Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Kingdom of England was one of the oldest monarchies in the world. Its history was carved into stone, whispered in the halls of ancient castles, and bled into the soil where battles had been fought in the name of kings. For centuries, the Spring family had ruled from their golden seat in London, their power woven so deeply into the land that to question their authority was to question England itself.

The monarchy had survived wars, invasions, betrayals, and uprisings, each attempt to unseat them crushed beneath the weight of tradition. The people were taught that kings were not merely rulers but symbols—a divine force, as eternal as the stars. And so, while other nations watched their monarchies crumble, the Kingdom of England remained steadfast.

But beneath the surface, there was rot.

Where there was power, there was corruption. Where there was wealth, there was suffering. And where there was a crown, there were those who longed to rip it from the head that wore it.

A king was not just a ruler. He was anointed by history, woven into the fabric of the nation itself. To question him was to question England.

But belief was a fragile thing.

Nick Nelson had long since stopped believing in fairy tales.

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Once, he had been close to power. Close enough to almost belong.

His father, Stéphane de Fournier, had been a nobleman of great wealth, an aristocrat whose bloodline traced back to French lords who had pledged loyalty to the English crown centuries ago. His world was grand estates, whispered political schemes, and lavish feasts where the poor were nothing but a concept.

And then, he had met Sarah Nelson.

She had been the daughter of a bookseller—a girl of sharp wit and quiet beauty, raised in the warmth of words rather than wealth. Stéphane had charmed her, weaving promises that had never been meant to last. She had believed him.

And then, David was born.

For a time, Stéphane had done the right thing. He had kept her hidden, kept the boy cared for, slipping money into her hands and telling her that, soon, he would fix everything.

Then she had fallen pregnant again.

And Nick was born.

Nick had been born into a strange in-between, neither noble nor commoner. A secret. He had spent his first years wrapped in silks, living in the shadow of a father who visited in secret, who brought gifts that sparkled but never stayed. There had been moments when he had felt loved. Moments when he had believed that, one day, his father would take his hand and bring him into the world he had been denied.

But Stéphane’s love had run out.

A second bastard child was too much—a mistake he could no longer ignore. His family  and the whole nobility had found out, and trying to escape the scandal, he had cut them off entirely.

The money stopped. The visits ceased.

Nick was five the first time he saw his mother cry out of hunger.

She had gone from a hidden mistress to a fallen woman, her reputation shattered, her future reduced to dust. There were no friends to call upon, no noble sympathies for a girl foolish enough to believe in love. She had been abandoned.

And so she had done what she had to do.

They had moved from their small house in Sussex to the slums of London, where Sarah took work as a seamstress, a maid, a washerwoman—whatever put food on the table. She had worked until her fingers bled, until exhaustion left her swaying on her feet, until Nick and David learned to put themselves to bed because their mother was too tired to stand.

Nick had learned quickly that the world did not care about people like them.

He had learned to fight for scraps in the streets, to steal when his mother’s wages weren’t enough, to protect his brother from the sharp cruelty of the city’s slums. And he had learned that while men like Stéphane lived in palaces, women like Sarah died in poverty.

And so, he had made a vow.

His mother had given everything for them.

And he would not let that sacrifice be in vain.

At seventeen, Nick followed his brother into the shadows.

The Republican movement had existed in whispers for decades, a cause that lurked in the dark, waiting for its moment. Men and women who had lost everything to the monarchy, who saw through the illusion of divine right.

The Republican movement was not just a cause. It was a war.

A war fought in the dark, in the streets, in the silence between words.

Nick had spent six years learning what it meant to be hunted.

The monarchy had made it clear—there was no forgiveness for traitors. Rebels were executed without trial, tortured for information, erased from history like they had never existed.

They never met in the same place twice. One night, it was an abandoned wine cellar beneath a noble’s estate, the next, a safehouse buried in the countryside. Messages were passed in coded letters, whispered through false names, written in disappearing ink.

They lived in constant paranoia. Their normal lives in the daylight, and their revolutionary ones in the shadows of the night,

Anyone could be a spy. A friend, a lover, a trusted ally—the monarchy paid well for betrayal. Nick had seen men hanged because someone they trusted had whispered the wrong name.

The king’s men—the Black Cloaks—were relentless. They were shadows in their own right, hunters of the crown, trained to track down and destroy the any attempt to hurt the monarchy.

The aristocrats defended by the Monarchy had stolen their mother’s life. Sarah still passed hours working every day

So Nick would steal the monarchy’s.

For six years, he had worked in the shadows.

Gathering intelligence. 

Stealing. Gold, documents, artifacts—anything that could fund the cause or expose the corruption of the elite.

Destroying. The mansions of the rich had burned under his hands, their wealth reduced to ash, a warning carved into their gates: For the People.

Nick had escaped from the Black Cloaks more times than he cared to count.

He had watched fellow rebels be dragged into the night, never to be seen again. He had walked past corpses strung up in the town square—warnings for those who dared to dream of a world without kings.

This wasn’t just about ideology.

This was survival.

And after everything he had lost, Nick had no intention of dying for nothing.

So it wasn’t a surprise that the highest in the movement had called him.

The meeting was held in a candlelit chamber, hidden deep beneath the city.

The air was thick with the scent of damp stone and old parchment, the shadows flickering against rough-hewn walls. The highest members of the Polygon were gathered around a long wooden table, their faces half-lit by the glow of lanterns.

These were the ones who pulled the strings, who had spent years shaping the rebellion from whispers into something real.

And Nick Nelson stood before them, waiting.

At the head of the table sat Harry Greene, the closest thing the rebels had to a leader—not a king, never a king, but a man whose voice carried weight. His eyes were sharp, his presence commanding. To his left, Imogen Heaney, a woman known for her ruthless efficiency, sat with her hands folded, watching Nick with something close to amusement. Others were there too—faces Nick recognized, figures who had shaped the war he had dedicated his life to.

And among them, David.

His brother leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, an unreadable expression on his face.

It was Harry who spoke first.

“Nick Nelson.”

The way he said it, with that weight, that certainty—it almost felt like a title.

He sat forward slightly. “You have dedicated your life to this cause.”

Nick said nothing. He had never done this for recognition. He had done it because he had no other choice.

Harry’s voice was steady. “You hate nobility.”

Nick felt something coil tight in his chest. Memories surfaced, unbidden.

His mother—on her hands and knees, scrubbing the floors of men who would never respect her.

His brother—begging for bread when they had been cast aside like filth.

His father—watching them starve and doing nothing.

Nick clenched his jaw. “Yes.”

Ben nodded, unsurprised. “You hate the monarchy.”

His mother coughing up blood in a freezing winter, while the king’s court held feasts that lasted for days.

The Black Cloaks dragging rebels into the night, never to be seen again.

The golden palaces while the people starved.

Nick stared at him. “Yes.”

Imogen let out a soft, approving hum. “Good.”

Harry steepled his fingers. “To destroy the monarchy is to destroy nobility itself. And the only way to do that is by cutting off the head of the beast.”

He leaned forward. “The time has come, Nick. And we have chosen you for the most important mission in the history of our movement.”

A pause. Then—

“Could you accept it?”

Nick didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

Imogen chuckled, shaking her head. “You might want to hear what it is first, before you throw yourself to the wolves.”

Nick didn’t care. He had never turned down a mission before. He wasn’t about to start now.

“Whatever it is, I can handle it.”

Harry exchanged a glance with Imogen before nodding to the man sitting beside him—Ben Hope, the movement’s strategist, one of the most mysterious also, no one knew nothing of his past. Ben pulled out a stack of parchment and slid it toward Nick.

A biography.

The name at the top sent a slow wave of realization through his chest.

Charles Francis Spring

Heir to the Throne of England

Nick exhaled sharply.

Ben spoke, his voice measured. “Before we explain your mission, you must understand who you’re dealing with.”

Nick scanned the page.

Prince Charles Francis Spring, firstborn son of King Julio and Queen Jane, heir to the Throne.

Born on the 27 of April, the prince was raised in the Rose Wing of the royal palace, where he was educated under the best scholars in the kingdom.

He had a keen mind—fluent in five languages, well-versed in politics, history, and philosophy. A prince raised not to rule with strength, but with diplomacy.

Nick frowned slightly. That was… unusual. Most heirs were raised to be ruthless.

Ben lips curled into a wry smile. “People say he’s soft. He’s been groomed to be kind, to listen to the people. The king is getting old, and many believe he will take the throne sooner rather than later.”

Nick hated the monarchy, but a part of him felt something strange at the idea of a king who actually… cared.

Imogen scoffed. “Don’t be fooled. He’s still a prince.”

Nick clenched his jaw. Right.

It didn’t matter what kind of ruler Prince Charlie would become. The monarchy itself was the problem.

Harry sat back, studying Nick carefully. “Do you understand why this is important?”

