist.

“Is… any of this real?” he found himself asking, incredulous in what he was happening around him.

At that, the lion lifted its head, withdrawing from Charles’ hand. The absence of warmth was immediate and Charles' palm tingled from the cold, missing the steady heat it had only just held. The lion’s blue eyes opened fully, glowing bright against the backdrop of endless white.

“It is,” the creature said gently.

“But… how?” Charles asked, voice cracking on the word. His heart pounded so loudly he felt it in his throat.

The lion breathed out slowly, a low rumble beginning deep within its chest. The movement made its mane ripple like a curtain of gold threads caught in a breeze. Charles watched the motion, unable to look away.

“It’s a long story,” the lion said, tone heavy with something that might have been weariness. “But you must believe me when I say you are safe here. In this world, the Rat King has no idea where you are.”

“The… Rat King?” he managed. “What do you mean?!”

The lion shook its mane briskly, scattering a light dusting of snow around them as it took a retreating step. Its ears twitched, alert but calm.

“The Rat King is a monster from our lands,” it explained, voice dipping low. “A creature that steals the voices of anyone that shows even the slightest emotion before him. He feeds on them. And he has been hunting me for a long time, as I am… one of the few who can defeat him.”

Charles let out a shuddering breath. His legs folded under him, sending him sinking into the soft snow with a muted puff. The snowflakes sparkled faintly around him. He stared at the ground as his mind spun. None of this made sense. None of this should exist.

“Where even… are we?” he whispered.

The lion turned toward the horizon. Far beyond them, pastel colours shimmered in the sky, sun rays glinting against the white hills

“We are in the Land of the Sweets,” the lion said. “But we must hurry out of here if we want to sleep somewhere warm tonight.”

It strode forward with confident steps, each paw sinking gracefully into the white ground.

Charles blinked, then scrambled up, legs shaky but moving. He hurried after the lion, brushing snow from his pyjamas. Some of the powder clung stubbornly to his palm, glistening faintly in the strange light. He curiously stared down at his hand, still smelling the sweetness surrounding them. So he brought his hand closer to his nose.

The snow was just like his mother’s Christmas pie that made every year. The one his father used to steal tastes from before it cooled.

The boy felt a strong weight in his chest at the memory, looking down curiously at his hand. Hesitantly, he decided to give it a taste. It was then when sweetness burst across his tongue.

It was powdered sugar. The plains were all covered in powdered snow. Charles looked down at his palm in disbelief. If the lion had been right about this… Then maybe, he could trust it. So he swallowed hard and fell into step beside the animal, the strange landscape stretching wide and glittering around them as they began their trek toward the capital of a world he never could have imagined.

It wasn't long before the coldness of the world surrounding them started to get to Charles. It was slow at first, a slight chill tickling the skin on his abdomen. But the more they walked, the more his slippers started to get wet, the more he shielded his chest with his hands, trying to will away the chills.

The lion kept throwing him weary looks, noticing the way he started shrivelling up. The moment tremors took a hold of his body, the animal stopped in its tracks and came to face the boy.

"Get on my back," it said bluntly.

It took Charles a few moments before he could register what it had said. He shook his head, unconsciously rubbing at his arms

"What?" was all he could muster.

The animal shook its head again, mane accentuating his movement. "Get on my back. We are obviously falling back and we will not be able to reach the capital in time this way."

The boy looked at his hands, shaking slightly against the fabric of his pyjamas. He then raised his gaze towards the horizon again, distantly being able to see some gleaming lights. Taking in a deep breath, one full of cold yet strengthening air, he looked back down at the lion. Nodding his head slightly, the lion slowly lowered to the ground, leaving enough space for Charles to get on.

Charles climbed on slowly with stiff movements. His legs wobbled as he swung one over the lion’s broad back. At first, he simply hovered there, unsure where to place his hands. He felt unsure of the whole process, he really did.

But the moment his palms finally sank into the lion’s fur, all uncertainty simply faded into nothing.

Warmth finally rushed up through his fingers, making Charles inhale sharply. Relief flooded through him so quickly he had to close his eyes to steady himself.

At that, the lion rose with a soft huff, one that sounded almost… inexperienced, young even. His back shifted beneath him, muscles rippling with controlled strength. Its tail swished behind in deliberate, forceful strokes. Charles pressed closer instinctively, burying his fingers deep into the thick coat. The fur was unbelievably soft and silky, just like his mother’s best scarves, but warmer, alive, almost comforting in a way he hadn’t expected it to be. The heat spread through his whole body quickly, leading to boy leaning his cheek down as well, staring at the rich mane.

Maybe Charles should’ve felt ridiculous like this. After all, in what world could something like this be real? And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to care. Not when he was finally getting to feel warm again.

So he exhaled, long and shaky, and let his head rest fully against the lion’s back. The lion's walk was surprisingly smooth, nearly rhythmic, making it easy to sink into the warmth and the strange safety it offered. His eyelids drooped, heavy from exhaustion and comfort intertwining in a way he hadn’t felt since before all the chaos began.

Leaning down like this, his thoughts drifted back to his mother, to his brothers, who were probably still at the Christmas mass. Or maybe they had just come home and were now desperately looking for him among the destroyed presents in front of the tree.

He couldn't believe he had just ruined Christmas for them like this. They were probably thinking right then that he had been the one to lash out on the tree, on their presents, on the cookies and mug left out underneath the tree. And he was now gone, stuck in this weird place with no way of getting home. Freezing to death on the back of a talking lion, being chased by a monstrous creature.

The hair of the lion's mane kept tickling his temple. Now that he thought of it, even the lion hadn't managed to explain the whole situation at all. How it had turned from a talking toy to… a real life lion, one that seemed young, yet so driven to reach its own goal.

Maybe it was just as in the dark as him. Or maybe Charles was the one who was reading too much into it.

Either way, they were both now stuck on this journey, on the way to finding refuge. Will the people even be willing to help them? To the place that the lion was so confidently walking them to?

Charles decided to empty his head of thoughts, as they only lead him down to spiral. He closed his eyes tighter, gripping into the soft fur.

The trek towards the capital carried on like this, through snowy-sweet lands until the middle of the night. Charles had dozed off multiple times on the back of the lion, but not because he hadn't wanted to get off. He had asked it multiple times if it should rest, but it continued on, shaking its head stubbornly and continuing down the path. When the stars were shining strongly above them, that was when they reached some quiet houses, littered around the path in the plains.

"We're almost there," the lion said more quietly now, aware of the people probably sleeping at this hour. Charles decided to get off then, walking quietly to the side of the animal. Ahead of them, the walls of a city stood proud and tall, lit up at every tower by bright torches.

The boy glanced at the lion, noticing how much heavier its steps had got as well. He felt guilty for having tired it so much, but since he had already tried to tell the other to let him down without any success during their journey, he decided to remain quiet.

The gates of the city were getting bigger and bigger the more houses they passed. There were more and more oil lamps along the path as they drew nearer. Charles kept his gaze low at first, focusing on the crunch of snow beneath his thin slippers, watching the shadows dance around on the white canvas.

The more he looked around the village, the more he stared in confusion. The cold wind carried an even more sweet smell around and it was as if the houses weren’t made of timber or stone at all, more like gingerbread, dusted with powdered sugar that blended seamlessly into the falling snow. Their windows were set with panes of hardened sugar-glass, glowing warmly under the lanterns with frosting lining their corners. Even the chimneys released little puffs of steam that smelled faintly of cinnamon.

