Chapter Text
The torchlight was a living thing, painting the stone corridors of the castle in shifting, dancing shadows. It was a familiar sight to Technoblade, as familiar as the weight of his sword at his hip or the chill that seeped through the castle walls even in high summer. He was a creature of duty and routine, a prince who had earned his spurs as a knight, and the predictable rhythms of the castle were the very bones of his life.
Which was why the sudden, jarring silence was so unnerving.
One moment, the corridor was filled with the normal, ambient sounds of the night: the distant howl of the wind, the crackle of the sconces, the soft tread of his own boots. The next, it was as if the world had frozen in place. Technoblade stilled with it, his hand instinctively resting on the hilt of his sword. His crimson eyes, sharp and accustomed to the gloom, scanned the hallway.
Nothing.
The tapestries hung still, the suits of armor stood silent sentinel. He was alone.
Yet he wasn't.
A soft, almost inaudible scuff from the chamber ahead, the royal treasury, was the only warning he got. He didn't hesitate, throwing his weight against the heavy oak door. It didn't budge. It was barred from the inside.
A smirk touched Technoblade's lips.
Trapped.
The thief had trapped him. It was a bold, foolish move, but an undeniably clever one. He could call for the guards, have them break the door down, but that would take time. Time their quarry would use to escape. No, this was a dance for two.
He took a step back, assessing the door. There was a metal grate over the large window in the center, allowing Techno a partial view inside. It was old, solid ironbark, but the hinges were on this side. If he could–
“Looking for this, Your Highness?”
The voice was a purr, laced with insolent amusement. It came from directly above him. Technoblade’s head snapped up, and there, clinging to the stone archway like a gargoyle, was the thief. He was a silhouette against the torchlight, all lean muscle and impossible grace.
In one hand, he held a heavy, ornate golden locket—the very one Technoblade had been sent to guard tonight, the one meant as a gift for a neighboring princess. In the other, he dangled the iron bar he’d used to seal the door.
“Dream,” Technoblade growled, his voice a low rumble of irritation. The name was a curse and a prayer all at once, a thorn in his side for years now.
“The one and only,” Dream chirped, swinging himself lightly down from the archway. He landed in a crouch on the floor, silent as a falling leaf. He was dressed in dark, form-fitting leather that left little to the imagination, a mask of white porcelain obscuring half of his face—he had no need to hide his identity. Technoblade knew who he was.
Only one of his eyes was visible, a brilliant, mocking green. Behind the mask, two small, curved horns peeked through the messy fall of gold hair, pale against the shadows. His fluffy sheep ears flicked once, catching the torchlight before settling back against his head. “You’re looking a little tense, Techno. Castle duties keeping you up?”
Technoblade’s gaze snagged on those ears before he could stop it. They twitched again — alert, reactive — a ridiculous feature for the lithe warrior in front of him. Unbidden, a completely inappropriate thought flickered through his mind: would they be soft?
He forced the thought down immediately. Nothing about Dream was soft.
“Yer under arrest,” Technoblade stated, his stance widening as he prepared to break down the door. He knew Dream’s style. It was all about movement, about using the environment to his advantage. Open ground was Technoblade’s best bet. He’d have nowhere to hide.
Dream laughed, a bright, silvery sound that was utterly at odds with the shadows of the corridor. “Arrest me? With what? Your sparkling personality? I hate to break it to you, but you’re on the wrong side of a very heavy door.”
Technoblade didn’t rise to the bait. He watched, his body coiled like a spring. “The castle is on lockdown. You have nowhere to go.”
“Maybe,” Dream conceded, tilting his head. His ears flicked lazily as he straightened up, and Technoblade’s gaze caught, against his will, on the narrow line of his waist, the way the leather pulled taut as he stretched. “Or maybe I just wanted a private moment with my favorite prince.”
He moved then, a blur of motion. He didn't charge, but flowed to the side, his movements fluid and economical. He swung downward and tapped a stone in the wall with the toe of his boot. There was a low grinding sound, and a section of the wall near the ceiling slid open, revealing a narrow, dark passage—a servants’ route, long since forgotten.
“An escape route,” Technoblade realized, his frustration mounting. Of course. Dream had grown up in this castle; he knew its secrets better than anyone. His mother had forged half the weapons that hung in these halls before the Crown decided hybrids no longer belonged within them.
“Give me the locket, Dream,” Technoblade said, his voice tight. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”
“Oh, but where’s the fun in that?” Dream asked, his eyes glinting. He held up the locket, letting the torchlight catch in its golden surface.
