Chapter Text
Michael was bleeding.
One hand pressed hard against the wound in his stomach, though the blood still slipped through his fingers in dark streams. Breathing heavily, he collapsed against a jagged stone, too weak now to rise.
Pain clouded his thoughts, yet frustration burned fiercer still.
Prince Michael was renowned throughout his kingdom as one of its finest knights, not merely for his skill with a blade, but for his sharp mind upon the battlefield. Though his father, the king, had long disapproved of his direct involvement in war, Michael had never been one to watch from the safety of castle walls while others bled in his stead.
Now, because of that stubbornness, he lay dying in the dirt. He should have known better. He should not have stepped before the arrow.
Yet even as the thought crossed his mind, he knew he would make the same choice again.
The arrow had been meant for Sir Lucas, his right-hand knight and dearest companion since childhood. Michael had seen it flying through the chaos of battle and shoved Lucas aside without thought, taking the strike himself.
The opposing army had begun closing in soon after.
Fortune, however, had granted them a brief mercy. Fighting had erupted upon the western flank, drawing much of the enemy away and giving Michael enough time to think clearly. He had ordered Lucas and the remaining soldiers to retreat safely to the kingdom while he sought shelter behind the rocky hillside.
In truth, he knew he would never survive the journey back. He had grown too weak, and slowing the retreat would have cost more lives. That was something Michael could not bear, not deaths caused by his own injury.
So he hid.
Moments later, the thunder of hooves echoed nearby.
Michael stiffened. A group of mounted soldiers emerged through the drifting smoke of battle and reined their horses to a halt before him. He cursed beneath his breath. His sword had been entrusted to Lucas before they parted, lest it fall into enemy hands.
Now he stood defenceless.
One of the riders dismounted and approached cautiously. As the man drew nearer, Michael recognised the crest engraved upon the armour, the enemy kingdom.
His pulse quickened.
There were only two choices before him now.
Speak the truth and likely die where he stood
or, lie and live another day.
The soldier unsheathed his sword, levelling its tip toward Michael’s chest.
“Who are you?” the man demanded.
“Michael, sir,” he answered quietly, lowering his voice.
The soldier narrowed his eyes. “One of ours?”
Michael hesitated only a moment.
“Yes, sir… I believe so.” He feigned a grimace, letting his expression twist with pain. “I struck my head during the fighting. Truthfully… I cannot fully remember.”
The lie came easier than he expected. After a short silence, the soldier slowly lowered his blade.
“Can you stand?”
“I can try.”
The man extended a hand. Michael grasped it with trembling fingers and was hauled unsteadily to his feet.
“We’ll take you back with us,” the soldier said. “The court physician shall see to your wounds.”
Michael bowed his head slightly. “You have my thanks, sir.”
And so they rode toward the enemy kingdom.
Michael had imagined countless times what it might feel like to finally pass through those great gates. In every vision, he had entered victorious, clad in armour, banners flying high above him.
Never wounded, never hidden beneath a false narrative, and certainly never as the enemy they believed him to be.
However, Michael could not allow himself to dwell upon such thoughts now.
He was badly wounded, there was no denying it. Each breath sent pain through his body, and the warmth of blood still soaked through the cloth pressed against his side. As the company rode nearer to the castle gates, he found himself clinging to a single desperate hope:
that this court physician, whoever they were, possessed the skill to save him.
“You men head to the stables and see to yourselves,” the soldier commanded as they entered the courtyard. “I shall take this one to the castle. Prince William will wish to see him.”
William? Prince William?
Michael frowned weakly. He had expected a physician, not the enemy prince himself.
Before he could question it, the soldier halted his horse and helped drag Michael carefully to the ground.
“Come,” the man said.
Michael followed as best he could, each step unsteady.
Rather than leading him through the grand halls of the castle, the soldier guided him toward a quieter stone passage along the side of the keep. They stopped before a large wooden door left slightly ajar, warm candlelight spilling through the opening.
The room beyond resembled an infirmary of sorts, though unlike any Michael had seen before.
Shelves lined the walls, crowded with ancient books, glass vials, dried herbs, and strange metal instruments whose purpose Michael could not guess. Nothing seemed perfectly ordered, yet the room held a curious sense of life to it, as though knowledge itself had been scattered across every surface.
The soldier knocked gently against the doorframe.
“Prince William?” he called.
A moment later, movement stirred from one of the adjoining rooms.
Then William appeared.
Michael found himself staring.
The prince possessed soft brown hair that curled slightly at the ends and kind eyes that seemed far gentler than any Michael had expected from the son of an enemy king. Draped over his frame was a deep violet robe embroidered with tiny silver stars that shimmered faintly in the candlelight. A heavy book rested in one hand as he stepped into the room, surprise flickering briefly across his features when he saw them.
“Dustin, you’ve returned,” William said, approaching. His voice was calm and warm. “And I have told you countless times not to announce myself so formally.”
“My apologies, Your Highness,” the soldier replied with a grin.
William rolled his eyes with familiar fondness before turning his attention toward Michael.
“Come inside.”
“William, this man was injured upon the battlefield,” Dustin explained as he guided Michael further into the room and eased him into a chair. “I know not whether his wounds can be mended… but I have never doubted your skill.”
“Well,” William murmured, setting aside his book as he pulled a stool before Michael, “let us see what can be done.”
As the prince sat before him, Michael could finally see him clearly.
Every detail.
The softness of his features. The small mole resting above his lip. The faint flush upon his cheeks from the warmth of the room.
He was… astonishing. Far too beautiful for a man Michael was meant to despise.