Charles stared for only a second before forcing his gaze sharply downward again. Oh how he wished this were a dream instead of the cruel reality. Or, at least, to know a way back home that would be safe. He bet Arthur would enjoy running around a village just like this, especially considering the disaster that had been their last gingerbread house building competition. Everyone had laughed when none of the houses managed to stay up on their own. Well, all but one, that they decided to give away to someone in need at the cemetery in the name of his father after they had once again visited his grave.

He had really loved building gingerbread houses every Christmas…

“Stop here," suddenly came the lion’s voice, soft in the dark stillness that surrounded them. Charles blinked hard, lifting his head. His eyes drifted to the feline, which stood tall, with its tail low and ears flicked forward, scanning the path ahead with sharp, deliberate movements.

In the distance, right next to the thick protection wall, stood a person. Probably a guard posted there, with a bright orange uniform that stood out against the while stillness that surrounded them. Seeing that person, the lion's posture eased and it nodded toward the figure.

“Come on,” it said quietly. “It’s safe.”

Safe because of the guard? Or safe despite the guard?

The boy didn’t get the chance to linger on it as the lion had already resumed walking and Charles hurried to catch up before he was left too far behind.

Once they had reached the end of the final house, the guard stepped forward to meet them, boots crunching sharply against the snow. His orange uniform was almost blinding under the lantern light, golden accents glinting like tiny flames. He planted himself squarely in the road, raising one gloved hand.

“Halt, people!”

Charles instantly took a step back to stand behind the lion, with no clue at all how to approach the situation they were in. It didn't help at all that he standing there only in his pyjamas, while the other was fully dressed in military wear, sword handle glinting by his hand. The feline also stepped further in front of him, somehow as if to shield him from the guard’s scrutiny.

“Officer of the Royal Guard,” the lion started, calm and steady, “we wish to cause no trouble. We were chased by the Rat King’s army out of our home and have only come here looking for shelter.” He tilted his head back slightly. “As you see, my friend here has not even had time to change out of his sleeping clothes.”

The guard’s eyebrow arched as he inspected the both of them, gaze sweeping from the lion’s snout to Charles’s trembling form.

“I’m sorry,” the guard replied at last, taking the edge off of his tone, “but with the chaos going on in the Citadel of Snoepgoed, we cannot allow just every ordinary person… or animal to enter without good reason.”

“What is going on?” Charles blurted while hugging himself tighter. Whether he was shivering from the cold or from sheer nerves, he couldn’t tell anymore. His voice sounded small even to his own ears. But there was something about the sound of it, maybe, that softened the guard’s expression almost immediately. The other's dark curls shifted in the breeze as he exhaled, his shoulders sagging.

“The king has gone missing,” he said quietly.

All of Charles' hope collapsed. How else was he supposed to get back home now? If the lion had come to get help, there was no way now of him getting home.

At the edge of his vision, he saw the lion lower his head as well, mane rustling in the cold wind.

Charles twisted the thin fabric of his pyjamas between his fingers, trying to keep his breathing steady. The cold wind now stung across all his skin. He pointed his gaze at the ground, almost as if waiting to be turned away by the guard. But instead, a warm gloved hand settled on his shoulder.

“I’ll see what I can do,” the guard murmured, gentler now. “You can both come stay with me at my station until the sun rises, at least.”

The boy lifted his head weakly, swallowed and nodded. Before he could mutter out his thanks, the lion spoke for him.

“We are grateful for your kindness, Officer Norris.”

The guard’s eyes widened slightly at that, but he recovered quickly, nodding sharply. He guided Charles forward, hand steady on his shoulder, leading him toward the watchtower’s door where a soft golden light spilled through the cracks.

The lion padded quietly behind them and they stepped out of the cold. When they entered the room, the warmth wrapped around Charles all at once and his knees nearly buckled beneath the sudden relief. He felt how much his cheeks had frozen against the warmed up air, the way his limbs seemed to simply become sluggish under the heavy wet clothes he was wearing and he swayed forward, catching himself clumsily on the nearby table.

“Easy,” the officer murmured, steadying him with a firm hand. He guided Charles to a wooden chair near a small fireplace, its metal sides glowing faintly red. The movement happened so gently that Charles barely realized he had sunk down until he felt the hard seat beneath him.

Before he could even lift his head, a heavy wool blanket was draped over him. The boy clutched it tightly to his chest, fingers trembling so hard he could hardly close them. He simply sat there trembling, trying to will his body into getting all the warmth inside of him

Across the room, the lion had curled into the corner, sitting upright but relaxed, tail sweeping a slow rhythm along the floorboards. It surveyed the small space with quiet curiosity.

“I’m sorry,” officer Norris said, glancing over his supplies with a wince. “I wish I had more to warm you up with.”

Charles shook his head quickly, blanket pulled almost to his chin. “It’s… it’s enough,” he managed, though his teeth clattered violently through the words.

The officer gave him a look filled with apology, then straightened.

“I’ll be just outside,” he said softly. “I still have to finish my shift in front of the city entrance. We’ll talk more after sunrise.” He offered a small, respectful nod to the of them. “Good night to you.”

He stepped back into the cold, closing the door firmly behind him. Charles curled tighter into the chair, holding the blanket wrapped tightly around him, but the shivers wouldn’t stop. He almost shook with them, feeling his body slowly turn more and more numb even in the warmth provided by the small room. The boy let out a small whine at the feeling, but immediately hoped he wasn’t waking or disturbing the lion. The last thing he wanted was to seem ungrateful or childish, even when he had done close to nothing on the journey to the capital.

But the sound must have reached the feline anyway, because he heard it ruse from his corner with slow, deliberate movements, padding across the room. Its claws tapped softly against the wooden floor and stopped beside Charles, towering over him even when sitting curled on the chair.

“Come sit next to me to warm up,” it said in a quiet voice.

There was no way he'd be able to put on a brave act, now that the lion had come right next to his side to propose this. So, without saying any word, he slid off the chair, blanket trailing behind him and lowered himself to the floor beside the lion’s side. The moment he leaned against the creature’s side, the warmth spread through him in a steady wave just like before, even if the fur was slightly damp from the melted snow.

Without even noticing, Charles found his fingers weaving into the dense mane again. It made the lion shift, but it didn't pull away. Instead, it positioned itself in a way so that Charles could settle more comfortably. The boy pressed his cheek against the thick fur, letting the heat seep into his very bones.

Sitting like that, he didn't realise when his eyelids started to droop. Nor when his breaths grew long and even.

It felt like only a few minutes had passed when something soft nudged his forehead. It felt a lot like gentle snout. And a very persistent one, at that.

“Come on, Charles. Wake up,” the lion murmured, voice a low rumble. A faint purr vibrated through its chest and into the boy’s back, coaxing him gently into waking. It nudged him again, softer this time. “Officer Norris has finally finished his shift and can talk to us.”

For one second, he had let himself believe he might open his eyes to his own bedroom, to the creaking radiator, the soft hum of his brothers whispering at dawn, the faint smell of pine from the Christmas tree downstairs. But no such comfort waited.

The room around him was still just as unfamiliar as the night before. The air still carried that faint caramel scent from the fireplace. And the lion’s steady breathing still rumbled gently behind him.

A small disappointed sigh slipped from his lips before he could stop it. He pushed himself upright, the blanket pooling around his waist. The boy immediately he missed the heat radiating from the lion’s side, leaving the air feeling colder than it probably was.

