Chapter Text
On a cool autumn night, as the wind whispered through the ancient pine forest, a small wooden cottage lay quietly hidden deep within the whispering woods. Inside, by the light of the fireplace, a little girl curled up in bed. On her left forearm, a strange crescent-shaped mark glowed with a pale silver light, faintly shimmering—it was the mark her mother had always called “the moon’s kiss.”
Although it was long past her usual bedtime, her wide, round eyes sparkled with excitement. She clutched her mother’s warm hand tightly. “Please, mommy, just tell me one story. I can’t fall asleep without a story.”
Her mother’s gaze was gentle as she leaned down and smiled at her daughter. She brushed a curl of hair from her forehead and kissed her there lightly. “All right, my little moon, I’ll tell you a story.”
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1652
The Kingdom of Eldoria is shrouded in mist year-round. The ancient peak known as the Elric Spire pierces the northern sky like a blade, its granite slopes covered in dark pine forests and scattered clouds. Montfort Castle has stood on the mountain for four hundred years. Its walls, as thick as a man is tall, are scarred by the sieges of the past. Ivy clings to the stone foundations, while deep green and silver banners flutter lazily atop the battlements. Inside the great hall, the light of torches flickered across tapestries depicting long-forgotten victories. The air was thick with the smoke of burning firewood, the scent of beeswax, and that faint metallic tang born of rain—a scent that seemed to linger eternally on this mountain. At the foot of the mountain, clusters of villages, large and small, huddled together, their people living in peace and prosperity.
King Jakob Lensherr ruled over these lands, seated beside Queen Edie, whose golden hair had once been the envy of every noblewoman at court. The years had softened her beauty, lending it a gentler grace, yet her eyes still shone with the compassion that had first captivated the king.
Their son, Erik Lensherr, was born four years ago on a clear spring night, when the mist briefly parted, allowing the stars to witness his arrival. Even as a young child, a radiance already shone within him. From an early age, his hair had grown into a striking silvery-white that fell like gentle waves to his shoulders, shimmering in the light of torches and glistening like moonlight on snow. The servants called it a blessing bestowed by the Mountain God. Erik was noble by nature, kind and brave, and had long been deeply beloved by the people.
Yet the royal couple still longed for another child. After Erik’s birth, despite their fervent prayers, pilgrimages to holy sites, and the careful care of every skilled healer in the kingdom, the queen’s womb remained empty. The king never spoke openly of his disappointment, but the queen could see the sorrow in his eyes as he gazed at the empty cradle in the royal nursery.
On a cold night in late autumn, as the mountain wind howled down through the pass and icy sleet stung the skin like needles, a small squadron of horsemen returned from the valley. They had been escorting a tax collector when disaster struck. A sudden landslide had completely buried a remote village. Only one person had survived.
The captain of the guard personally carried the bundle into the great hall. “Your Grace,” he said, his voice hoarse with cold and compassion, “we found this child beneath the broken beams of a small hut. The child is not yet two months old. As far as we know, he has no other relatives. We did not find his parents at the scene, but we discovered a small silver necklace around his neck, engraved with the name Remy Lebeau.”
The tiny infant stirred slightly beneath a thick layer of coarse wool. His deep chestnut curls were already tousled, and his striking reddish-brown eyes seemed far too clear for such a young child. He did not cry, but looked up at the light of the torches and the gathered crowd with a solemn and curious expression.
Before anyone could speak, the queen stepped down from the dais. With the practiced, composed grace of a mother, she took the child from the captain’s arms. The infant’s tiny fist clenched tightly around her finger. She stood silently for a long moment, tears sliding soundlessly down her cheeks.
“Poor little thing,” she turned to the king and asked, “can we keep him as our son?”
The king walked over to her side. He studied the infant’s face, then looked at his wife, and then at their four-year-old son, Erik, who stood at the edge of the dais, staring at them with wide eyes. In his wife’s eyes, he saw the longing that had lingered in their private chambers for so many years. He gently placed his hand on the child’s downy head.
“Of course, he shall be our child,” the king declared. “Let this be recorded. This child shall be raised as Prince Erik’s brother. Though not related by blood, he is nonetheless a prince of Eldoria.”
A murmur rippled through the assembled courtiers and attendants. Some smiled, while others exchanged anxious glances. It was highly unusual for a child of common birth to be adopted into the royal family, but the king’s word was law, and the queen’s joy was plain for all to see.
That evening, in the royal nursery, the queen sat beside the cradle. Four-year-old Erik had been allowed to stay up. He leaned over the smaller cradle, his large, earnest eyes wide open. “Will he be my little brother?”
“Yes, my darling,” the queen replied, smoothing Erik’s long, silvery-white hair. “In every important way, he will be your little brother. You must take care of him, just as a true prince protects his loved ones.”
Erik nodded solemnly. “I’ll teach him how to ride a horse. And I’ll teach him to share honey cake.”
The queen kissed her eldest son with tenderness, then leaned down and gently touched the new prince’s tiny forehead with her lips. Remy stirred, sighed, and drifted back into a deep sleep, safe and sound beneath the thick furs and under the watchful eyes of the mountain castle.