Nick nodded. “The prince is the heir to the throne. If we take him, the monarchy is weak.”

Imogen let out a quiet laugh. “That is the simple version, yes.”

She reached for another parchment—the royal decree.

Nick stared at it as she pushed it toward him.

“The palace has made an announcement.”

His eyes flicked over the words. His stomach twisted.

Prince Charlie has come of age.

And as tradition dictated, the Crown was searching for young men to join his personal guard—The Swords of the Treasure.

Nick’s stomach twisted. He had heard of them before.

The Swords of the Treasure were not just bodyguards. They were the prince’s closest companions, his shadow, his shield. They trained beside him, lived in the palace, stood at his side through everything.

It was a position built on loyalty and trust.

Harry’s voice was calm but firm. “Using your father’s name, you will be chosen.”

Nick stiffened.

His father’s name. Stéphane de Fournier.

A name that meant something. A name with power.

Even as a bastard, it would be enough to get him inside.

Madeline tapped the parchment. “You will enter the palace as one of the prince’s guards.”

“You will earn his trust.”

“You will become his friend.”

Nick barely noticed the way his fists clenched.

“And during those months, you will study the palace. Every corridor. Every secret passage. Every vulnerability.”

Imogen leaned forward, her voice dropping lower.

“And after that?”

A pause.

“You kidnap Prince Charlie.”

Silence.

“You take him from the palace and bring him to us.”

Harry broke the silence. “Nick, you’ve proven yourself time and again. You’ve fought for our cause since you were a child, dedicated yourself to the downfall of the monarchy. You hate them as we do. You hate what they stand for—an unearned legacy of wealth, privilege, and oppression. And now, we need you to take that hatred to the very heart of the beast.”

Nick’s pulse quickened. “Yes,” he said, his voice steady, his words like the crack of a whip. “I’ll do whatever it takes.”

The room hummed with approval, murmurs of agreement spreading. Imogen, her sharp eyes gleaming, spoke up next, her tone measured but firm. “This is not a task to take lightly, Nick. You’ve served us well, but this is… different. This mission is a matter of delicate diplomacy and calculated deception. We need you to infiltrate the Royal Palace. Become one of their own. Live among them. And, when the time is right, you’ll take the most precious prize of all.”

Nick’s brow furrowed, but he did not hesitate. “I’m ready,” he said, his voice unwavering.

The woman gave him a nod, but there was a flicker of concern in her eyes as she motioned for the others to speak. The leader stepped forward again, his voice low but with an edge of authority. “You know the stakes, Nick. This year is pivotal. The monarchy has made its announcement: Prince Charlie, the heir to the throne, has come of age, and he is ready to start working for the crown.

Nick’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. He had heard of Prince Charlie, but his knowledge was limited. The image that came to mind was a spoiled royal, pampered and protected, a puppet of the system.

“He’s a key figure,” Ben continued, his voice thick with disdain. “Not just because of his position, but because of who he represents. He is the face of everything we fight against. A symbol of corruption, privilege, and a past we need to bury. The monarchy doesn’t just want him to rule—they want him to lead the next generation of the privileged elite.”

Nick clenched his jaw. The very thought of it made his blood boil.

“You understand his position,” Harry said, his voice edged with loathing. “You understand why he is important. But what you don’t yet understand, Nick, is why he is irreplaceable.”

Nick frowned, his arms crossed. “He’s the heir. That’s reason enough, isn’t it?”

Imogen leaned forward, her dark eyes gleaming in the dim light. “It goes beyond that. He isn’t just any heir. He is the last of his kind.”

Nick’s brows furrowed.

“Centuries ago,” the woman continued, “there were men in the Spring bloodline who could bear children. A trait passed down through generations, tied to their ancient lineage. For years, it was seen as their greatest gift—an ability that set them apart from the other royal houses of Europe. But over time, the trait weakened. It became rarer. Generations passed, and one by one, those who carried it disappeared.”

She paused, her lips curling into something between a sneer and a grimace. “And now, after centuries, only one remains.”

Nick’s stomach churned. He wasn’t sure what he had expected to hear, but this? This was…

“So you’re telling me,” he said slowly, voice tight with distaste, “that Charlie Spring isn’t just some heir. He’s their last hope of continuing this bloodline of freaks?”

A few of the commanders exchanged glances, but none of them corrected him.

“Yes,” Harry confirmed, his expression unreadable. “Without him, the monarchy’s future is uncertain. Without him, their so-called divine legacy is at risk of extinction.”

Nick clenched his fists. So that was it. That was why they needed him. Why they protected him. Why he had been wrapped in silk and gold since the moment he was born—because he was their last, precious little breeding tool.

“They have been desperate to hide this from the public,” David added, voice dripping with disgust. “If the people knew how fragile their dynasty truly is, how their entire future rests on the shoulders of one pampered, spineless brat—” He exhaled sharply. “The monarchy would crumble under the weight of its own weakness.”

“Charlie has been sheltered from the real world, Nick,” Imogen said, her voice dripping with contempt. “While our people starve, he reads philosophy and poetry in his gilded palace. He debates ethics, but he’s never had to live by them. He doesn’t understand what it means to fight for survival, to lose everything to the greed of those above him.”

Nick’s fists clenched at his sides, his nails digging into his palms. “I understand,” he said, his voice low, cold. “I’ve had enough of their kind.”

“Good,” Harry nodded approvingly. “Then you know why we’ve chosen you for this task. We don’t trust anyone else. Not even David, though he’s proven himself loyal. This mission requires someone who can get close, someone who can gain the prince’s trust, someone who can become indispensable.”

Nick’s heart beat faster at the thought. He would do it. He would take down the monarchy, piece by piece. He would destroy everything Charlie represented.

“I’ll do it,” Nick said, without hesitation. “I’ll bring him down.”

The room fell silent for a moment as the commanders exchanged approving glances. Then Harry spoke again, his voice hard. “Good. We trust you, Nick. The future of the Republic depends on you. Don’t fail us.”

Nick stood tall, his mind racing. The weight of the mission was heavy, but his resolve was stronger. The monarchy would fall.  Nick would ensure it even though he knew he would probably want to kill the prince once he got closer to him.

Oh, how wrong was he.

Chapter Text

The stone building loomed ahead, unadorned and stern, like it had been carved straight from the cliffs above the city. There were no banners here, no guards in shining uniforms, no golden trim. Just a single iron door, cracked open enough to remind passersby that the crown’s reach was not only in its palaces, but also in its ledgers.

Nick pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The air was dry, papery, and still. Rows of cabinets lined the walls behind the front desk, each drawer labeled with worn brass plates: Citizen Oaths, Military Allegiances, Noble Registries, Birthright Disputes. A man sat hunched at the counter, sleeves rolled, spectacles perched low on his nose as he inked a line across a parchment with slow precision.

The clerk didn’t look up. “State your purpose.”

“I’m here to register for the Swords of the Treasure.”

That made the clerk stop. He glanced up, blinked at Nick’s figure—tall, lean, dusty from travel, and clearly not the typical applicant. His eyes flicked to Nick’s clothes: sturdy, clean, but not noble. Not royal guard material, either.

“You’ve got the wrong building. You’ll want the city garrison.”

“I didn’t come to swing a guard’s blade,” Nick replied. “I came for the Swords.”

A long pause. The clerk set down his quill.

“They don’t accept many. Especially not—” He looked again, closer this time. “Not men like you.”

Nick arched an eyebrow. “Men like me?”

“While usually the Treasure of the Swords are not noble-blooded, they don’t usually take men from... such conditions” He said probably referring to Nick’s evident belonging to the lower class “Usually they take people from the burguesy.It’s a symbol, son. The Swords are sworn to the heir, alas they have to know social etiquette, you don’t look the boy to know such things .”

Nick’s jaw clenched. He hated this part.

“I’m not a noble,” he said quietly.

The clerk raised one brow.

Nick exhaled, and when he spoke again, his voice dropped into something sharp and cold. “I’m the bastard of one.”

The clerk blinked, but didn’t interrupt.

“My father is Stéphane de la Fournier. You’ll find the records.” His voice was strained now. “He is a noble. I am from French bloodline. Made my mother his mistress for years, then cut her off when we were still children. However, I know how to address nobles”

Something flickered in the clerk’s eyes—something like surprise, maybe even pity. But it passed quickly.

“Well,” the man said, clearing his throat. “That… would explain the name. And the face.”

Nick said nothing.

The clerk adjusted his spectacles. “You’re applying for a position that binds you to the heir of the throne. Do you know what that means?”

“I do.”

“Do you know what it demands?”

Nick’s eyes didn’t move. “Loyalty. Skill. Silence. Obedience.”

The clerk studied him for a long moment, as if trying to decide whether this strange young man was here to serve or to sabotage.

“Still,” he said at last, “you’re not the first bastard to use a father’s name to get through these doors.”

“I’m not here to wear it,” Nick muttered. “Just to pass.”