Thinking of the lion, Charles turned to his side, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. “Thank you,” he mumbled softly, voice rough with sleep.

The lion only dipped his head in acknowledgement, eyes half-lidded, but somehow warm.

When Charles finally looked up, he noticed the officer standing near the door, posture looser than during night. In his arms he held something dark, that was folded neatly.

“I’m sorry I didn’t have more warm things for you last night,” he started, stepping forward. “But luckily, I found this in one of the other rooms in the tower. It belonged to someone I was close with. Maybe you can wear it until we find you something warmer.”

He extended the bundle toward Charles.

The boy accepted it with a small, sleepy smile. He unfolded it softly, revealing a deep navy coat, thick and lined with a soft wool interior. Standing up sluggishly, he shrugging it on over his red pyjamas, which had thankfully dried slightly during the night. The coat hung just a little big on him, but the moment he pulled it tight around himself, the boy once again was surrounded by warmth. He nuzzled into the collar instinctively, inhaling the faint scent of citrus and old fabric.

“Thank you,” he said again, clearer this time, meeting the officer’s eyes.

Officer Norris nodded once in reply.

“Now that we’ve taken care of that, please, come sit with me at the table. I’d like to ask you a few questions about your encounter with the Rat King’s army. Maybe there might be a way we can help you.”

At that, Charles opened his mouth to agree excitedly. But before he could take a single step, the lion moved ahead of him. It padded forward in strides, positioning himself between Charles and the officer for a moment. Only when the other man moved towards the chairs did the feline move, its tail brushing lightly against Charles’s leg in a soft sweep.

Surprised by the reaction, Charles took the touch as a silent invitation and followed them, chair legs scraping lightly as he settled into the chair. The wood was cool beneath his hands was filled with tiny indentations, scratches and a faint burn on one corner that looked suspiciously like someone had dropped a candle there long ago. Or set a burning pot on top, burning small circles into it. He sat directly across from Officer Norris.

However, the lion didn’t even give him the chance to feel alone. It circled once, tail brushing Charles’s ankle, before lowering its huge body beside him.

After they'd all settled, the officer leaned forward over the table. His elbows landed on the wood and his hands folded together as he looked at the two stranded figures. What Charles could have only classified as an honest expression now had something gentler in it, making his eyes sparkle a bit in the bright light of the morning sun.

“Let me get this straight,” he began in a low voice. “You were attacked by the Rat King’s armies… and now you’re looking for shelter. Is that right?”

Charles nodded at once. “Yes, I, uhm, we-”

“We come from far away,” interrupted the lion. “And we’ve travelled here seeking help.”

The boy’s mouth hung open for a moment. He glanced at the lion, a tiny frown tugging his eyebrows together. The lion only flicked an ear, eyes forward, jaw set in that stubborn way it often had when it took charge. And yet, the other didn’t let the feline’s words overshadow Charles entirely. His eyes returned to the boy, as if searching for something.

“What happened to you, though?” he asked, making Charles blink wordlessly. He averted his eyes to the table then, tracing a scratch with his fingernail.

"I, uhm… it's complicated…"

He looked up at the other through his uncombed hair. But the officer smiled encouragingly. And, doing so, he suddenly seemed younger than Charles had thought him to be. Perhaps their ages weren’t so very far apart? Or maybe hardship shaped people faster here.

“He… The Rat King forced me out of my home,” Charles breathed out, shutting his eyes as he spoke. “Pretended to be my father. And I’m lost. I don’t know how to get back to my family.”

But when he finally looked up again, there was an understanding smile on the officer's lips.

“I get you. I lost a friend to the Rat King’s hands as well. And I want to make sure no one else loses someone they love because of him. So… you can trust me to help you get back home.”

“Thank you,” Charles whispered.

“We do have a slight problem, though,” the lion interjected, shaking its head. Its mane swayed, catching the morning light in soft ripples. “The only known road that can get my… friend back home goes directly through the Land of the Rats.”

“Are you sure that’s the only way, Lion?”

A short huff escaped the lion, its tail flicking upward before settling again. “…We could check the Royal Library."

The change in the officer's posture was immediate. His face went pale and his brows drew together sharply, leaning back, boots scraping the floor. The lion froze at that too, eyes widening a fraction.

Charles could do nothing but watch as the air thickened in the room. He looked between the two of them helplessly, not knowing how to pull the others ut of their… seemingly weird trance. But after several strained seconds, the officer straightened, swallowing hard before he spoke.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he said softly. “If you’re only looking at maps, then… maybe we can enter.”

The feline dipped its head, relief softening its shoulders. It rose with a quiet grunt and padded toward the fireplace. Charles watched it go, tightening the soft navy coat around his chest.

“And I’ll try to find you some proper clothes,” the other added, clearing his throat. “I should have something that fits you.”

“Thank you, Officer,” Charles replied sincerely.

“You don’t have to thank me. I’m happy to help. And, please, call me Lando.”

The boy hesitated only a moment before nodding. “Okay. Thanks… Lando. I’m Charles.”

“Nice to meet you, Charles,” Lando said, extending his arm out, the trinkets on his uniform clinking softly atop the table as he did. The Monegasque took it in his own, smiling back.

The sun continued to rise, pale morning as it filtering through the narrow windows. Lando guided Charles up the winding stone steps. The tower creaked with every shift of wind, smelt kind of close to caramel, but inside it felt lived-in and familiar.

The officer pushed open a small wooden door to a room that seemed to serve as both storage and changing space. He crossed to a chest tucked beneath a shelf and began pulling out a few folded garments, all adorned with bright orange accessories, worn but cared for. And some even smelled faintly of honey.

“There are little old, but they should fit you. We kind of wear the same size.”

The fabrics felt impossibly soft and warm compared to the dirtied he was still donning. Within minutes, Charles found stepping into the new clothes: a soft yet clearly worn in tunic, double-layered trousers that hugged his legs without clinging and tall boots that closed tightly around his calves.

The coat remained and he tugged it closer around his body, cinching it properly this time the way Lando had demonstrated with practised motions on his own uniform, fitting him better now.

Throughout the entire process, the lion stayed by the fireplace downstairs. Charles could hear the faint crackle of flames even from the upper floor, the comforting sound echoing through the stone corridor.

When Lando finished gathering a small satchel with “just a few things we might need before entering the city,” as he'd explained, Charles descended the stairs and wandered back to the lion. He sank to the floor at its side, greeting it by sliding a hand through its thick mane. The fur was warm from the fire, soft and rich between his fingers.

The lion turned its head at the touch, blue eyes meeting his, flickering like they were seeing something they'd seen before. Its gaze lingered especially on the navy coat wrapped securely around him.

Charles blinked and softly laughed.

“What?” he teased gently, brushing a few strands of mane away from the lion’s face. “Do you think it doesn’t suit me?”

The lion’s ears twitched. It shook its head, but offered no other reply. Instead, it simply lowered itself again onto the floor, stretching out near the fire.

Charles let out a small sigh, though the smile remained tugging at his lips. His hand drifted down to the lion’s back, combing through the golden strands without thinking. It was then when he felt a faint vibration beneath his fingers.

The lion froze.

Charles blinked.

The vibration continued.

It only took a few seconds more for the lion to realize what it was doing. It jerked in surprise, paws shifting awkwardly, eyes going wide as if it had betrayed itself entirely.