To those outside the royal circle, the years that followed shone as brightly as gold in their memories. The two boys grew up side by side, even though there was always a four-year age gap between them. Éric had become the very embodiment of the ideal prince. Though skilled in swordplay, he preferred to resolve disputes among his pages with words and fairness. When villagers fell ill, he would ride down the hill with the healers, carrying baskets filled with bread and medicine. At every festival, the people would cheer his name.
Remy, on the other hand, was completely different.
He was smaller in stature, more agile in movement, and more graceful in his demeanor. From early childhood, he carried himself like a court noble, even when barefoot in the stables. He learned faster than most, could recite folk songs after hearing them just once, and could mimic the accents of visiting merchants with astonishing accuracy. The queen often praised his elegance, and the king commended his sharp mind at court.
Yet behind those intelligent eyes lay a certain unease. He never knows when enough is enough.
When they both come of age, the king gradually showed a clear shift in attitude, pouring far more effort into raising and preparing Erik as the true heir. He spent long hours in the council chamber with his firstborn, teaching him the intricacies of court politics, diplomacy, and leadership, often keeping Remy on the sidelines with only occasional, briefer words of guidance. However, the queen noticed Remy's deepening discontent. Her love for the boy was no less than her love for her own flesh and blood, so she often sought him out in private to talk—comforting him with gentle words, embracing him warmly, and reminding him how cherished he was in this family. Yet to Remy, her kind words meant nothing. He would always listen politely with a half-hearted smile, but inside he felt nothing but indifference and resentment.
When Erik turned 23, during the annual Harvest Festival, a seemingly minor yet far-reaching incident occurred during the traditional public jousting tournament. Erik gave his full effort in the competition, fighting with superb skill and a noble sense of honor to show his utmost respect for his opponent. Although he ultimately emerged victorious, he generously shared the champion’s medal with the other knight and, in front of the entire audience, praised Sir Alden’s valiant performance. The audience cheered and applauded his humility and sportsmanship. Remy, who had previously amazed the audience with his flawless technique and precision, now stood beside his brother on the high platform, accepting the award together. He maintained the perfect smile he always displayed in public, but a flicker of resentment crossed his eyes when the king proudly patted Erik on the shoulder and the queen smiled at her eldest son with unmistakable tenderness.
Later, in private, however, as Remy studied his medal, there was no joy in his eyes. “You didn’t have to share this medal at all. You could have won cleanly and decisively. The people would love you even more that way.”
Erik shrugged. “What does it matter? Sir Alden fought with everything he had and showed true courage. That’s worth more than adding another victory to my record.”
Remy said nothing more. The praise that had once poured down on his elder brother like warm rain now seemed to slide off his skin, leaving only a faint chill in its wake. He told himself it didn’t matter. He was a prince now—an adopted one, true, but dressed in velvet robes and taught by the same tutor. Yet every time the villagers bowed deeper to Erik, every time the king’s hand lingered a little longer on his shoulder, or the queen laughed most heartily at his stories, that tiny, cold seed in Remy’s heart would sprout another root.
But so many years had passed, and the differences between the two had become increasingly stark—something anyone paying close attention could see.
When bandits threatened the western pass, Erik always led the guard to the very front lines; when a farmer needed to mend a broken fence, he was always the first to dismount and lend a hand. Young ladies would blush as he passed by; veteran soldiers would pat him on the back, calling him “our future king.” Remy, on the other hand, had become the very embodiment of courtly elegance. His doublet was always spotless, his manners impeccable—yet he was forever more concerned with himself.
Whenever Erik received spontaneous cheers from the castle’s inhabitants, Remy’s gaze would linger; and whenever the minstrel sang another verse praising “Prince Erik’s noble character,” the fingers gripping the stem of his wine glass would unconsciously tense.
One early spring afternoon, as the mist cleared, the two princes rode side by side along the mountain path. The purpose of their journey was to preside over the consecration ceremony for the newly built bridge over the Elowen River—a project Erik had strongly championed following last year’s floods. Villagers lined the road, waving green branches and offering loud prayers of blessing.
Erik raised his hand in greeting, his smile warm and natural. A little girl, holding a wreath of freshly blooming wildflowers, dashed up to him. He leaned forward from his saddle to accept the wreath, then gently placed it on the girl’s head. Remy, riding half a horse-length behind, remained composed. When a few villagers remembered to cheer for him as well, he acknowledged them with a slight nod of the head, in the most elegant manner. But deep inside, that old jealousy was slowly unfurling, like a snake awakening from hibernation.
He doesn’t deserve any of this, Remy thought. It all flows to him so naturally, just as water flows downhill.
That night, Remy stood alone in the library high above, where moonlight bathed the parchments in silver. He stood before the enormous genealogical tapestry chronicling the Lensherr family lineage. His own name had been embroidered there later, stitched onto the fabric beside Erik’s name as if it had always belonged there. He traced the golden thread of his name with his fingertips.
“Adopted brother,” he whispered to the empty room.