It was almost the same color as his hair, Technoblade noticed with a jolt. The strands that had escaped from his hood were the bright, pure gold of a freshly minted sovereign, shimmering as he moved.
“You know, for a man who’s supposed to be the best swordsman in the kingdom, you spend an awful lot of time just standing there looking pretty.”
Dream was baiting him, trying to get him to lunge, to overcommit. Technoblade knew this. He’d played this game a dozen times before. Yet the heat still prickled at the back of his neck.
Technoblade shook the door in his hands, the hinges rattling uselessly. “Last chance.”
“Or what? You’ll glare at me to death?” Dream’s voice was pure mockery. He took a running start, launching himself towards the opposite wall. He kicked off, his body arcing through the air in a breathtakingly graceful backflip. For a moment, he was suspended against the flickering torchlight, a golden phantom against the stone, his ears pinned back by the rush of air, and Technoblade’s breath caught in his throat.
Dream’s skill with parkour was an art. A dangerous, infuriating, beautiful art.
The blonde landed lightly on a narrow ledge, just below the opening to the secret passage. Sometimes, rather than a sheep, Dream moved more like a damn mountain goat. He turned, perched like a predator, and gave Techno a mocking little bow.
“It’s been a pleasure, Your Highness. Tell the King I said hi. I hear he’s still nursing that injury.”
Technoblade’s jaw tightened.
With a final, infuriating wink, he vanished into the darkness of the passage.
—
The sun was warm and golden, spilling through the leaves of the castle gardens and painting the grass in dappled light. The air smelled of roses and freshly cut grass, and the sound of laughter echoed through the manicured hedges.
Technoblade, all of ten years old, was panting, his hands on his knees. “You’re… you’re too fast,” he gasped, looking up at the boy perched on the low branch of an oak tree.
Dream, just a boy then, with no mask and no leather, grinned down at him. His hair was a tousled mess of gold, his green eyes flashing with mischief. Small sheep horns curved gently from his temples, and his soft ears twitched whenever Technoblade called his name too loudly. He was impossibly limber, a natural-born acrobat. He’d been climbing and jumping since he could walk, his mother, Puffy—wool-white ears and proud horns of her own—the castle’s blacksmith, often chasing him down from the rafters of her forge.
“You’re just too slow, Tech,” Dream laughed, his voice bright and carefree. He swung down from the branch, landing in a crouch and bouncing immediately back onto his feet. “Tag! You’re it!”
He took off, a golden blur darting between a rose bush and a fountain. Technoblade, the Crown Prince, gave chase with a whoop of joy.
They weren’t prince and blacksmith’s son then; they were just two boys, the best of friends in the whole wide world.
Dream knew all the best hiding spots, all the secret paths. He’d shown Technoblade how to shimmy up the rain gutter to the roof of the west wing, a feat that had earned them both a stern lecture from the King.
Dream scrambled onto the edge of the stone fountain, his balance perfect. He turned, a triumphant smirk on his face, and held out a hand. “Can’t catch me!”
Technoblade lunged, not to grab him, but to splash water from the fountain at him. Dream yelped, leaping back with a laugh, his shirt getting soaked. He shook his head like a dog, sending droplets flying. The sun caught in his hair, turning it into a halo of pure gold. For a moment, his eyes, so full of life and laughter, seemed to glow.
The golden light began to fade, the sound of laughter distorting, stretching into a low, insistent ringing.
Techno awoke with a start, bolting up in bed. Technoblade’s red eyes squinted open. The warmth of the sun was replaced by the familiar chill of his bedchamber. The ringing was the sound of a guard’s insistent knocking on his door.
“Your Highness! Prince Technoblade! You must wake!”
Technoblade sat up, his heart pounding with the ghost of a memory he tried to keep buried. The dream was always the same, a perfect, sun-drenched moment from a past that felt like it belonged to someone else. He scrubbed a hand over his face, the lingering warmth of the dream clashing with the cold reality of the stone room.
“What is it?” he called out, his voice rough with sleep and an irritation he couldn’t quite place.
The door creaked open, and one of the castle guards, Quackity, stepped inside. The man was sharp-featured and dressed in the royal livery, but he wore it with a certain smugness that always grated on Technoblade’s nerves. There was a gleam in Quackity’s eye tonight, a predatory satisfaction that set Technoblade on edge.
“My Prince,” Quackity said, his tone deferential but his smile anything but. “You are needed in the throne room. Immediately.”
Technoblade threw back the heavy covers, his mind already shaking off the remnants of the dream and snapping into the sharp, focused state of a commander. “What’s happened? An attack?”