Charles chuckled, but stopped quickly, so as not to embarrass the feline too much. His fingers resumed their gentle motions, threading through the thick fur again. The lion didn’t look at him, but the tension slowly unwound from its shoulders. And soon enough, the gentle purring returned.

That was just how a few more quiet moments passed with the gentle warmth that cocooned them. At one point, footsteps sounded on the stairwell and Lando appeared in the doorway with his coat buttoned neatly, clutching the satchel against his shoulder.

“I don’t want to disturb you,” he said, voice soft, a hint of a smile on his lips as he glanced between the two, “but… we can head into the city now.”

The lion blinked once, tail curling briefly around its paws, but said nothing. Instead, Charles shook himself awake from the half asleep state he'd found himself in, dusting off and standing next to the officer. The three of them left the watchtower together, descending the last few stone steps before stepping into the cold morning air.

Charles inhaled sharply. It was no wonder the entire tower had smelled faintly of caramel. The protective wall surrounding the capital rose high above them, built from glossy blocks of hardened caramel, each piece catching the sunlight in golden edges.

Lando raised his arms in a salute towards the guard that took the next shift and the great gates creaked open. And when they passed through, Charles’s eyes widened. Because the city spread out before him like a storybook come to life, with medieval streets winding between tall buildings, supported by powerful wooden logs and leaning in close together, with their rooftops pitched sharply. But the sugary snow refused to fall off of them, painting their peaks in white. The architecture reminded him of German towns he had once visited with his family for a Christmas market.

And, in the middle of it all, people bustled through the streets dressed in thick wool vests, long skirts or fur-lined cloaks. And each outfit decorated in the same orange, navy and golden thread. Some carried baskets filled with fruits, others pushed carts with freshly baked goods, all adding to the wonderful smell of caramel still present in the air.

There were also guild banners strung above certain streets, such as one showcasing crossed metal work, another a quill and scroll. The little plaques hung on the entrances to the stores swayed in the wind.

Charles spun slowly as they walked, awe widening his eyes. He was trying to take in as much as he could, gaze flying to every little detailed that danced around him. And in the middle of the bustle, Lando kept close to him, one hand occasionally brushing his shoulder when the crowd thickened, guiding him forward. The lion always stepped subtly right next to Charles shielding him from every possible commotion that might arise.

The deeper they walked into the heart of the city, the more crowded it got. The streets widened and, just when Charles thought the houses couldn’t become any more imposing, the narrow way opened into a broad avenue that led straight a palace.

It rose like a cathedral where emperors were crowned. It had arches soaring so high, they seemed to pierce the clouds. Its walls were built of a darker, richer caramel stone than the city’s, polished so that they reflected the pale light in an amber hue. Buttresses made out of cinnamon supported the whole structure, carved into intricate shapes. The stained-glass windows glowed faintly from within, casting colourful shades onto the ground.

Three great flags draped down from the central spire, in the colours that everyone seemed to wear, including on the brightly coloured uniforms. Charles slowed and looked up in awe. Lando gently touched his shoulder, steadying him so he wouldn't fall.

“Come on,” the officer murmured with a small smile. “Let’s enter. Let me do the talking, please.”

So they ascended the magnificent steps to the entrance and approached the arched entranceway. A guard stood posted there, spear in hand, but when his gaze landed on Lando, his posture eased considerably.

“Good day, Lieutenant Sainz,” greeted Lando. The man returned the nod with casual confidence. “I’m just bringing these fine guests here to check something in the royal library. The manuscript they’re searching for only has surviving copies stored here.”

The guard’s eyes narrowed. He glanced first at Charles, who immediately straightened under his gaze, and then at the lion, whose stillness was somehow even more intimidating.

“Are you sure you want to risk bringing them into the palace?” the guard asked, voice low. “You know it’s all on lockdown.”

“I know, I know,” Lando replied, “I’ve already inquired into their reasons and everything checks out. Besides, the library is on the opposite side of the royal quarters. We won’t be interfering with anything.”

The guard studied them for a few tense seconds.

Charles swallowed hard, shifting his weight.

The lion flicked its tail, as if it were not stressed at all. Maybe it wasn't.

At last, the guard exhaled through his nose and stepped aside.

“Very well. But be careful, officer.”

“When am I not?” Lando answered lightly.

He motioned for Charles and the lion to go ahead. They slipped through the entrance, footsteps echoing faintly on the polished stone floors. Lando followed and quietly guided them to the right, into a hallway so lavishly decorated that had the Monegasque in awe once again.

The corridor stretched long and elegant, its walls lined with tapestries embroidered in gold thread. Tall windows bathed the hallway in pale morning light, which glimmered against chandeliers dripping with crystal droplets like captured frost. A soft red carpet muffled their steps as they continued deeper into the palace, the air growing warmer and richer with the scent of old parchment and candles.

Lando was the one to reach forward and push open the heavy wooden doors. Their hinges groaned softly, and a gust of dust-scented air drifted out. But, regardless of that, the three stepped inside. And Charles immediately stopped in his tracks.

The library was enormous. Grand Corinthian columns rose from the polished stone floor all the way to the vaulted ceiling, each one carved with curling motifs of vines and mythical beasts. Fitted into the walls were heavy shelves, filled to the brim with books of every size and colour imaginable. The candles set in the corners of the room flickered gently, casting warm pools of light across the leather spines. Charles turned slowly, eyes glued to every detail and trying to take in everything.

“I’ll check the geography section,” announced Lando in the midst of this, already stepping toward a cluster of shelves near the back. “It should be on the left shelf.”

The Monegasque nodded, but continued looking around aimlessly. Each book cover called out his name for him to read it: some were deep emerald with golden writing, others rich crimsons or ocean blues written in alphabets different from each one he'd heard of before. And all were in pristine condition as if freshly bound. Some even had gold-leaf patterns curling along their edges. His fingers hovered near them, wanting to pull one out and feel its pages, smell them, read out every piece of knowledge they had to share, though he didn’t dare touch just yet.

As he wandered, keeping watch to every row and shelf, something caught his eye. In the centre of one of the walls stood a massive painting, bathed in the light coming from the outside. Charles drifted toward it, noticing the figure in the portrait: a young man, perhaps not much older than himself. He stood tall and regal, draped in a deep navy cloak lined with warm orange fur, golden painted thread shimmering whenever the candlelight shifted. A jewelled crown rested upon waves of ashy hair and in his hand he held an intricate sceptre. His posture was proud, almost defiant. It stood out, different from what royal portraits usually looked like.

But it was the face of the noble that held Charles' attention. The young man's features were sharply defined, with a strong nose and jawline, but it was the eyes that made the Monegasque inhale softly. They were bright blue, intense in their gaze, painted with such precision they appeared to gleam even in the dim library light.

Charles didn’t even realize he had leaned in a little until he heard the faint creak of boots behind him.

He startled slightly and turned to find Lando standing beside him, hands folded behind his back, gaze lifted to the portrait.

“You're probably wandering who this was,” the officer said quietly. “That… was the king.”

Charles hummed in reply, eyes tracing over the regal figure again.

"You know, he used to be my friend, when we were but children."

As Lando continued talking, something kept pulling Charles' attention towards the painted figure. 

"I hope he'll be able to come back home," the officer added.

It was then when a soft rustle came from the aisles, making the two jump from their spot in front of the portrait.

“I believe I’ve found the correct map,” announced the lion sharply, its deep voice rising from between two shelves, back turned towards them.