The silence between them stretched until it snapped under the clerk’s quiet sigh. He reached beneath the counter and pulled out a leather-bound ledger the size of a coffin lid.

“Full name.”

Nick hesitated. The words caught in his throat, thick and bitter.

“Nicholas Nelson,” he said first.

Then, forcing himself—

“…Nicholas Fournier Nelson.”

The pen scratched across the page. It felt like carving something into stone. For the first time, he wrote his full name not out of shame, but out of necessity. He hated every syllable, but he didn’t flinch.

“Date of birth. Lineage. Place of residence,” the clerk continued, and Nick answered each question like a man reciting a script he had memorized his whole life and never dared to speak aloud.

When the page was filled, the clerk rolled up the scroll and tied it with a crimson ribbon. He stamped it once with the wax seal of the heir’s sword.

“You’ll be contacted within the month for testing. Physical, intellectual, and psychological. You pass all three, and maybe—maybe—you’ll make the final list.”

Nick nodded once.

The clerk leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “You’re lucky, boy. Most men wouldn’t take the risk of letting someone from the the lower classes near the heir. However your name makes you like, even if that name is… discarded.”

“I don’t want luck,” Nick said coolly. “I want in.”

He turned on his heel and walked out before the man could say anything else.

Outside, the wind had picked up, blowing through the cracks of the city like whispers through a battlefield. The day was gray, and the clouds hung low—but Nick had never felt more sure of his steps. For the first time in years, his past wasn’t a chain. It was a key.

And the door was finally opening.

The ink on the royal scroll was barely dry when Nick threw himself into training.

Not the reckless kind—the wild, bruising skirmishes that defined his early years in the rebellion. This was different. This was restraint. Precision. Performance. The Swords of the Treasure weren’t just guards—they were companions, servants, shadows. They were expected to protect the heir, anticipate danger, know court customs, and walk among princes without drawing suspicion.

They were everything Nick wasn’t raised to be.

So he had to become it.

Swordsmanship he already knew—he had been trained by rebels who wielded blades as extensions of their grief. But now, he refined it: lighter strikes, graceful parries, controlled power. He practiced drills with a weighted wooden sword, moving fluidly through the ten royal forms, each one more rigid and elegant than the last. His body protested—he ignored it.

Horsemanship came next. Nick was no stranger to saddles—he had escaped enough ambushes on horseback to survive—but formal training was another beast. He borrowed a skittish gray gelding from a sympathizer who owed David a favor and spent hours learning proper posture, reins control, how to fight while riding, how to carry the heir’s banner without letting it fall.

By day, he trained his body.

By night, he trained his mind.

He read everything. Rebel archives were limited, but a contact had stolen a full copy of the Royal Code—every law, every tradition, every ridiculous rule of palace etiquette. Nick devoured it by candlelight. He traced royal family trees, memorized the proper order of curtsies and titles, studied the layout of the palace wings as far as blueprints allowed. There were diagrams of old corridors, rumors of tunnels beneath the heir’s private chambers. He committed them to memory.

He even studied languages—He knew French, David had learned when his father still talked to them and had spoken to Nick in the language even after Stéphane had abandoned them, however, he wanted to refine it for the court. The Swords were expected to understand diplomacy, to speak with foreign dignitaries, to translate if needed. If he wanted to stand beside the heir, he couldn’t sound like a boy from the gutter—even if that’s what he was. He needed to become the most trustworthy man of the palace for the spoiled boy if he wanted to have the time to discover how  kidnap him.

Some nights it rained so hard that it leaked through the barn roof. He kept practicing anyway, soaked to the bone, fingers slick on the blade hilt, reciting royal creeds until his throat went hoarse.

He didn’t let himself rest.

Nick didn’t flinch. He was preparing not to survive the palace.

He was preparing to destroy it—from the inside out.

It was just past dusk when Nick arrived at their little Cottage. The air smelled faintly of burning coal and wet earth, and the chimney puffed a thin trail of smoke into the fading sky. He approached quietly, boots barely tapping the worn stone walkway.

The light inside was soft and flickering—just one candle lit behind the curtain. He knocked twice, as always.

Inside, the shuffling of feet. A pause. The creak of the wooden floorboard he’d helped fix two winters ago.

Then the door opened.

Sarah Nelson stood there, needle and thread still in hand, as if she couldn’t bear to set her work down even for her son. Her hair, once copper, was now more silver than not, and pulled back in a loose bun. Her dress was patched at the elbows, the hem frayed from years of wear. But her smile—warm, welcoming, alive—made the doorway glow brighter than any lantern.

“My boy,” she said, voice already trembling with joy.

Nick stepped into her arms without a word. She smelled of starch, rosemary, and home.

“How was the market today?,” she said as she pulled him inside.

“Full of people, and food.”

“Well,” she teased, closing the door behind him, “that is good,”

“I could use three days of your food,” he replied, grinning faintly.

She snorted and waved him toward the small table. “If you call lentils and hard bread a feast, you’ve been gone too long.”

The house hadn’t changed—three rooms, one stove, and windows that let in too much cold in the winter and not enough breeze in the summer. Still, it felt warm. It felt full.

She served him a steaming bowl and sat across from him with her own. For a while, they ate in quiet comfort. The only sounds were the ticking of the old wall clock and the occasional rattle of the spoon against ceramic.

“You’re quiet tonight,” Sarah said at last, gently.

Nick looked down at his bowl, then up at her. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a folded paper.

“I applied,” he said. “To the Swords of the Treasure.”

Sarah froze. The thread in her hand dangled.

“The Swords?” she echoed. “The prince’s guard?”

He nodded once.

A moment passed. Then Sarah leaned back, a quiet breath escaping her lips. Her eyes softened, clouded with a mix of awe and worry.

“Oh, Nicky…” she said, the nickname slipping out like it had never left. “That’s… that’s quite the path.”

“It felt right,” he said, choosing each word carefully. “It’s steady. It’s honorable.”

“You’ll be at the palace…”

“Yes.”

“Among royalty.”

“Not among,” he corrected gently. “Beside. And only if they accept me.”

She smiled, small and full of love. “They would be fools not to. You were born with a noble heart, even if they didn’t give you the name.”

Nick looked away. That word—noble—it made his stomach twist.

He couldn’t tell her the truth. Not about David. Not about the movement. Not about what he had been asked to do. If she knew he’d lied his way into the royal registry using Lord Stéphane cursed bloodline, she wouldn’t smile like that. If she knew that everything he planned was for vengeance, not duty, her hands wouldn’t be so steady as they passed him another slice of hard bread.

But she didn’t know.

She only knew her son was finally choosing a future.

“I’m proud of you, Nick,” she said softly. “You’ve always protected us. Now, you’ll protect a prince. Imagine that.”

Nick forced a smile.

“Yeah,” he said. “Imagine that.”

She set her sewing aside and folded her hands.

“You know, I’ve heard stories about him,” she said, almost dreamily. “Prince Charlie.”

Nick stilled.

“I’ve read little articles… gossip, mostly. But the people love him, Nick. They say he’s kind. That when he visits villages, he looks everyone in the eye. That when he speaks to children, he kneels down so he’s at their height. Can you believe that?”

Nick said nothing.

“They say he’s beautiful,” she continued, and now her voice was light, filled with the gentle wonder of fairy tales. “That when he smiles at a farmer, the harvest grows better the next year. That his eyes reflect the moonlight, and his skin catches the sun like it was spun from gold.”

Nick looked down at his hands.

“Mother—”

“And clever, too,” she went on, barely hearing him. “He speaks three languages. He’s a student of philosophy and diplomacy.

Nick cleared his throat. “He’s just a boy, Ma.”

“Maybe,” she said, eyes still bright. “But maybe he’s a boy the kingdom needs.”

That struck something in him. A twinge. A pause.

“Imagine that, Nick,” she said with a small laugh. “You, walking the palace halls. Seeing the chandeliers. Protecting the heir to the Earthly Throne.”

“Yeah,” Nick muttered, forcing the ghost of a smile. “Imagine that.”

She reached out and brushed his curls off his forehead, like she had when he was small.

“I’m proud of you,” she said. “I know it hasn’t been easy. But maybe this is what you were meant for. A place where they’ll finally see you for who you are.”

Not who I am, Nick thought. Who I’m pretending to be.

But he couldn’t tell her that. Not about David. Not about the movement. Not about the mission.

So instead, he just nodded, swallowed the knot in his throat, and finished his soup.

The training grounds lay east outside of the palace walls, built like a fortress within a fortress. Gray towers loomed over the main courtyard, which was divided into sectors: one for combat, one for drills, one for study, and one for examination. The morning fog clung low to the cobblestones, and the air carried a sharp, metallic scent of sword oil and sweat.

Nick arrived just after dawn, dressed plainly, as all candidates were required. No coats. No insignia. Just a fitted tunic, trousers, and boots. Equal before the Order — or so the instructors liked to say.