“Better,” Quackity said, and the glee in his voice was unmistakable. “We’ve caught him.”
Technoblade’s blood ran cold. He didn’t need to ask who ‘he’ was. There was only one ‘he’ who warranted being woken in the dead of night. Only one thief who had eluded the kingdom’s guard for years.
He dressed quickly, pulling on a simple black tunic and trousers, strapping his sword belt around his waist. The weight of the blade was a comforting, solid presence. He followed Quackity through the silent, torchlit corridors, the same corridors he had been pacing mere hours ago. The irony wasn't lost on him.
The throne room was cavernous and imposing, the high arches lost in shadow. Only a few braziers were lit, casting long, distorted figures across the polished marble floor. At the base of the dais, where the King’s throne loomed empty, a figure knelt.
Dream.
He was bound in thick, heavy chains, his wrists manacled behind his back. His head was bowed, the dirty blonde hair falling over his face, but the set of his shoulders was defiant, not defeated.
As Technoblade approached, Dream lifted his head, and even in the dim light, Technoblade could see the infuriating smirk playing on his lips. The mask he often wore was gone, revealing small curved horns and the soft, unmistakable shape of sheep ears resting against his tangled hair. They flicked once when Technoblade stepped closer. His green eyes met Techno’s without flinching.
Techno would never be able to forget those eyes.
“Well, well,” Dream’s voice was a low drawl, rough but still laced with that insufferable arrogance. “Look what the cat dragged in. If it isn’t the prince himself, come to grace me with his presence. Did I interrupt your beauty sleep?”
Technoblade stopped a few feet away, glaring down at him. He was struck by how… small Dream looked like this, chained and on his knees. And yet, he seemed to hold all the power. He looked like a man who had chosen to kneel, not one who had been forced.
“Yer fun is over, Dream,” Technoblade said, his voice cold and hard. “Yer caught.”
“Caught?” Dream laughed, a short, sharp sound. “Is that what this is? I thought it was more of a… social call. The hospitality could use some work, though.” He rattled his chains for emphasis. “A bit restrictive.”
Technoblade felt a muscle twitch in his jaw. He wanted to wipe that smirk off his face, to shake him, to make him understand the gravity of his situation.
He was a thief, a menace, a criminal who had made a fool of the Crown for years. He should be groveling, begging for mercy.
Instead, he was acting like this was all one big joke.
“Dream,” Technoblade began, forcing his voice into a more reasonable tone. “This is yer last chance. The thefts, the trespassing, the mockery of the royal guard… these are serious crimes. Repent. Tell me who you were working for, return what you’ve stolen, and I can speak to the King. I can plead for yer life.”
For a fleeting second, the smirk on Dream’s face faltered. A shadow passed through his bright green eyes, a flicker of something old and wounded. It was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by a look of profound disappointment, as if Technoblade had just told a particularly unfunny joke.
He let out a soft, humorless chuckle, shaking his head. The chains around his wrists clinked softly with the movement. “Plead for my life?” he repeated, his voice laced with a weary sort of disbelief, not venom. “You really don’t get it, do you, Your Highness?” He looked up, his gaze meeting Technoblade’s without flinching. “You think this is about you? That I need your mercy?”
He shifted his weight, the chains scraping against the marble. “I’m not some beggar on the street hoping for a scrap from the royal table. I don’t want anything from you. Least of all your pity.”
The dismissal was colder than any insult could have been. It wasn’t a rejection of Technoblade’s offer, but a rejection of Technoblade himself, of the very world he represented. The warmth of the dream, of the golden sunlight and shared laughter, felt a million miles away. Technoblade had reached across a chasm of years, and Dream had simply let his hand fall.
“Very well,” Technoblade said, his voice dangerously quiet. The last vestiges of his conflicted feelings hardened into a shield of resolve. He was a prince. He was a knight. And his duty was clear. “Have it yer way, sweetheart.” He could match Dream’s aloofness with his own.
He turned to the guards who flanked the room. “Take him to the dungeon. Put him in the deepest cell. I will deal with him later.”
As the guards hauled Dream to his feet, their grip rough, the thief didn’t struggle. He just looked over his shoulder, his green eyes locking with Technoblade’s one last time. There was no fear there, no regret. Only a bitter, chilling triumph. He had won, in his own way. He had forced Technoblade to be the prince, the executioner, and in doing so, had destroyed the last ghost of the boy Technoblade once knew.
Technoblade watched them drag him away, his face a mask of cold fury. He told himself he was glad. It was finally over. He would not have to execute his childhood friend, because the friend he knew was already dead. This creature in chains was a stranger, and the law was the law.