Charles blinked, forcing himself to tear his gaze away from the king’s bright blue eyes for good. With one last glance at the painting, he turned and walked over to the feline. He felt his heart beat loudly for a moment, as though the portrait’s eyes somehow lingered on his back.

He couldn’t quite shake the feeling off as he stared at the open map depicting the realm he was now stuck in.

“That’s it!” exclaimed Lando happily. “How’d you find this so quickly? I was sure this would take us at least half a day to find.”

The lion’s tail swished sharply behind its back in reply, but it did not answer. Charles cocked his head to the side, eyeing the feline expectantly.

“I just so happened to stumble upon the geography section, nothing special. You two were the ones losing time while staring at that,” it finally answered with a huff.

In response, Charles cocked up his eyebrow at it. With the corner of his eye, he saw Lando be taken aback as well, but he chose to lower his head on top of the map instead, clearing his throat.

“…Okay,” he started, “basically we are here.”

He pointed his finger on top of a place on the map where “Citadel of Snoepgoed” was written with bold letters. His gloved finger followed a small path to the East, passing by fields and forests and into a darkened zone that marked the end of the map.

“And that… is where we need to get to.”

“Looks like a long way,” Charles mused, playing with a corner of the page in between his fingers. 

“Not really, it’s more like half a day’s trek. We can probably reach it by dusk if we leave soon.”

“You want to join us?” the Monegasque asked, lifting his gaze from the map.

At that, the officer flexed the muscles in his jaw, looking down with a fixed gaze. His eyes moved aimlessly around the piece of paper for a few moments, before a hesitant smile appeared on his lips.

“For a while, I’ve been meaning to go searching for my friend,” Lando said, eyes glinting. “At least then, I know I’d have tried bringing him back home.”

Without hesitation, Charles brought his hand up in the officer’s shoulder, resting it the thick fabric of his uniform, on top of the flag that proudly was displayed there.

“I’m sure you’ll be able to find something,” he found himself saying. The other huffed out a sad laugh, resting his own hand on top of Charles’.

“Thank you for the vote of confidence.”

The Monegasque found himself smiling at that too, shaking his head slightly with a chuckle. He then switched his gaze back across the table, noticing the lion staring down at the floor with an intense look in his eyes. Choosing to say nothing, he averted his eyes back to the painting, towering in its size over the three of them.

“But whatever,” Lando cleared his throat, blinking rapidly.

He straightened then and reached for the map, rolling it tight so that the parchment curled in on itself before slipping it into the satchel at his side. Charles watched him do it, a small pang of pity settling in his chest at the tightness in the officer’s shoulders, but he schooled his expression quickly, keeping his face neutral.

Instead, his gaze drifted once more to the lion. The feline stood a little apart from them now, broad back straight, amber eyes fixed on the painting with intensity. Whatever thoughts stirred behind that gaze, the Monegasque was sure they were not kind.

“Come on,” Lando said then, already turning on his heel. “Follow me.”

They made for the doors, boots echoing softly against soft carpets. Charles ended up walking behind the others by half a step, unable to help himself from pausing and looking back just once more. The painting loomed over the library, his blue eyes bright beneath the crown. For a short moment, Charles could have sworn the gaze followed him around. There was… something about it, something he couldn’t quite place, like a feeling that tugged at the back of his mind.

He shook his head and stepped out into the corridor.

The hallway beyond was long and bright, sunlight filtering through tall windows set between pale stone columns. Charles hurried his steps to catch up with the others. But, after a few moments of walking, Lando slowed and cleared his throat.

“I’ll need a few minutes,” he said, gesturing down another branching corridor. “I need to speak with my superior before we leave.”

With a shake of his head, he pointed them toward a small alcove furnished with a plush sofa upholstered in deep red, its cushions embroidered with delicate golden patterns that caught the light. Charles sat down on it, watching the lion take a seat by his side.

Silence settled between them. The Monegasque shifted, fidgeting with the unfamiliar clothes he’d been given, smoothing the fabric of his coat, tugging absently at a sleeve. As his fingers traced the heavy material, he realised how similar the cut, the rich colour, the subtle trim along the edges was to the king’s. It wasn’t identical, but it was close.

He swallowed and glanced at the lion. “Did you… know of the king?” he asked quietly.

The lion rumbled beside him, a low sound that vibrated through the cushions. For a long moment it said nothing, eyes fixed straight ahead.

“Yes,” the feline finally said in a low voice. “He was young. Fierce, in his way. Proud.” His tail flicked once, sharp. “But when it mattered, when the worst part of the war with the Rat King came, he was a coward. That's why he disappeared in the first place.”

Charles’ eyebrows shot up. He turned fully toward the lion. “How can you say that?” he asked. “He seemed… so young. And at that age to be just… thrust into a war he didn’t choose. How is that fair?”

The lion exhaled slowly, a heavy sigh. “You are right,” the other admitted, voice rougher now. “He was thrust into that world. With no experience.” Its gaze softened, for a moment. “I only wish… I wish he had done something different. For his people. For his country. He probably does so as well.”

Charles bit his lip and looked down at his hands, fingers curling together in his lap. They sat in silence after that, the distant sounds of the palace drifting around them. As the seconds stretched on, Charles found his thoughts returning to the portrait.

The king hadn’t looked like a coward.

No, the lion had to be wrong. He had to be. After all, hadn’t the king been captured? Wasn’t that why Lando was searching for him now, crossing realms and risking everything to bring his friend home?

Charles leaned back against the sofa, staring at the gilded ceiling above, the image of those blue eyes lingering stubbornly in his mind. And the image just refused to fade.

It clung to him stubbornly, even as they left the palace. Even as the made their way out of the massive corridors, the king’s bright blue eyes lingered, as if they had branded themselves into his thoughts. Following Lando down the palace steps and into the courtyard, the other officers made way for them towards the stables. They passed by multiple of the animals, eating hay while covered in thick blankets. When Lando pressed the reins to a horse into Charles’ hands and helped him mount, the Monegasque looked around confusedly only for a moment. Even if the horse beneath him was black as ink, its coat glossy against the white snow, muscles shifting patiently as it breathed out warm clouds of steam...

All he could think of was blue.

The city gates once again opened. Against the blinding white of the road stretching ahead, against the dark line of the horse’s neck and mane, all Charles could see was still that cursed colour. Blue like the painted eyes. Blue like the trim on his coat. Blue like something achingly familiar he couldn’t quite name…

The three set off at a steady pace, the two young men on horseback, while the lion ran through the snow by their side.

At first, the road was wide and well-kept, the snow pushed aside into neat banks that glimmered faintly under the weak sun. Hooves struck packed earth instead of ice and the path bore the marks of constant travel. Behind them, the capital slowly diminished. And, the farther they went, the less the world felt held together.

The road narrowed at one point. Snow crept back in uneven patches, crunching underfoot and muffling sound. The air also grew sharper and the silence deeper. Sparse trees gave way to thicker clusters, their branches heavy and bowed beneath fresh snowfall.

The lion walked ahead of them, its broad frame cutting a path through the cold.

It hadn’t quite… spoken… since the palace.

Charles noticed that more than he wanted to admit. Somehow, the absence of its voice felt loud. He didn’t know what to make of it, or if he should think of it at all. He reminded himself with a deep breath of the cold air surrounding them that this wasn’t part of this world.

He had a home. He had a family. He had a life he was supposed to return to.