He didn’t believe that for a second. But he didn’t need fairness. He just needed to win.

A soldier in black and silver called names from a scroll as candidates lined up. “Nelson, Nicholas.”

Nick stepped forward. The soldier’s eyes flicked down, read something scribbled in the margin, then gave a slight nod.

“Station Two,” he said. “Sword and obstacle.”

The first test was physical — an elaborate trial of agility, strength, and endurance. Nick crouched low behind a stone wall, waiting for the horn. When it sounded, he moved like fire through a field — vaulting barriers, rolling under nets, scaling wooden structures slick with dew. Other boys fell, slipped, cried out in frustration.

Nick didn’t.

He knew how to run when pursued. He knew how to crawl through tunnels no one else could see. The test was a game of survival. He had survived worse.

At the final turn, a blade was placed in his hand. He entered the arena against an armored opponent — a palace knight who, though holding back his full strength, did not intend to go easy. They circled. The crowd was silent.

When the first clash rang out, it echoed like thunder. Nick dodged, parried, found rhythm — not brute strength, but precision. Control. Strategy. His rebel training had taught him to fight to win, not to impress. But here, he would do both.

After three minutes, the instructor raised his hand.

“Enough.”

Nick stepped back, chest heaving.

The knight removed his helmet, gave a slight nod of acknowledgment.

Nick nodded back, hiding the grim satisfaction curling inside him.

The second test took place in the study hall — a stark chamber with long wooden desks, watched over by scribes and officers. A paper was placed before each candidate, alongside a quill and ink.

Nick read the first question:

“Outline the line of succession after the death of a reigning monarch with no legitimate heirs.”

His stomach twisted, but his hand didn’t hesitate. He had memorized the law from the King’s own royal decrees — even the footnotes.

The silence in the study hall was thick as ink. Nick kept his breathing steady, his eyes sharp, as new sheets were handed out — the final segment: protocol and honor.

One question stood out immediately, underlined with red ink.

“What is the most sacred duty of a Sword of the Treasure?”

Nick’s hand paused.

He had heard of this archaic clause. He knew the royal family clung to it like gold. That the heir’s untouched status was considered divine. As if their bodies themselves were the kingdom’s holy relic.

Nick swallowed and wrote:

“A Sword guards not just the prince’s life but his light. It is a sacred trust — to preserve innocence where power would seek to steal it. Beyond protection of body and blood, a prince’s purity is to be preserved above all else. In no circumstance is a Sword to allow corruption, temptation, or inappropriate intimacy to reach the royal heir.”

He knew he had aced this test, so he only needed to pass the psychological exam.

The final test came in a quiet, white-walled room. Only a single chair and a woman sat inside, her posture perfect, eyes too calm.

“Sit,” she said, and Nick obeyed.

She folded her hands and studied him for a moment.

“Nicholas Nelson,” she said. “Bastard of Lord Stephane de la Fournier.”

He flinched — not visibly, but inside, the name was a hot brand. Still, he met her gaze.

“Yes.”

“Why do you want to serve the prince?”

“Because I believe in order,” Nick replied, voice even. “And I want to protect what remains of our legacy.”

The woman said nothing for a moment.

“Hypothetical,” she said next. “The prince sneaks out of the palace and breaks a law. What do you do?”

Nick didn’t blink. “Bring him back safely. Report to my superior.”

She tilted her head.

“If your commanding officer tells you to strike the prince, do you obey?”

“No,” he said. “My loyalty is to the Crown, not to abuse.”

A flicker of something in her eyes — approval, or curiosity.

Final questions.

“What would you do if the prince defied your advice?”

“Remain beside him. A sword doesn’t abandon the hand it protects.”

She nodded, unreadable.

Then: “What would you do if you came to… admire the prince? Beyond duty.”

Nick froze.

The pause was noticeable — but short.

“I would remember my place,” he said evenly. “And I would carry that burden in silence.”

The woman leaned back in her chair, pen unmoving. Her eyes stayed on him, like she was trying to read something he hadn’t said aloud.

“And if the prince… admired you in return?”

A beat of silence.

Nick’s jaw tensed. “Then I would protect him from himself.”

No more questions followed.

But the woman smiled — just slightly — and dismissed him with a nod.

Nick left the room without breathing.

The days after the trials passed slowly, like syrup trailing down cold stone.

Nick returned to the rhythm of silence and patience. There was no word, no letter, no whisper from the palace. Only the phantom echoes of sword strikes and test questions haunted his mind — playing over and over with brutal clarity. He wasn’t nervous. Not in the usual way. He knew he had done well. He had played the part they wanted. But still, the waiting made something twist inside his chest like a knife turned slow.

At home, everything was deceptively normal.

Their cottage stood quiet at the end of a narrow alley of stone and moss, not far from the seamstress district of the Inner Quarter. It was small, worn, and clean — Sarah’s presence stitched into every corner like thread. Ivy curled up the outer walls, half-dead from the cold nights. Inside, the wood was dark, the floor was always swept, and there was always something cooking, even if it was just broth and stale herbs. It smelled like rosemary and old fabric, like home.

David spent most of his time out — claiming errands, work, gathering, meetings. Nick knew better. They never spoke of it, but he knew exactly what his brother was doing, where he went, and who he met with when the sun dipped beneath the copper rooftops. 

Nick stayed in more often, helping Sarah with the heavier fabrics, pretending not to watch the door. When he grew restless, he ran drills behind the house with a wooden blade, or sat near the hearth rereading old volumes of palace history and protocol. Not for the test anymore — for survival. Every inch of knowledge about the court was now a weapon to be sheathed at his side.

One evening, the three of them sat at the table, a thin stew between them, bread hard and sliced clean.

Sarah spoke more than usual.

“I heard from Mrs. Yelwin that a royal envoy passed through town this morning,” she said softly, spoon clinking. “Red trim on the collar. They say he had parchment sealed in gold. They never do that unless it’s personal.”

David grunted. “Or unless it’s performative.”

Sarah didn’t take the bait. “I wonder if it’s for the boys who tested. The ones for the prince’s guard.”

Nick kept his eyes on his bowl.

David glanced up. “I’m sure someone will come by soon. One way or the other.”

“I hope they pick the kind ones,” Sarah murmured. “The ones who believe in people.”

Nick lifted his head slightly. “You think that matters to the court?”

She smiled, warm and slow. “Maybe not to the court. But to the prince, it might.”

That stopped him.

He hated that it did.

Sarah leaned back in her chair, her hands folded in her lap like she was holding something fragile. “Do you know what I heard about him today?”

Nick didn’t want to ask. Didn’t want to feed her fascination.

But silence made it worse.

“No,” he muttered. “What?”

She brightened.

“A baker from Old Cross told me she saw the prince last spring, when he visited a charity orphanage. He smiled at every child. Sat on the floor with them. Sang a lullaby when one cried. He’s royalty, but he didn’t look like it — not with crumbs on his collar and clay on his knees.”

Nick let out a breath through his nose, neither scoffing nor agreeing.

Sarah continued, dreamy now, like she was somewhere else entirely. “They say he’s the most beautiful boy in the kingdom. One woman swears that after he kissed her baby’s forehead, the child didn’t fall ill once in the winter.”

Nick looked at David, who rolled his eyes and shoved a spoonful of broth into his mouth.

“Sounds magical,” David said dryly.

“Don’t mock it,” Sarah said, still smiling. “It means something. Hope does.”

Nick pressed his fingers against the edge of the table, hard enough that his knuckles paled. His voice was quieter than he meant it to be.

“He’s still a royal.”

Sarah looked at him, patient and kind.

“Maybe. But he’s also a boy. Like you were once. And boys don’t get to choose the world they’re born into.”

The morning of the letter began like all the others.

Grey skies, mist on the windows, the smell of yeast and something burning faintly from the neighbor’s stove. Nick was outside behind the house, sleeves rolled, chopping wood into smaller lengths for the hearth. The steady rhythm of the axe was almost meditative. His muscles sang from the repetition, the cold biting his wrists, but it felt good — like focus, like purpose.

David was upstairs. Sarah was folding linens by the window.

Then came the knock.

Three sharp raps against the wood.

It wasn’t the sound of a neighbor. It wasn’t urgent, or desperate. It was precise. Measured.

Nick straightened, breath caught in his throat.

Sarah opened the door.

He saw her face before he saw anything else. The way her lips parted just slightly, the way her hands lifted to her chest without even realizing it. He came into the house as the figure at the door straightened, in full red-and-gold uniform — a messenger of the Crown.

“Letter for Mr. Nicholas Nelson,” the man said with a shallow bow.

Sarah stammered. “I—yes, that’s—he’s—”

“I’m here,” Nick said quietly, stepping forward.

The messenger handed over a rolled parchment sealed in the deep crimson wax of the Royal Spring House. The sigil was unmistakable: the crowned stag, head bowed, vines blooming from its antlers.

