Chapter Text
The academy gates loomed behind him—iron and marble and judgment.
“Freak,” one of the boys had sneered, laughter sharp as stones. “You won’t be a king if you can’t even fight for yourself!”
Fyodor said nothing. He only stared back, eyes dark and shaking with something he didn’t yet have words for. Anger. Shame. Fear. All of it tangled together.
When the laughter rose again, he turned and ran.
“Fyodor!” a girl called after him—one of the few who’d ever spoken to him without cruelty. She rounded on the boys instead, fists clenched. “Ugh—he’s still a prince! Being mean won’t make you a good king either, you know!”
Her words barely reached him.
Fyodor didn’t stop until the stone paths gave way to dirt and roots, the manicured gardens thinning into the edge of the forest that bordered the school grounds. His breath burned. His vision blurred. He didn’t see the root until his foot caught—
He went down hard.
The impact knocked the air from his lungs, palms scraping against the ground. Pain flared sharp and hot in his knee. He pushed himself up, hissing, and staggered forward until the trees opened into a small clearing.
A pond lay there, still and silver, reflecting the sky like a secret it promised to keep.
Fyodor crouched at its edge. His hands trembled as he stared at his reflection—red-eyed, dirt-streaked, crownless. His chest hitched, the sob already clawing its way up—
“Hey.”
Fyodor froze.
He spun around, heart slamming into his ribs.
A boy stood a few steps away—about his age, maybe a little taller, hair pale and messy, clothes worn in a way that marked him as not academy-born. His eyes were bright, curious rather than cruel.
“Are you okay?” the boy asked, already stepping closer. His gaze dropped immediately. “Your knee…”
Fyodor straightened at once, swiping at his face, shoulders stiffening like he’d been caught doing something shameful.
“I—I’m alrigh—”
“It’s bleeding,” the boy interrupted, matter-of-fact but gentle. “Stay still.”
Before Fyodor could protest, the boy knelt in front of him, movements quick and practiced. He tore a strip of cloth from the edge of his sleeve without hesitation, then dipped it into the pond.
Fyodor sucked in a breath. “You don’t have to—”
“Shh,” the boy said lightly, glancing up with a grin that was almost mischievous. “It’ll sting less if you don’t watch.”
He cleaned the scrape carefully, fingers steady, surprisingly warm. The water was cold, but the touch wasn’t. Fyodor clenched his hands in his lap, stunned into silence.
“There,” the boy murmured, tying the cloth gently around the wound. “Not perfect, but it’ll do.”
Fyodor stared at the makeshift bandage. Then at the boy.
“…Thank you,” he said quietly, the words feeling unfamiliar on his tongue.
The boy beamed, sitting back on his heels. “Anytime. I’m Nikolai.”
A pause.
“…Fyodor,” he replied.
Nikolai tilted his head, eyes flicking over him again—his posture, his speech, the faint crest on his uniform half-hidden by dirt.
“…Huh.”
Fyodor tensed. “Huh…what?”
Nikolai’s smile widened. “You look like someone who shouldn’t be crying alone in the woods.”
Fyodor blinked.
And for the first time that day—maybe the first time in a long while—his chest loosened just a little.
Nikolai tilted his head, studying him a little more closely now.
“So,” he asked lightly, “what are you doing out here?”
Fyodor hesitated, fingers curling into the fabric of his uniform. “I, uh… I was at school…”
“You ran away from school, huh,” Nikolai said, not unkindly. “I see.”
Fyodor nodded, gaze dropping to the pond. “It’s… it’s my last week. I’ll shift to homeschool after that.”
“Oh.” Nikolai’s voice softened. He leaned back on his hands, boots brushing the damp earth. “Must be rough. And lonely…” He glanced at Fyodor again, eyes gentler now. “But at least when you’re homeschooled, you’re at your safe space, yeah?”
Fyodor nodded again—this time with a small, fragile smile. “…Yes.”
The moment shattered.
“There!” a voice shouted from somewhere beyond the trees. “Thief!”
Nikolai’s head snapped up. His expression changed instantly—alert, sharp, alive.
“…Oh shoot.” He scrambled to his feet, already backing away. “Sorry, I gotta go!”
“Wha— wait!” Fyodor blurted.
But Nikolai was already gone, darting between the trees like he’d never been there at all.
A heartbeat later, armored boots thundered into the clearing.
The guards skidded to a halt when they saw him.
“…That’s a Dostoevsky—” one of them began, then stiffened. “Your Highness! What are you doing here? You’re injured!”
Fyodor straightened at once, schooling his expression, his hand instinctively hovering near the bandage on his knee. “I’m fine,” he said quietly. “I got in an accident at school.”
The guards exchanged glances.
“I see,” one said, bowing slightly. “We shall escort you back, then?”
Fyodor looked once more at the trees Nikolai had disappeared into—at the empty space by the pond.
“…Ah. Yes,” he replied at last. “Thank you.”
And as they led him away, the cloth around his knee felt strangely warm, like proof that the forest had not been empty after all.
…
The palace felt too quiet when Fyodor was brought back.
The doors to the lounge closed behind him with a dull, final thud, cutting off the sounds of hurried footsteps and murmured concern. A servant knelt at once, another hovering nearby with clean water and fresh cloth. His father stood by the window, hands clasped behind his back, his silhouette rigid against the evening light.
“What happened in class?” the King asked without turning. His voice was calm—too calm.
Fyodor straightened instinctively. “I slipped,” he said, measured, rehearsed already. “I fell while running during recess.”
The King finally turned, eyes sharp, searching his son’s face for cracks. “You left the grounds.”
“Yes, Father.”
A pause. Heavy. Assessing.
“You are not to leave the academy without escort,” the King said at last. “Especially not injured. You understand why.”
“Yes,” Fyodor replied, fingers curling slightly at his sides.
The servants moved in closer. One reached gently for his knee, where the darkened cloth had already soaked through in places. “Your Highness, we’ll replace this,” he said softly. “It’s dirty.”
His fingers brushed the edge of the makeshift bandage.
Fyodor flinched—not hard, but enough.
“Wait,” he said before he could stop himself.
The servant froze. “Your Highness?”
Fyodor looked down at the cloth. It was unevenly torn, edges frayed, stained with dried blood and pond water. Crude. Improper. Nothing that belonged in a palace.
And yet—
“I… want to keep it,” he said quietly.
The room stilled.
The King’s brow furrowed. “Fyodor.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Fyodor added quickly, too quickly. “You can clean the wound. Just—don’t throw it away.”
The servant hesitated, glancing to the King for permission.
Another pause. Then a small, dismissive nod.
“Very well.” the King sighed, then muttered, “He likes to keep… strange things.”
The servant carefully loosened the cloth, replacing it with clean linen, but folded the old one neatly instead of discarding it. He placed it into Fyodor’s hands.
The moment his fingers released it, Fyodor closed his own around the fabric, holding it tighter than necessary.
No one commented.
Later, alone in his room, Fyodor sat at the edge of his bed, the palace quietly settling in around him like snow. He unfolded the cloth once more, staring at the uneven tear, at the faint traces of blood that were no longer frightening—just proof.
Someone cared. Genuinely. Treated him like another human being instead of an heir worthy of wealth.
He folded it carefully and tucked it away, hidden in one of his shelves under the desk, where no one else could see it.