He stood alone in the vast, echoing throne room long after they were gone, the only sound the frantic, furious beating of his own heart.
—
Dream
The dungeon was a pit of damp, cold misery. Water seeped through the ancient stones, dripping in a monotonous, maddening rhythm that was the only sound to break the suffocating silence. Dream sat on the thin, rotting straw that served as his bedding, his back against the wall, his chains a cold, heavy weight on his wrists and ankles. He had been here for what felt like an eternity, though the guard who brought him stale bread and murky water once a day suggested it had only been a week.
A week. A week since his world had shrunk to these four walls. Since he’d seen the sky. Dream loved the sky. He loved bounding between trees and rooftops with an ease no one else could manage.
The sound of heavy footsteps and a jangle of keys broke the monotony. Dream didn’t look up. He knew who it was. Only one person would bother to visit him down here.
The Prince himself, come to gloat.
The cell door creaked open, and a sliver of torchlight cut through the gloom, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. Dream blinked against the light, his eyes slowly adjusting to the figure standing in the doorway. Technoblade. Of course.
He was framed by the torchlight from the corridor, a stark, imposing silhouette. He’d forgone his royal tunic for a simpler, more practical dark tunic and trousers, but the effect was the same. He looked every inch the warrior-prince. His long, pink hair was tied back in a neat, intricate braid that fell over his shoulder, looking ridiculously well-kept for a man who supposedly spent his days training.
He’s probably got a personal servant just to braid his hair every morning, Dream thought with a surge of bitter amusement. Like a prissy little princess preparing for a ball.
“Come to admire your handiwork, Your Highness?” Dream’s voice was rough from disuse, but he injected it with all the scorn he could muster. He kept his gaze fixed on the hem of Technoblade’s tunic, refusing to meet his eyes.
Technoblade didn’t rise to the bait. He stepped into the cell, the guard shutting the heavy door behind him, leaving them in near-darkness, save for the single torch he carried. He moved with a quiet confidence, his presence filling the small space.
Techno was built like a fortress, all broad shoulders and a solid chest that the worn fabric of his tunic did little to hide. A part of Dream’s brain, the traitorous part that had always noticed these things, couldn’t help but appreciate the sheer strength in his frame. He shoved the thought down and replaced it with derision.
All that muscle, and for what? To be the King’s pretty little enforcer.
“I’ve come to talk,” Technoblade said, his voice low and even. He didn’t sound angry, or gloating. He just sounded… tired.
“We have nothing to talk about,” Dream said, finally lifting his chin.
He forced himself to look at the Prince, to meet those unnerving, ruby-red eyes. They were like polished gems in the dim light, focused on him with an intensity that made his skin prickle. He hated those eyes. He hated how they could see right through him, back to the boy he used to be.
“Unless you’ve come to deliver my execution sentence yourself. I hear that’s a royal duty. Keeps the Crown close to the common man, or some such bullshit.”
Technoblade flinched, a barely perceptible tightening of his jaw. “I don’t want to execute ya, Dream.”
“Then don’t,” Dream shot back with a shrug, the chains rattling with the motion. “Let me go. Problem solved.”
“You know I can’t do that,” Technoblade sighed, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair, dislodging a few strands from the braid. They fell around his face, framing it in a way that was, infuriatingly, quite handsome. “You’ve committed crimes against the Crown, and you’ve refused my offer to repent. The law is clear.”
“The law,” Dream scoffed, his bitterness rising like bile. The soft, fluffy wool of his ears, usually pressed flat against his hair in defiance, seemed to twitch with agitation. “The law that declared my mother an animal? Or me? The law that ordered hybrids to be rounded up and executed like vermin? Is that the law you’re talking about, Techno? The one that’s so clear and just?”
The words hung in the air between them, sharp and ugly. It was the most he’d ever said about his past, the raw truth he usually kept buried under layers of arrogance and sarcasm. He hadn’t meant to say it. It just… came out.
He could feel the dull points of his small horns press against the cold stone wall behind him, a constant reminder of what he was.
Technoblade’s expression didn’t soften with sympathy this time. It hardened with a familiar, defensive grief. “A hybrid is what killed my uncle. My father’s dearest little brother,” he said, his voice low and cold. “The King’s laws reflect that grief, Dream. He’s trying to protect the kingdom from… from monsters.”
The word ‘monsters’ struck Dream like a physical blow. He laughed, a harsh, broken sound that was devoid of any humor. “Monsters? That’s your excuse? That’s a stupid argument, Techno. A stupid argument from a boy who’s never had to hide what he is to survive.”