He took it.

It was heavier than he expected.

The messenger nodded once and stepped back. “May the glory of Spring guide you.”

Nick said nothing.

When the door closed, the silence was immediate.

Sarah stared at the seal like it might disappear.

“Well?” David asked from the staircase, arms folded. “Open it.”

Nick broke the seal with steady fingers.

He read.

He blinked.

Then read again.

Sarah took a trembling step forward. “What does it say?”

Nick looked up at her, unsure how to lie anymore.

“…I’ve been accepted.”

The words dropped like stones into water.

Sarah gasped — a sound so full of joy it ached — and wrapped her arms around him before he could even breathe. “Oh, my love—oh, Nicky—my beautiful boy—”

David came closer, a half-smirk on his face. “They actually took you?”

Nick nodded once. “I report in three days.”

Sarah pulled back just enough to look at his face. Her eyes were shining. “You’re going to serve the prince.”

Her pride was a sword through the ribs.

He tried to smile.

David gave a slow, sharp nod behind her. “It begins.”

Sarah didn’t hear him.

Nick folded the letter, slowly and neatly. “I need to pack.”

“I’ll make something for the trip,” Sarah said, already moving. “And I’ll write to my cousin about that thick coat you liked—oh, and your boots need mending. I’ll do it tonight.”

Nick nodded, but his eyes stayed on the folded parchment.

🍂✨🍂
The morning he was meant to leave arrived without ceremony. No horns, no light through stained glass, no poetry to catch on the air. Just grey skies again — the kind that never quite let the day begin. Mist hung over the rooftops of the Inner Quarter like an old veil, and the chill seeped into the corners of the little house where Nick had grown up.

He had risen before the sun.

Sleep had been useless anyway. His bag was already packed: a second shirt, clean socks, a tattered book of royal protocol, and a wrapped bundle of dried bread and smoked roots. He stood now in the center of his room — not really his, not anymore — and looked around. The walls were bare. The corner where his wooden practice sword once leaned was empty. He had already said goodbye to the space. But not to the people.

Downstairs, the hearth was lit. Sarah moved quietly, her hair twisted up in a tight knot, face pale but composed. She was boiling water and muttering about the weather.

“Morning,” Nick said softly as he came down.

She turned with a small smile. “It’s cold. I made you tea.”

He nodded and sat. The cup she set in front of him was chipped but warm.

They didn’t speak for a while. Not until David came down, boots laced and cloak already over his shoulder. He looked at Nick, then at Sarah, and gave a curt nod.

“You all packed?” he asked.

Nick nodded.

“Good. It’s a long ride to the palace. You won’t want to be fumbling for anything when they search your things.”

Sarah shot him a look. “David.”

He shrugged. “Just saying.”

Nick sipped the tea. It was too hot. Too bitter. But he drank it anyway.

Then Sarah turned, went to the side cabinet, and pulled something out: a small, worn coin pouch. She came back, placed it gently in Nick’s hands.

“My savings,” she said.

“Mom—”

“No. You’ll be alone there. You don’t know what they charge you for. Maybe soap. Maybe socks. Maybe ink for your letters. You’ll use it when you need it.”

Nick stared at the pouch. “I can’t.”

“You will,” she said, pressing her hand over his. “You’re not above help, Nicholas. No one is. Especially not my son.”

He exhaled slowly and nodded. He tucked the pouch into his coat.

David leaned against the wall. “Don’t let them break you.”

Nick met his brother’s eyes.

“Remember what you’re really there for.”

A stillness settled in the room. Not heavy. Not angry. Just truth.

Nick nodded once. “I won’t forget.”

The sound of hooves shattered the quiet.

All three of them turned toward the door as a firm knock followed. Nick felt something press against his chest — not fear exactly, but pressure, a tightening in his ribs, like a string pulled taut.

David opened the door.

Outside, in the pale morning mist, a black carriage waited, its gold insignia gleaming faintly through the fog — the crest of the royal family. Two white stallions stood proud at its helm, their manes groomed into braided silks. The driver sat high and stiff, dressed in formal red-and-black livery.

And just beside the door, a guard in a polished uniform nodded crisply. “Nicholas Nelson?”

Nick stepped forward.

The man looked him over quickly, then handed over a scroll sealed with the wax emblem of the Crown. “Your official appointment letter. You are to depart now.”

Nick took the letter, barely glancing at it. He heard Sarah’s quiet gasp behind him.

“They sent a carriage?” she whispered, as though it were holy.

David, on the other hand, crossed his arms. “They want to make him feel important.”

Nick gave him a sidelong glance, then looked back at the guard. “Will there be others?”

The man gestured to the carriage. “Inside. Four others. Selected from your division.”

Nick nodded. He didn’t move yet.

Sarah held Nick’s face in her hands, her thumbs brushing the apples of his cheeks the way she had when he was a child with fevers and wild dreams.

The carriage waited just outside. The horses stamped impatiently on the stone road. The royal seal gleamed on the side, golden and sharp in the light. But none of that existed in Sarah’s eyes. Only her son did.

“You’ll be a man among royals,” she said. “Remember your worth. Be kind,” she said. “Be gentle. Stay true to your heart. Protect the prince, even when others forget why he matters.”

Nick swallowed hard. He couldn’t speak. Her hands were shaking.

“I want you to make friends,” she continued. “Real friends. You deserve laughter, Nicholas. You deserve arms around your shoulders that don’t ask anything of you but your smile.”

She smiled herself, even through the glimmer of tears. “And maybe… maybe you’ll find love. I hope so. Gods, I hope so. True love, the kind that softens the bones and keeps you warm when the world turns cold. You have so much love to give, even if you hide it behind those eyes.”

Nick blinked, hard. His jaw locked tight.

“And above all,” Sarah said, taking a deep breath, “be kind to the prince.”

Nick’s eyes flinched. Just slightly. She saw it.

“He’s just a boy, Nicholas,” she said. “He may wear gold and silk and carry the burden of a crown, but he’s still just a boy. And boys need protecting, sometimes even more than kings.”

“I don’t know him,” Nick said quietly, finally. “I don’t think I ever will.”

“Then treat him like he matters, until you do,” Sarah replied. “He’s the future of this kingdom. Maybe… maybe if you guard him right, if you treat him gently, maybe one day he’ll rise into something great. Maybe he’ll remember the kindness of his sword.”

She cupped the back of Nick’s head and pulled him forward, pressing a kiss to his temple.

“I am so proud of you,” she whispered. “So, so proud. Not because of what you’re doing. But because of who you are.”

Nick closed his eyes.

“I’ll come back, Mom,” he murmured, voice raw.

“You better,” she smiled, despite the tears. “Because I’ll be waiting at this window, sewing the hem of a new coat you don’t even need.”

The wheels of the carriage rattled against the cobblestones as Nick climbed inside.

The interior was lined with dark velvet, polished wood, and the faint scent of clove oil and leather. The moment he sat down, three heads turned toward him — boys around his age, dressed in travel clothes, eyes filled with the same quiet thrill of anticipation and nerves.

“Mind the step,” one of them said cheerfully—tall, with springy curls and a crooked grin.

Nick gave a silent nod and took his seat opposite him, pressing his back against the worn velvet cushion.

“I’m Otis,” the boy added, extending a hand as the carriage jolted forward. “Otis Smith.”

The other two perked up at that. One, broad-shouldered and leaning against the side of the carriage with a languid ease, gave a mock salute. “Christian McBride.”

The third, quiet but with sharp eyes that had already swept over Nick’s face and then away again, simply said, “Sai Verma.”

Nick hesitated. He had lived most of his life under masks—real and metaphorical—but this one, now, wasn’t for hiding. It was strategy. Purpose.

“Nick,” he offered, brief and neutral.

Christian leaned forward, voice bouncing with energy. “So… crazy ride, huh? Can’t believe we’re actually headed to the palace.”

“Do you think we’ll meet today the prince?” Otis asked, clearly trying not to sound too eager, but the way his leg bounced betrayed him. “Like, up close?”

Nick didn’t reply, but he caught the faintest smile twitching at the corner of Christian’s mouth, like he was amused by the tension. Sai just watched the landscape through the window.

Their words faded into animated chatter—guessing what training would be like, trading stories about the physical tests, the shock of being accepted. Nick didn’t contribute, but he listened. He always listened.

The carriage passed through the gates of the palace—towering ironwork entwined with the golden sigil of House Spring. Beyond, the palace unfurled like a painting brought to life: white stone kissed by the morning sun, blue banners fluttering in the breeze, the distant gleam of marble and ivy-covered columns.

As they pulled to a stop, a guard opened the door.

“Out. Line up.”

Nick stepped down first, boots clicking against the polished stone. He tilted his head up, taking in the sheer scale of the palace. It was the first time he’d seen it this close.