He wasn’t meant to be caught in the middle of ancient wars, fallen kings... And yet, the more he saw, the more familiar it all felt. The more understanding he got for the missing king. Charles knew of the grief after losing a parent. He knew the weight of expectation. The hollow space left behind by someone who should still be there.

But here he was. The Monegasque still couldn’t accept his father’s death. How was anyone expected to do more than survive that? How could someone so… close to his age be asked to lead an entire country through war?

As he thought that, he had a fleeting thought that the sun sank faster than it should have, dragging shadows long and thin across the snow, even though Lando had checked the clock on his wrist and frowned.

“It’s still afternoon,” he muttered. “Strange.”

Still, he slowed his horse and glanced toward the treeline ahead. “We should rest a moment. Before the light fades any further.”

They dismounted near the edge of a forest. Towering pines loomed overhead, their needles dark and dense, their branches sagging under thick blankets of snow. The air smelled clean and biting, filled with sap and cold earth.

“I’m hungry,” the lion said suddenly, its voice cutting cleanly through the quiet. “I’ll return shortly.”

Without waiting for a response, it slipped into the woods, its golden shape swallowed by shadow and snow.

Silence rushed in to take its place.

Charles shifted on his feet, rubbing his gloved hands together. Lando adjusted the tack of his horse, movements methodical, almost nervous.

After a while, the Monegasque spoke. “What do you know about the Rat King?”

Lando paused, fingers tightening briefly around a strap. He looked up. “What do you know?”

The other hesitated. He didn’t want to admit how fragmented his understanding was, how most of it came from the lion's half-answers. He swallowed.

“I know… he steals voices,” he said carefully. “From anyone who shows emotion in front of him. Fear, grief… anything.”

Lando’s brows knit together. He nudged the snow with the toe of his boot, scraping a small line through the white.

“Yeah, kind of like that,” he said, amused. “do you… have someone that might've been a victim to the king?”

Charles’ shoulders tensed at that.

“Yes. But my father had never met him.”

“Then perhaps, your father’s voice was already… somewhere. Grief leaves traces. Echoes. The Rat King feeds on those. He may have used it to reach you.”

The Monegasque let his head dip, staring sharply at the ground. “How do you even defeat something like that?” he murmured. “Something that feeds on what makes us human?”

At that, the officer in Lando straightened, exhaling through his nose. “There is a prophecy,” he said. “An old one. It claims the Rat King can only be destroyed through the merging of two worlds. For centuries, people believed that meant a hero. Or... heroes. Mythic figures. Something larger than life, coming from royal blood and from the sky. But after generations of war and failed magic, hope wore thin.”

He paused, jaw tightening. “The former king believed otherwise. He believed the prophecy spoke of the world of the dead. That unity with it was the key.” His mouth twisted. “The Rat King heard… and twisted that belief against him. Against the people. Against all of us.”

Charles drew in a sharp breath and stood, brushing snow from his trousers as he stretched. The cold bit into his lungs, grounding him. The forest stood still around them, listening.

After a moment, Lando spoke again, more hesitantly. “I also must mention… it’s the first time I’ve seen a talking animal in years. Most were killed by the rats.”

“Maybe,” Charles answered carefully, “that’s why the lion wanted to get so far away from him.”

Lando nodded at that, bending down to fix his crooked boot. But, for Charles… something just didn’t fit. Hadn’t the lion said it was one of the only beings to ever kill the Rat King?

Could that mean…

The thought shattered as a roar tore through the forest.

It was deep and violent, vibrating through the ground itself. Birds exploded from the treetops in a storm of black wings, crows screaming as they fled. Snow crashed down from the branches in heavy sheets, striking the ground with dull thuds.

Charles spun toward the trees.

Small shapes burst from the undergrowth, their silhouettes wrong against the snow, upright and quick. Walking mice spilled from between the trees in numbers, their patched armour clinking faintly, eyes glinting with a feral intelligence that made Charles’ stomach drop. Their teeth flashed white.

“Charles, get back!” Lando shouted.

Steel clashed loudly as the officer drew his sword in one smooth motion, stepping in front of Charles without hesitation. The horses neighed loudly as the officer drew his blade, catching the weak light of the sinking sun. It flashed as he turned it with a practised wide stance. And when the first of the rats lunged Lando met it head-on, knocking it aside with a sharp strike that sent it skidding through the snow.

“Take the horse and run!” he yelled over the snarls and screeches. “Go!”

“I can’t just leave you!” he shouted back, panic clawing up his throat as another rat rushed in and Lando barely blocked it. But the officer didn’t look back.

“You can,” he snapped. “And you will. I’ll find you again! Just like I’ll find Max, I promise. Now go!”

The word ripped through the air as he crossed blades with another of the mice.

“Go!”

From then on, Charles didn’t think anymore. He just moved.

He scrambled for the black horse, fingers fumbling with the reins as the animal stamped nervously, whites of its eyes showing. With a sharp breath, he swung himself up and kicked hard. The horse surged forward, hooves tearing through snow as Charles clung to its mane, heart hammering so loudly he could barely hear the world around him.

He didn’t know where he was going.

He had no weapon. No plan. No understanding of the land rushing past him in a blur of white and shadow.

He did however know one thing to do. He had to find the lion.

The roar echoed again in the forest, closer this time. Charles leaned forward and pulled the reins, urging the horse faster. Trees fell away beneath pounding hooves. Snowbanks shattered as they charged through them, fallen trunks blurred by as the horse leapt as the world was sliding by.

It was then when he finally saw it: a splash of orange against the endless white. Strong limbs thrashing. And next to him, holding it down with such force was the Rat King.

The creature towered over the lion, one massive arm locked around its neck, claws digging deep into fur. The lion’s body strained, paws clawing at the snow, breath hitching in ragged gasps.

“No!” Charles cried out.

Barely wasting a moment to think, he decided to drive the horse forward,as close as he could get, he had to reach them.

That was when the Rat King turned.

It simply lifted a hand…

and the world tilted.

Charles was wrenched from the saddle as if gravity itself had betrayed him. The horse screamed and bolted, vanishing into the trees as Charles floated helplessly in the frozen air, limbs flailing, terror locking his chest tight.

Laughter poured from the Rat King, layered voices overlapping, crawling over one another like insects.

“How foolish,” it crooned. “It's honestly kind of delightful. So many have tried. So many have failed. But now… look at you.”

Its grip tightened on the lion's neck. “A failed king reduced to a cat.” The voices sneered. “And a frightened boy who cannot even defend his own life.”

Its heads flicked back to Charles. “Are these the heroes the elders had prophesied?”

With a sharp motion, it threw them both aside.

Charles hit the ground hard, rolling through the snow as the cold slammed into him. He couldn’t tell if he was shaking from fear or from the bite of the winter. His vision swam as he tried pushed himself up. But that was when a shadow fell over him.

The Rat King loomed above, with a ceremonial sword raised high. Its blade gleamed cruelly, gems set into the hilt catching the dying light.

Charles’ breath stuttered.

He doesn't know what came to him, but he kicked out hard, heel connecting with the monster’s leg. The Rat King hissed in annoyance, voices snarling as a hand shot out to pin him in place, nails sharp as they tore at his clothes.

The young man was preparing himself to feel them dig into his skin. But that never came, as the lion slammed into the creature with a roar that split the air, jaws clamping down on its thick arm, so hard that bones cracked. The Rat King shrieked, high and piercing, the sword tumbling from its grasp to land inches from Charles’ head.