“Well,” William said after examining the wound, a small smile tugging at his lips, “I have treated far worse.”
Michael nearly scoffed aloud.
Far worse? He was fairly certain he was moments from death.
Still, William’s smile carried a strange sort of reassurance to it.
“Do not trouble yourself, Dustin,” the prince continued. “I shall have him healed soon enough. Though…” his gaze flickered back toward Michael, “he will need to remain here in the infirmary for some time.”
For some time…
Michael resisted the urge to curse aloud.
His family likely believed him dead already. Every moment spent within enemy walls only delayed the day he could return home.
“Not a problem, is it, Michael?” Dustin asked, though the tone of his voice made it clear the question required no true answer.
“Of course not,” Michael replied politely, forcing composure into his voice as he looked toward William. “You have my gratitude, Your Grace.”
William smiled faintly at that.
“Dustin, I believe my sister was expecting your return.”
At once, Dustin straightened. “Ah… yes, Your Highness. You must excuse me, then.”
With a respectful bow, the man departed, the heavy wooden door closing softly behind him.
Silence settled across the infirmary. Michael’s gaze lingered upon the doorway for only a moment before William’s voice drew him back.
“How were you injured?”
“An arrow, Your Highness.”
William sighed softly, though amusement flickered in his eyes.
“There is no need to address me so formally,” he said as he crossed toward one of the shelves, retrieving a small crystal vial filled with pale blue liquid. “You may simply call me William.”
Michael hesitated awkwardly. “Right… of course, Your High—” He stopped himself. “William.”
A quiet chuckle escaped the prince.
“I am going to lift your shirt,” William warned gently. “Is that acceptable?”
Michael nodded.
Carefully, William raised the bloodstained fabric and began cleaning the wound with a cloth soaked in warm water. His hands were steady and unexpectedly gentle. Once the blood had been wiped away, he uncorked the vial and poured a small amount of the potion directly against the deepest part of the wound.
Then William closed his eyes. Soft words, spoken in a language Michael did not recognise, slipped from the prince’s lips. A warm light bloomed beneath his hands.
Michael felt the pain vanish almost instantly.
His breath caught as the wound closed before his very eyes, flesh knitting together as though the injury had never existed at all.
“Incredible,” Michael breathed before he could stop himself.
William opened his eyes again, smiling slightly. “Thank you.”
Michael stared at him in disbelief.
“You… you are a sorcerer?”
No report from his kingdom had ever mentioned this. Magic itself was uncommon, though not unheard of, a few craftsmen served within Michael’s own lands, yet this…
This was something far greater.
“Yes,” William replied easily as he sealed the potion bottle once more. “Though healing is where my strongest gifts lie. I am what many would call a cleric.”
“A cleric…” Michael repeated, unable to hide the admiration in his voice.
William smiled again, softer this time.
“Well,” he said after a moment, “you are fit enough to leave now, Michael.”
“L-leave?” The disappointment in Michael’s voice escaped before he could hide it. “I thought you said I would need to remain here several days.”
William laughed quietly.
“I would strongly recommend you stay and rest,” he admitted. “But physically, you are no longer in danger. I know how soldiers tend to be, one night in an infirmary is already too much for most of them.”
“I…” Michael hesitated, grasping quickly for the lie he had already begun weaving. “I am not entirely certain where I ought to go, Prince William. My memory still feels somewhat unclear. Perhaps I should remain a little longer… if that is permitted.”
At once, William’s expression shifted with concern.
“Oh. Of course Michael, my apologies.” He straightened slightly. “You are welcome to stay as long as necessary. If you would prefer more comfortable chambers, I am certain my father would gladly allow you to remain within the castle itself.”
Something about those words struck Michael harder than the arrow ever had. He should have been planning his escape. He should have been searching for a way home.
Yet despite every warning in his mind, Michael found himself nodding.
“Thank you,” he said quietly.
William’s answering smile felt dangerously easy to become accustomed to.
William gathered a few belongings from the infirmary before motioning for Michael to follow.
Together, they made their way through the castle halls. Michael kept his expression carefully neutral as he walked beside the enemy prince, though inwardly he studied everything, the towering stone archways, the banners hanging from the walls, the guards stationed at each corridor. Information was valuable, especially within enemy territory.
Yet despite himself, his attention continued drifting back toward William.
The prince greeted servants kindly as they passed and slowed his pace whenever Michael faltered, as though genuinely concerned for his wellbeing.
It was… unsettling.
Eventually, William stopped before a chamber near the eastern wing of the castle and pushed the door open.
The room within was modest by royal standards, though far finer than any quarters given to ordinary soldiers. A fire crackled softly within the hearth, warming the stone walls, and heavy curtains framed the narrow windows overlooking the courtyard below.
“You may stay here for several days,” William said. “I shall inform the king myself.”
Michael bowed his head politely.
“You have my thanks, Your Highness.”
William gave him a pointed look at the title, though amusement lingered within his expression.
“I shall send for you when supper is prepared. Until then, you should rest.”
“Understood.”
William lingered only a moment longer at the doorway. “I will see you later, Michael.”
Then he was gone, the door closed softly behind him, leaving Michael alone at last.
For a long moment, silence filled the chamber.
This was good.
It granted him time to think, time to devise a proper plan. He needed to determine how far he was from the border, whether word of his disappearance had reached his kingdom, and most importantly, how he intended to escape without revealing his true identity.
Yet as Michael sank slowly onto the edge of the bed, another thought intruded upon his mind.
Willam.
Michael groaned quietly and pressed a hand over his face, this was going to become a problem.