The boys followed, forming a loose line beside him. A few more carriages arrived, others climbing down—some nervous, others wide-eyed.

From within the shadows of the grand hall, a tall figure emerged: broad-shouldered, in full uniform, with a crimson sash across his chest. A commander.

He stood in silence as they gathered, letting the awe settle into the silence.

“Welcome,” he finally said. “You stand now not as boys from cities and farms, but as candidates for the highest honor of your generation.”

Nick clenched his jaw. Around him, the others straightened.

“You’ve been chosen not just for strength or wit—but for promise. Loyalty. Discipline.”

He paused.

“And before this day ends, we’ll see which of you deserves the title of Sword of the Treasure.”

He took a step forward. His eyes scanned the crowd like a hawk circling prey.

“If you cannot endure, you will be sent home. If you fail, you will be dismissed. If you break, you will be discarded.”

A silence pulsed through the room like a held breath.

“Your purpose is singular. You will protect the heir to the throne with every drop of blood in your veins. You will kill for him. You will die for him. And if he commands it—you will burn for him.”

Otis flinched beside Nick. One of the other boys in the back let out a shaky breath.

“You will serve him, body and soul. You will become his sword, his shield, his shadow. You will worship him, if that is what is required. You will exist for him.”

Nick’s jaw tightened. The absurdity of it all roared in his head. Worship him? The boy couldn’t be older than he was—probably pampered in silk sheets and hand-fed like a swan. Nick had spent his life fighting for scraps, hiding from soldiers, watching friends bleed. The idea of laying down his life for some spoiled heir—

“What are you thinking?”

The voice cut through Nick’s thoughts like a whip.

The commander was standing right in front of him now, eyes hard, face close. “You,” he snarled. “I asked you a question.”

Nick didn’t answer. His spine was straight, chin tilted in quiet defiance.

“I said—what are you thinking?”

The commander’s voice rose, and the others stepped back instinctively. Nick clenched his fists, ready to throw out some sharp, half-mocking response—

But then, before he could open his mouth—

“Please, Commander. That’s enough.”

The voice was soft. Gentle. Melodic.

It echoed across the marble like music might: light and flowing and strange in its stillness.

The commander froze.

Every boy turned.

Nick’s breath caught in his throat.

There, at the top of the stairs, haloed by morning light pouring through stained glass, stood a figure dressed in blue and gold, delicate yet certain.

And then—those eyes.

They were not just blue. They were luminous. Ocean and sky and frost and storm all together. And it was true—Nick could see it, right there, undeniable. They reflected the light like moonlight on water. 

Nick had never seen something like this,

Chapter Text

“Please, Commander. That’s enough.”

A figure descending with practiced grace, robes of deep sapphire trimmed in golden trailing behind him like falling twilight. His hair was soft brown, curls styled delicately, but it was his eyes—eyes so vividly blue they seemed almost illuminated—that locked the breath in Nick’s lungs.

There were rumors, Nick recalled. Whispers his mother had told him as though they were bedtime stories.

That the Prince had eyes which reflected the moonlight. That his smile could bless a farmer’s field. That his skin shone with the glow of the sun itself.

The Prince reached the bottom step, boots quiet against the floor as he walked calmly into the center of the room. His presence was small, gentle even, but he held the attention of the hall as though born to it.

“Commander Harrow,” he said softly.

The man straightened like a struck soldier. “Your Highness.”

“Please,” Charlie continued, smiling just faintly, “do not shout at my Swords. We are all allies here.”

The commander bowed low. “Forgive me, my prince.”

Charlie waved a hand, already moving forward.

He turned to face the boys. “Forgive him,” he said again, and this time his voice was directed at them. “They tend to get emotional. You must understand, loyalty runs very deep in these halls.”

Nick swallowed. His chest was tight.

Charlie walked slowly down the line, his hands clasped before him. His gaze drifted from boy to boy, never lingering more than a moment. Otis bowed low when the prince passed, Christian offered a sheepish grin. Sai stood perfectly still, respectful.

Then the prince reached Nick.

And for a moment, Charlie didn’t speak. He simply stared—those eyes bright, glowing with the same strange light Nick had noticed before.

Nick bowed his head out of instinct. “My prince.”

Charlie tilted his head. “And you are?”

Nick looked up, meeting his gaze. The air between them shifted.

“Nick,” he said, voice steady. “Nicholas.”

Charlie held out a hand.

Nick hesitated, then reached forward to kiss it.

And there it was.

A spark—something unseen, unexplainable. It zipped through his lips like a flash of heat, up his arm and into his chest. Nick’s breath caught. So did Charlie’s.

Their eyes met again, wide now, both confused.

And then they pulled away.

The prince said nothing, but a faint blush bloomed across his cheekbones.

The next boy was called. Charlie continued down the line.

Nick flexed his fingers behind his back. His lips still burned where the prince’s hand had been.

As Prince Charlie stepped back, his soft smile still lingering from the last handshake, the boys stood in breathless silence. Some looked starstruck. Others, just stunned.

Nick, for his part, said nothing. He kept his eyes forward, hands behind his back, but his mind was reeling. That spark—that thing—it was still buzzing in his chest.

He shook it off.

Focus.

Commander Harrow, who had retreated to the back of the room during the Prince’s address, now stepped forward again. He looked composed, but there was a twitch in his jaw, as though it pained him to let the Prince speak before he did.

“My Prince,” he said, bowing his head low. “If you would allow me to proceed…”

Charlie gave a graceful nod. “Go on, Commander.”

Harrow turned back to the candidates with a different kind of fire in his eyes now. Measured, cold, assessing.

“You’ve all had your little moment,” he said, low and sharp. “Shaking hands. Meeting royalty. Feeling proud.”

Nick tensed slightly, jaw tight.

“But now comes the part where you bleed.”

“As you may have noticed,” he began, voice echoing through the vast hall, “there are more of you than there are spaces to fill.”

His boots clicked against the marble as he paced slowly before them.

“There are twenty-three of you. But the Order of the Swords of the Treasure is sacred. It is not made up of twenty-three. It is not made up of ten. Only four will wear the silver garments. Four will be named Swords of the Treasure.”

He stopped walking. Turned. “The rest of you go home.”

A few of the boys stiffened. One of them shifted where he stood, his breath caught audibly in his throat.

Nick didn’t move.

“You were all selected for your potential. For your discipline. For your intelligence, you all passed the previous exams with merit. But potential alone is not enough. Today, you will be tested.”

The word rang out like the clang of steel.

Charlie moved to the side, taking a seat on a carved wooden chair that had been brought forward. It was simple in style, yet draped in silks. The weight of his attention changed the room.

“The prince himself,” the Commander continued, “will observe each of you. He will see how you work, how you move, how you think. And at the end of the day, it will be his decision who earns the title of Sword, Not the King’s. Not the Council’s.”

Charlie shifted a little to the side, uncomfortable with the weight of the statement. “You’ll be safe under my eye,” he added softly. “I won’t let this become cruel.”

Harrow’s jaw twitched again, but he said nothing.

“You are not just bodyguards. You are guardians of the crown. You are the last breath between the blade and your Prince. You will protect him with your lives, should it come to that. And in exchange…” He smirked faintly, cruelly. “You’ll get to live in the shadow of royalty.”

Nick’s lip curled in disgust.

They don’t even pretend to care about people. Just the prince. Just the bloodline.

This whole court loves power more than people.

“Form yourselves into groups of four,” Harrow snapped. “You’ll be tested as units. The four best—only the best—will be chosen.”

Boys began moving quickly. Scrambling, pairing off.

Christian McBride approached Nick first, offering a nod. “You seem like someone who knows what he’s doing.”

Otis followed. “I think was with you during the physical exams, right? You were fast. Precise.”

Nick studied them for a beat. They didn’t look foolish. They looked sharp.

A taller boy with warm brown skin and almond-shaped eyes appeared beside them. Sai Verma if he remembered correct,y. “I liked you when we were in the carriage, I’m with you if you’ll have me.”

Nick nodded once. “Alright.”

The four of them stood together while others scrambled to find groups. Some were awkwardly mismatched. Some looked like they’d known each other for years. But already, Nick could sense a strange sort of steadiness in the trio beside him.

Charlie watched from his chair, his gaze floating lightly across the groupings.

He seemed… pleased.

“Good,” the Prince said. “Now, if I may—before the tasks begin.”

The commander gave a tight bow and stepped aside.

Charlie stood. His tone was warm, even a little bashful. “I know this can be intimidating. The palace. The pressure. Commander Harrow’s… particular tone.” He smiled gently. “But I want you to know something very clearly: I see you. Not just your skills, but your spirit. This isn’t just about titles or protocol. It’s about trust. I’m choosing the people I’ll rely on in my most vulnerable moments. I must say that even this is new to me, my own father, the king, had his own swords of the treasure when he was my age, some of them still protect him till today, others remain valuable friends of the Crown, who held important missions through the country. I am sure those of you who will become my shadow will rise even above them”

He looked across them, voice softening. “So thank you. All of you. For standing here.”