The lion bit harder, muscles screaming, eyes wild and blue.

Not just blue. Cerulean. The exact same shade as the king’s eyes in the portrait.

The lion’s gaze snapped to the fallen sword.

Please, he seemed to say.

And Charles didn’t take another moment to hesitate.

He grabbed the hilt with both hands. The sword was heavy, far heavier than he expected, but adrenaline burned through his veins as he lifted it and drove it forward with a raw cry.

The blade sank into the Rat King’s back.

It screamed.

Charles twisted the sword, teeth clenched, arms shaking as he forced it deeper. The monster thrashed wildly, arms flinging outward. The lion was torn free and thrown aside, landing hard in the snow.

But Charles held on.

He leaned into the strike, shoving the sword as far as it would go, feeling the resistance give way. The Rat King collapsed, dragging him down with it, its many voices devolving into broken moans.

After a few moments of thrashing in which Charles had held on for dear life on the dropped greasy fur of the monster, one last breath rattled through the creature.

He was surprised to his his own father’s voice coming out of its mouth again.

“Charles… help me.”

It sounded so raw. So real.

The boy closed his eyes. He pictured his father’s smile. His warmth. His hugs in the Monaco pier. His laugh in the car rides with the whole family. His stories. His real voice.

Charles would never fall for such a charade of his father. With a snarl, he shoved the sword to the hilt and opened his eyes, staring straight into one of the Rat King’s eyes as it started to dim.

“My father was a loving man, willing to help anyone in trouble. You could never begin to try being like him, you monster,” the young man said, voice shaking but firm.

After a few more moments, the huge body beneath him finally stopped thrashing, the colour behind its eyes finally dimming for good. Charles stumbled back, chest heaving, hands slick with blood and water, trembling. He dropped the sword and turned around frantically, eyes scanning the snow.

“Lion!”

A short distance away, he spotted a brightly coloured shape lying still.

No.

Heart in his throat, Charles ran, boots slipping as he crossed the snow. He dropped to his knees beside the unmoving body, hands hovering, afraid to touch, afraid of what he might find.

“Please,” he whispered. “Please…” he repeated like a prayer underneath his breath as he softly turned the pliant body to lie on its side.

The fur was matted where the snow had melted beneath it.

Charles’ breath caught sharply as he saw the deep, angry scratches carved across the lion’s chest, dark against the vibrant orange, the fur torn away in rough lines where claws had bitten far too deep. Blood had soaked and then frozen at the edges, turning the snow beneath a dull, sickly pink.

One of his hands flew to the wounds on instinct, pressing down carefully as if he could will them to close, while his other slid beneath the lion’s massive head, cradling it with trembling fingers. The weight of it felt wrong. It was too heavy. Too still.

“Lion, please, you… you have to wake up,” Charles said, voice breaking as he shook the feline gently. “Lion, please. Wake up.”

However, there was no response.

The young man could swear he saw a breath come out of the lion, so faint it could have been imagined, could have been his own. The thin cloud vanished almost immediately into the cold air.

Charles pressed harder against the wounds, hands frozen, slick and numb “No, no, no, please,” he whispered, shaking the lion again, more urgently now. “You can’t, I… please, don’t…”

There still was nothing.

Tears gathered in his eyes despite his efforts to blink them away. When he finally did blink, they spilled over, sliding hot down his cheeks, the warmth of them stinging cruelly against his frozen skin.

“King Max,” he choked out, the name tearing free of his chest as if it had been waiting there all along. “You have to wake up. For your people. For your friend, who's fighting with his life to find you.”

His voice collapsed into a sob.

“And for me,” Charles whispered, forehead lowering until it brushed the lion’s mane. “Please… you have to. I need you.”

His hands trembled as they fisted in the thick fur. “You were…” he swallowed hard, breath hitching, “…you were the best Christmas present I ever had.”

The words spilled out between broken breaths, half-laughed, half-cried. “A stupid, soft stuffed lion that always protected me. Always.” His shoulders shook. “I didn’t know… I didn’t know you were real. I didn't know why my mother chose a toy as a present.”

Another sob tore through him.

“But now I do. So, please don't leave me,” Charles whispered fiercely, tears soaking into the mane as he buried his face against it. “I love you, my fierce lion.”

He held the feline tightly in his arms, as if he could anchor him there through sheer will, through warmth alone. But his prayers went unanswered and, with great effort, he eased the body back down onto the snow, staying on his knees beside him as the sobs stuck in his chest finally broke free.

The forest stood silent around him.

Charles closed his eyes, breath shuddering, letting the cold wash over him for a few long, empty moments. He dug his fingers into the snow, even if he could not feel his hands anymore. He needed something to anchor himself.

As he stood like that, he started noticing a strange light growing stronger and stronger right in front of him. Charles snapped his eyes open, shielding them instinctively… and froze.

A brilliant glow wrapped around the lion’s body, outlining it in white and gold. The shape began to change, stretching, shifting, fur dissolving into light as limbs lengthened, posture straightened. Torn fabric replaced fur. Strong hands where paws had been.

Charles’ tears slowed, awe stealing his breath.

He recognised the features that were taking shape: the hair, darkened and tousled in the snow, but falling into a familiar swoop. A strong nose. A sharp jaw. Broad shoulders clad in a ripped tunic, uniform trousers dusted with snow. A sword still rested at the man’s hip, just as it had on the plush lion’s flank.

The light faded.

And now a man… the king lay where the lion had been.

He stared, hardly daring to blink, wiping at his eyes with shaking fingers as if he might lose the sight if he didn’t look hard enough. Because he knew this face. He had traced it with his eyes only hours ago in paint.

Then the man groaned.

Charles’ breath hitched painfully as the king stirred, eyes fluttering open, blinking rapidly in the sunset light. Confusion flickered across his features as he took in the snow, the trees… and then his gaze settled on Charles.

For a heartbeat, neither of them moved.

Then, the king tried to push himself up with a sharp inhale, but faltered. Instantly, Charles reached out, one hand slipping into his, the other bracing his arm.

“Careful,” the young man said in a trembling voice.

Their hands fit together too easily as he helped the other sit up. They were suddenly far too close, Charles’ knees still pressed into the snow, his body leaning forward without thinking. He could feel himself shaking again. And he knew this time it was not from fear, but from the overwhelming rush of… of relief. Of disbelief.

Of the king.

The other man looked at him, eyes still cerulean blue, softer now, sharp and alive.

Charles swallowed, fingers tightening just a little around his hand, unable to stop the tremor running through him as he held on. He was afraid that if he let go, the light might take him away again.

The king’s brow furrowed as he took in Charles’ trembling, his tears, the way his hands clung as if the world itself were unstable beneath them. Slowly, carefully, he squeezed Charles’ fingers.

“Don’t worry,” he said softly, voice hoarse but steady, grounded in something unshakable. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Charles let out a breath that was almost a laugh, almost a sob. He smiled, small and sad, and let his head fall slightly forward. “You can’t promise that,” the young man murmured in reply, eyes fixed on the snow between them. “Not when you... we almost just… died.”

Before the weight of those words could settle, a warm touch lifted his chin. One finger hooked gently beneath it, firm and tender, guiding his face back up until there was no escape from the king’s gaze, who was smiling now too. But not the proud, distant smile of a ruler, nor the fierce snarl of a lion in battle, but something...

“I know we were going to be fine,” he said, his thumb brushing faintly along Charles’ jaw. “I had you with me, after all.”