“I’m just stating the facts!” Technoblade’s voice rose, frustration finally breaking through his calm facade. He took a step closer, and Dream instinctively pressed himself back against the wall. “And yer not doing a very good job of clearing the name of hybrids everywhere, are ya? Given that you’re a thief.”
The accusation hit its mark, but not in the way Technoblade intended. Dream’s jaw clamped shut. He wanted to scream, to tell the pampered prince why he stole. To tell him about the hidden group of hybrid children, like Tubbo with his little nubs of horns and Tommy with his bright red wings, who would starve to death without the food and coin he provided.
But the words wouldn't come. He couldn't risk it. He couldn't let Technoblade know about their existence. So he bit his tongue, the fury and helplessness a bitter taste in his mouth.
“Repent?” he finally managed, his voice dripping with scorn. “For what? Surviving? For taking back a tiny fraction of what your precious kingdom stole from me? You want me to get on my knees and beg forgiveness from the son of the man who signed my mother’s death warrant because she had wool in her hair?”
He finally looked at Technoblade, really looked at him. He saw the frustration etched around his mouth, the genuine conflict in his eyes.
He remembered those eyes from another lifetime, from a sun-drenched garden, alight with laughter as they chased each other through the roses. The memory was a physical pain, a knife twisting in his gut. He couldn’t bear to look at them anymore.
He squeezed his eyes shut, turning his head away. “Get out.”
“Dream, please…”
“I said, get out,” Dream whispered, his voice trembling with a fury he could no longer contain. “Take your royal mercy and shove it up your ass. I don’t want it.”
He heard a long, heavy sigh. The sound of it was a defeat. He heard the scrape of the torch against the stone floor, the heavy tread of the Prince’s boots retreating. The cell door opened, then slammed shut, plunging him back into darkness.
He was alone again. He pushed away the sting of regret, the faint, treacherous whisper that wondered if he’d just made a terrible mistake. He told himself he hadn’t. Trusting a prince, any prince, was a fool’s game. He’d learned that lesson the hard way.
Just as the sound of Technoblade’s footsteps faded down the corridor, a new set of footsteps approached. They were lighter, sharper, and accompanied by a familiar, hateful jingle of keys. The cell door opened again.
Dream didn’t have to look. He knew the silhouette in the doorway. The guard who had brought him here, the one with the beady eyes and the perpetually smug expression. Quackity.
“Well, well,” Quackity’s voice was a venomous purr. “Look at the big, bad thief, all alone in the dark. Did Prince Charming leave you with a kiss?”
Dream remained silent, his body tense. He knew this man. He’d humiliated him personally on more than one occasion, slipping past his patrols, leaving mocking notes for him to find. Quackity was a man who held grudges like a dragon hoarded gold.
“What’s the matter, cat got your tongue?” Quackity stepped into the cell, his boots crunching on the straw. He didn’t bring a torch, but Dream could see the faint light from the corridor catch on the malicious glint in his eyes. “You think you’re so clever, don’t you? Flitting around like you own the place. Stealing from the Crown. Looking down on the rest of us. Hybrid.” He spat the word like a curse, like it was the worst thing a person could be.
Dream ignored him, keeping his eyes trained ahead.
The guard was undeterred by Dream’s lack of attention. “My old boss was a Ram Hybrid, too, you know. The old captain of the guard. Schlatt,” he shook his head, lost in memory. “He was a sick son of a bitch. Always drunk on duty, screaming at us. Hitting us.” He clenched his fist. “Maybe I should give you a taste of what it was like. All of you hybrids—you’re all bastards.”
Quackity circled Dream slowly, like a shark. “You in particular, Dream. You’re an ungrateful, selfish, pathetic little rat. The Prince offers you a way out, and you spit in his face. You don’t deserve his mercy, not that he has the right to give it in the first place.”
He stopped in front of Dream, his shadow falling over him. “You need to be taught a lesson about respect.”
The cell door was still open. Dream was still chained. He was defenseless.
Quackity’s voice dropped to a low, hateful whisper. “I’m going to teach you how to respect the Crown. I’m going to put you in your place.”
He drew back his foot. Dream saw it coming, saw the gleam of a boot in the gloom, but there was nowhere to go. The kick connected hard with his ribs, a sickening crack of impact that stole the air from his lungs and sent a blinding, searing pain through his side. He crumpled to the floor, his vision swimming with black spots.
He heard Quackity laugh, a cruel, guttural sound. The man loomed over him, a monstrous shape in the darkness. “Lesson one: shut the fuck up.”
He swung his metal-toed boot again.