Then, from a side door, a steward stepped in holding a bundle of navy-blue linen. “Prepare them,” he announced. “For physical tasking.”

The boys were instructed to strip down to their underlayers — only pants remained — to receive standard training garments before the physical portion of the test.

There was a moment of stunned silence. Then, like a ripple moving across water, movement began. Boots hit the floor with heavy thuds. Leather belts clinked. Shirts flew over heads in a flurry of limbs and fabric. The great marble hall echoed with the sounds of rustling cloth, scuffed heels, and the occasional half-whispered curse as boys wrestled with their boots or caught their tunics awkwardly around their arms.

Nick moved with clean, precise efficiency — unimpressed, unfazed. He’d trained half-naked in freezing rain before. This wasn’t new.

But up on the small dais, Prince Charlie had gone completely and utterly still.

His lips parted slightly. His eyes — usually soft and curious — widened as the sea of bare torsos unfolded before him like a fresco brought to life.

The prince’s posture was rigid. Regal. His fingers clutched the edge of the chair like it might anchor him in place. His eyes darted away almost immediately — toward the ceiling, the windows, the flag of the kingdom embroidered in gold thread above the commander’s head.

But as the hall filled with the sound of rustling fabric and bare feet on marble, one small laugh broke the silence.

Otis, standing near the front, had turned his head slightly toward Charlie, who had gone notably still in his chair.

The Prince’s face had gone pink.

His gaze flicked once — quickly — across the field of shirtless young men, then shot downward, then slowly lifted again, just slightly sideways.

But no matter how hard he tried not to look, his gaze kept snapping back.

Once. Twice.

The third time, it lingered.

And then he caught himself — jerked his head back like he’d been burned — and looked straight down at his own polished boots, pink climbing his cheeks like sunrise bleeding across the sky.

Otis, standing in the front row, watched the entire thing unfold. With a grin, he leaned slightly toward Christian and whispered, “Well… he might be the future of the kingdom, but he’s still a teenager.”

Christian choked back a laugh. Sai’s lips curved into the faintest smirk.

One of the taller boys nearby, a brash redhead with a sculpted chest and too much confidence, leaned back slightly and stretched. Loudly. Obnoxiously.

“Can’t blame him,” he said, voice carrying. “If I were him, I wouldn’t be able to look away either.”

The hall went deathly silent.

Prince Charlie’s head snapped up. His face, now scarlet.

Commander Harrow was across the floor in three strides.

“What did you say?” the commander snarled.

The redhead blinked. “I just—”

“Get out.”

“What? But I didn’t—”

“I said get out!” Harrow roared, voice slamming off the stone walls like a cannon.

No one moved.

The redhead hesitated, glancing toward the prince.

Charlie stood quickly, raising a hand. “Commander, maybe—”

Harrow cut him off with a short bow. “Your Highness, with respect, it is not only impolite to speak of royalty that way — it is grounds for immediate dismissal. He has no discipline. He cannot be trusted with your safety.”

Charlie looked torn for a breath, caught between embarrassment and his instinct for kindness. But then he saw how half the boys were watching his every reaction. This was about more than feelings.

So he nodded. Quietly. “You may escort him out.”

The redhead was gone in less than a minute, boots echoing against the marble as two palace guards led him away.

The others stood straighter. Faces suddenly serious.

Charlie exhaled and sat again, trying to reclaim his poise. Still, his gaze didn’t rise above shoulder height after that — and his hands stayed firmly folded in his lap.

Otis leaned over once more. “Too bad,” he muttered. “That one might’ve actually had good arms.”

Christian elbowed him this time. “You’re gonna get us all thrown out.”

Nick didn’t laugh. But he did glance toward the throne again, and this time, he found the prince staring very pointedly at a wall sconce.

His ears were bright red.

He’s not what I expected, Nick thought as he pulled on the navy training tunic, lacing the front with quick, practiced fingers. They worship him like a god, but he’s just… a flustered boy trying not to stare at a room full of abs.

He tied the last knot.

Commander Harrow’s voice cracked through the air. “That’s enough giggling. You’re not at a brothel.”

The laughter died instantly.

“Outside!” Harrow snapped. “Now. Your trial begins.”

The great oak doors creaked open. Sunlight streamed in. And the boys — now dressed in matching training uniforms of navy and steel-gray — filed out like soldiers going to war.

The sunlight outside was blinding at first.

The training grounds behind the palace spanned wide and green, a long stretch of carefully maintained lawn bordered by tall hedges and polished stone walkways. There were targets set up at one end, wooden dummies at the other, and racks of blunted swords, shields, and staves lined up in gleaming rows.

A soft breeze swept across the grounds, but the air still pulsed with tension.

The boys assembled, a long line of matching tunics and quiet anticipation.

Prince Charlie stepped forward from beneath the shade of a silk canopy. His demeanor was calm now — composed again. The earlier fluster had vanished from his features, replaced by something measured and diplomatic.

“I want to thank you all for your patience,” he said, voice gentle but steady. “And for your courage. I know what is asked of you today is not easy. But these positions… these four swords that will stand at my side… they are sacred.”

He paused, looking across the line of boys. His gaze didn’t linger — not yet — but Nick felt it move past him, like a breeze he couldn’t quite catch.

“You will protect me,” Charlie continued, “yes. But you must also understand me. Be loyal to the crown — but also to the people. Be strong — but merciful. Your strength must serve something greater.”

Behind him, Commander Harrow stepped forward again.

“If it were up to me,” he said, voice like a growl, “half of you would already be gone.”

A ripple of discomfort moved down the line.

“But,” Harrow continued, “as you’ve surely heard by now, this selection is not mine to make. It is the Prince himself who will observe and decide.”

Nick’s brow ticked up.

So the boy gets to choose. Interesting.

Blunted weapons clanged in the warm air. Targets stood braced along hedgerows. Chalk lines had been drawn on the trimmed grass. Buckets of water sat ready, towels folded in neat piles, and royal attendants bustled to and fro under the supervision of stern-faced palace officials.

At the far end of the grounds, beneath a large parasol embroidered with gold thread, sat Prince Charlie.

He reclined gracefully in a high-backed chair, legs crossed at the ankles, a leather-bound book open in his hands. A small table beside him held a pitcher of chilled water, a glass of crushed ice, and a dish of sugared grapes. His expression was calm, detached, thoughtful.

But his eyes, every so often, flicked upward from the page.

He watched.

Not constantly — not overtly. But he was watching.

Nick noticed.

Especially when Sai lobbed a sparring sword through the air for Otis to catch and block a surprise strike — and Charlie’s eyes glanced up, lips parting slightly in interest.

Or when Christian let out a bark of laughter mid-fight and accidentally tripped over his own feet, and Charlie quickly ducked his head, clearly trying not to smile.

The prince might have been reading, but he missed nothing.

The trials were staggered throughout the day, each designed to test something different.

The first challenge was a gauntlet of physical strain — hauling sandbags across a trench, scaling a wall, dragging a weighted dummy across gravel. Nick’s group powered through it with grit and quiet coordination.

“Timing!” barked the steward.

They’d landed second place. Sai cursed under his breath. Nick wiped sweat from his brow and looked, unthinkingly, toward the parasol.

The prince was watching them. The book closed in his lap.

The next task was more cerebral — teams were handed a map of the palace’s southern wing and tasked with creating a mock escape plan for evacuating the prince during a hypothetical siege.

Otis stepped up immediately. “We go underground — maintenance tunnels, not main corridors.”

Christian pointed. “There’s a servant’s exit here, leads to the carriage house.”

Sai frowned. “Not fast enough. Nick?”

Nick traced a line with his finger, connecting corridors and supply points. “We don’t go fast — we go quiet. Through the kitchens, then into the old armory. Take uniforms. We leave as guards.”

The steward raised a brow as he heard that. “Creative.”

As the sun dipped low behind the western towers of the palace, only half the boys remained.

Some had been quietly dismissed after mistakes, others pulled aside for injuries or exhaustion. There were no announcements. No explanations. They simply vanished, one by one, until fewer than ten boys stood on the grass, shadows growing longer at their feet.

Nick glanced at Sai, Otis, and Christian. The four of them were still standing.

He hadn’t expected it — not really.

The fifth task seemed simple enough — deceptively so.

They were led to a large courtyard divided into uneven squares, painted in a pattern Nick didn’t recognize. At the center of the field, a small pedestal with a glowing token sat atop it. A steward stepped forward and gestured.

“All four of you must reach the center. The floor is trapped. Step on the wrong tile, you return to the start. You may not speak once you begin. Complete it under five minutes… or not at all.”

Otis winced. “So basically… charades meets pain?”

Christian grinned. “Love that.”