The Monegasque smiled at that soft gaze in the king's eyes chasing away the ache in his chest. That was how he found himself tracing the king’s face with his eyes, as if committing it to memory for the rest of his life.

The painting hadn’t managed to capture the slight freckles, faint and scattered across his cheeks like snow that had forgotten to melt. It hadn’t done justice to his lips either, because they full, expressive, marked by a small mark that caught the light when he smiled.

Charles realised, with a jolt of heat, that he was staring at those lips maybe a bit too much.

Blood rushed to his cheeks, his ears burning, but there was nowhere to hide, not with the king so close, not with his hands still braced around him, not when the other's eyes flicked down too, following the same thought.

They drifted closer without a word.

When King Max tilted his head and leaned in, Charles closed his eyes and drew in a breath-

The kiss met him softly at first, cold from the air, tasting faintly of snow and iron and something sweeter underneath. It was hopeful and sad all at once, trembling with relief, heavy with everything they had almost lost. Charles’ hand curled into the torn fabric of Max’s tunic at the shoulder, grounding himself there as the sensation made him feel as if he were soaring.

Their lips moved together slowly, clinging, pressing as if neither quite trusted the other to remain. Charles poured his fear, his love, his disbelief into the kiss, trying to show his lion that he was here. That he was real too. The war was over.

When they finally parted, breathless and shaking, Charles didn’t let him pull away. He tugged the king forward instead, wrapping his arms around him tightly, face pressed against his shoulder.

“King Max,” he whispered, voice breaking again. “My lion. My Christmas present, my lion.”

The other laughed softly. It was a warm and disbelieving sound, then wrapped his arms around Charles’ back in return, holding him just as tightly.

"Call me Max, please."

The younger man tightened his arms even more at that. They stayed like that for a few quiet moments, the forest quiet around them, as if just moments prior it had not been a battlefield. It was then that Charles felt the king shiver in his hold.

“Let me-” he started, already reaching to shrug off his jacket.

A gentle hand stopped him.

“Don’t worry,” Max said again with a smile on his lips. “I’m not that cold. Even if the jacket’s mine… I think it suits you better.”

Charles flushed instantly, ducking his head with a breathless huff of a laugh.

“Come on,” the king added, shifting carefully to his feet and offering his hand. “Let’s get out of here and find Lando.”

Together, they stood, helping one another through the churned snow and the remnants of the battle, dark stains marring the white ground. Max slowed when they reached the fallen body of the fraud of a king. He stared down at it with open disgust.

Reaching back, he gripped the ceremonial sword still embedded in the corpse and yanked it free in one sharp motion. The body slumped further to the side, revealing the two other heads, slack and lifeless, still twisted together in a grotesque parody of unity.

With a determined huff, Max raised the sword with both hands, aiming for the three necks. But just before sharp edge fell upon them, the head closest to Charles snapped its eyes open. Its lips moved, whispering something the young man couldn’t understand. But, whatever it was, it had a clear reason, as a sharp pain suddenly lanced through his chest.

Charles gasped, clutching at it as if his heart had been seized in a fist. “Max-”, he started with the little voice he had left.

The king spun toward him instantly. “Charles? Charles, what’s wrong?”

The Monegasque looked down at his body, confusion giving way to horror as his hands began to fade, skin turning translucent, the snow visible through his fingers.

“No,” he breathed. “No, no-”

Max rushed to his side, dropping the sword, grabbing him desperately. But even that touch was becoming distant and fuzzy, like a sensation remembered rather than felt. Panic twisted Max’s face, his mouth moving, shouting, but Charles couldn’t hear a thing anymore.

The world was slipping.

There was only one thing he caught, one thing clear enough to read as Max held him like he might tear reality apart to keep him there.

I’m going to find you.

Then everything went black.

Charles sucked in a sharp breath and opened his eyes.

Colourful lights blinked at him from a familiar place. The Christmas tree stood tall and glowing, ornaments untouched. The plate of cookies sat neatly beneath it, the glass of milk beside them, both exactly as he had left them.

He shot upright, heart pounding, staring down at himself. His red pyjamas were back on. The young man scrambled to his feet and dropped to his knees beneath the tree, hands flying through wrapping paper, frantically searching.

There no longer was a lion plushie.

No trace that it had ever been one at all.

Charles let out a broken sob and sank back against the tree, pulling his knees to his chest and burying his face against them. The lights blurred through his tears as the silence of the room closed in around him.

He didn’t know how long he had sat there. Minutes? Hours? He could only tell that time had passed once he felt a warm hand settle gently on his shoulder. At first, Charles flinched, startled, his chest hitching, before lifting his head.

He was met with his mother smiling softly at him. She was kneeling slightly to meet his eye level and the gentle glow of the Christmas lights fell across her features.

“How are you, mon bébé?” she asked in careful voice.

Charles blinked to will away his sleep and looked down, aware of sounds of his brothers moving around him. Boots clattered faintly in the hallway, laughing softly and talking in hushed voices.

“I… I’m okay,” he whispered finally in a hoarse voice, nodding once. He rubbed at the corners of his eyes, brushing away the stubborn traces of tears, trying to make himself appear more composed than he felt.

His mother’s hand lingered on his shoulder, caressing slowly. “I’m so proud of you, Charles,” she murmured. “And you know… I think Santa probably loved your cookies. There aren’t any left and even the milk’s half gone.”

Confused, the boy blinked and threw one look towards the base of the Christmas tree. Seeing it was true, the corners of his mouth tugged upward in a small, genuine smile. Getting up with his mother, he decided to settle on the couch so he would not be in anybody's way, still trying to take in the shift from the sweet, frozen realm of his dreams to the soft, warm living room.

“Maman?” he asked quietly.

“Yes, darling?”

“How was Mass?” he said, easing into the couch cushions, letting the familiar weight of the sofa hold him.

She smiled softly, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. “It was nice. Really lovely this year. The choir sang beautifully.”

As she spoke, a sharp knock echoed through the house.

“Charles, could you get that, please? Might be carollers,” his mother said without looking up, returning to her task of preparing the last of the Christmas presents. Her calm seemed king of… disarming, almost nonchalant, as if nothing could shake the rhythm of Christmas Eve.

Charles frowned at that, slightly unsettled by her composure. But he slipped on his slippers and padded to the door. The doorbell rang again just as his hand rested on the handle.

“I was just about to open-” he muttered under his breath. But when he finally opened it, he froze.

Two figures stood there, framed by softly falling snow, the night air catching the glow from the porch light.

The first had curly dark hair peeking out from a beanie, small trumpet clutched in his hands, the same kind of trumpet the army used in Monaco’s Christmas square.

The second figure that had familiar blonde stood tall and steady in front of the entrance, a book of carols held under one arm. His hair was swept back, he had a sharp jawline, full lips marked with that tiny, unforgettable mark on the upper edge. His cerulean eyes met Charles’ immediately, steady and warm.

Charles’ mind stumbled, his thoughts scrambling for words that wouldn’t come. He could only stare, baffled, as a smile began to form on his lips despite the confusion. He leaned lightly against the doorframe, letting himself breathe.

“My dear carollers… Merry Christmas,” he said softly.

“Merry Christmas,” the blonde replied, cheeks colouring faintly, the blush spreading across his skin as his smile mirrored Charles’.

Clearing his throat, the blonde turned to the trumpeter beside him. “Okay, Lando. In one, two, three… We wish you…”