Nick exhaled and glanced toward the prince. Prince Charlie still sat under his parasol — the book now closed on his lap. He wasn’t smiling, but he wasn’t disinterested either. Just watching.

Nick felt the buzz of pressure in his ribs.

The moment the task began, everything went wrong.

Otis took the lead, Christian followed with too much confidence, Sai held back, trying to analyze the pattern, and Nick stood frozen for a second, caught between strategies. In minutes, they were stepping on false tiles, zapped back to the start by jolts of light that skated across the floor and made their skin tingle.

They tried again. Failed again.

It was Nick’s instinct to take over, to take control.

But then, as he watched Christian step forward to take a hit for Otis — as Sai held out a hand to steady Nick without a word — something in his chest flickered.

They weren’t fighting to win.

They were fighting together.

He met Otis’s eyes. Otis nodded once.

The third time, Nick didn’t bark commands. He waited. He followed. He trusted.

Otis pointed. Sai blocked a false square with his own body. Christian, limping slightly, lifted Nick up over a dangerous patch.

They reached the center with three seconds to spare.

As Nick’s fingers curled around the token, a swell of something warm pulsed beneath his ribs.

They looked at one another, breathing hard, drenched in sweat. They didn’t speak — they didn’t need to.

At the edge of the courtyard, Prince Charlie clapped softly. He was smiling.

Finally, they were headed to the last task, this one individual.

They were led to a quiet stone path lined with flowering hedges, and at its heart sat Prince Charlie beneath a silk-draped pavilion. A single chair stood across from him.

No guards. No fanfare.

Only the prince, a thin stack of books on the table beside him, and that unshakable calm.

Nick was the last to be called.

He approached with shoulders squared, boots silent on the gravel. He didn’t bow. He sat when Charlie gestured, spine stiff with suspicion.

Charlie gave him a small, polite smile. “What’s your favorite book?”

Nick frowned, one brow lifting. “Is this meant to be funny?”

Of course a noble boy thought he didn’t read, this wasn’t just a task, he wanted to mock him, well, Nick was going to prove this stupid child he was wrong.

Charlie tilted his head, looking at him.

Nick exhaled through his nose. “The Iliad.”

A flicker of surprise passed over the prince’s features , however not disapproval. Just curiosity.

Charlie asked, “Why?”

Nick’s mouth twitched. “I assume you’ve read it.”

“Of course.”

“Then you know,” Nick said, tone cooling into something sharper, “that the war didn’t start because of duty or honor. It started because a prince thought he could steal a girl from her home, and the world burned because of it.”

Charlie stilled.

“It’s about pride,” Nick went on, voice low. “About how personal greed… unchecked, unchallenged… can tear everything apart. Thousands die, cities fall, and all of it — every moment — starts with a boy who thought the rules didn’t apply to him.”

There was silence.

Nick looked directly at him. “Sound familiar?”

It wasn’t a question.

Charlie blinked — once. Then, to Nick’s quiet confusion, his lips curved. Not with offense. Not even with mockery.

With understanding.

The commander — who had been standing tensely behind — stepped forward like a blade unsheathing. “Enough. Insolence will not be tolerated—”

But Charlie lifted a hand sharply. “Commander, no.”

The word landed like iron.

The man froze mid-step, jaw tight, nostrils flaring. But he obeyed.

Nick glanced at Charlie, still wary.

The prince reached for the top book on the stack beside him and held it in his lap. “Mine is The Odyssey.”

Nick raised an eyebrow. “What a coincidence your Royal Highness.”

The commander bristled again, inhaling as though preparing to shout.

But before he could speak, Charlie turned — not soft, not gentle — and said with a sudden fierceness, “He’s allowed to have his own mind.”

The commander froze again, cowed this time by more than protocol.

Charlie turned back to Nick, his tone softening. “Do you want to know why?”

Nick, stunned by the reversal, nodded once.

Charlie let out a small breath. “Because Odysseus endures ten years of war… and then ten more of wandering. Of loss. Of trials. He’s starved, beaten, cursed. And still—he keeps walking.”

He looked down for a second, fingers tracing the edge of the book cover.

“He wants to go home. He wants something quiet. Something real. He fights gods to get there. He nearly dies more than once.”

Charlie looked up again, eyes steady.

“And in the end… Penelope is waiting. She always was.”

There was a beat of silence between them.

Nick didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

Charlie’s voice dropped to a murmur. “I think I’ve always liked the idea that someone might be out there… waiting for me too.”

Then, softly — almost too softly to hear — he said: “That one day… I’ll find my Odysseus.”

Nick swallowed, unsure why his chest ached.

The prince nodded once, signaling the end of the task.

Nick rose without a word, still hearing Charlie’s voice echoing somewhere behind his ribs.

He didn’t know what this moment meant.

But he was fairly certain…

He’d just been seen.

Only five boys remained standing as the sun dipped behind the palace walls. The once-bustling field was now quiet, the scent of sweat and crushed grass in the air, and tension pressing like a storm.

Nick, Sai Verma, Otis Smith, Christian McBride, and a fifth boy — a tall, broad-shouldered lad with a rigid jaw and an entitled glint in his eye — stood in a line before the marble steps of the garden terrace.

Prince Charlie stood above them, his ceremonial robe exchanged for a soft blue tunic belted at the waist. His curls caught the golden light, and there was something royal — yes — but also achingly human in the way he looked at them.

Kind.

Tired.

Hopeful.

“I want to begin,” Charlie said, voice carrying gently across the space, “by saying that I have never met five men more brave, more determined, or more capable.”

The boys stood straighter. Even Nick, who had never sought praise from a crown, felt something pull tight in his chest.

Charlie went on, his voice steady. “If it were up to my heart, I would keep you all. And if it were only a matter of skill, you would each wear the crest of my guard tonight.”

A breath passed. Nick glanced sideways — Otis looked like he was holding his.

“But,” Charlie continued, “there are only four places beside me. Four swords.”

He stepped forward slowly, gaze lingering on each boy with real thought, real affection.

And then—

The fifth boy — the broad-shouldered one — shifted.

He muttered something under his breath. A sharp, sneering edge.

It was meant to be quiet.

It wasn’t.

Nick didn’t catch all of it. But the words “soft little prince” and “no wonder he wants so many boys around him, this country was proper when homosexuals were burned” reached his ears like a slap.

A hush.

Charlie froze.

Then—his gaze snapped toward the boy.

It was no longer kind.

It was no longer tired.

It was cold. Royal. Furious.

Charlie didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

“Commander Harrow,” he said, tone like cut glass, “remove him from the palace. Now.”

The boy blanched. “Wait, I didn’t mean—”

“Now,” Charlie repeated, sharp enough to slice through the marble underfoot. “And make it known: he and his old fashioned way of thinking is never to return to these halls.”

Commander Harrow, with a look of satisfaction, stepped forward.

The boy stammered one last protest, but no one listened. The gate guards had him by the arms within moments.

And then, just like that—he was gone.

Silence.

Charlie let it settle before turning back to the four who remained.

“Well,” he said softly, the ice melting from his voice, “I suppose the decision has been made.”

His eyes swept across them—Sai, Christian, Otis… and finally Nick.

“I look at you, and I see not just soldiers,” he said. “I see protectors. I see fire. I see heart. You are no longer just candidates. You are my swords.”

There was a beat.

“My champions.”

Otis blinked fast, like he might cry. Sai let out a slow breath. Christian grinned.

Nick… wasn’t sure what he felt.

Except—

When Charlie had commanded the boy’s expulsion, when his voice had dropped into that lethal, sovereign tone, when he’d stood taller than his crown—

Nick had felt something hot rush through him.

He pushed the thought away.

He’s a spoiled prince, Nick reminded himself.

But his mouth was dry.

And his heartbeat was unsteady.

There wasn’t much time to celebrate — not really.

Not in the way Nick expected celebrations to go. No flagons of ale, no cheers in the streets, no wild claps on the back.

Instead, after the prince’s declaration, there was a stillness. A reverent silence.

Then, slowly, the boys looked at one another — not quite knowing what to say.

Otis gave a loud whoop anyway, breaking the tension. “We did it!” he shouted, grabbing Christian in a half-hug. “Did you see Christian with that spear? I thought we were done for!”

Christian laughed, slightly breathless. “You were the one who tripped over the hay cart, mate.”

“I meant to trip!” Otis protested. “It was tactical!”

Sai shook his head, chuckling under his breath. “Sure it was.”

Nick didn’t say anything, but the smallest smirk tugged at his lips as he watched them. Their joy was infectious — foolish, maybe. But good-hearted. Genuine.

And something in his chest pulled again.

The prince had stepped back, letting them bask for a moment, a faint smile playing on his lips. He looked oddly… pleased. Not like someone who had just chosen his royal guard — more like someone watching new friends discover each other.

Then—

The doors of the terrace swung open behind him.

Two figures stepped out in step with one another — one with long brown curls pulled back in a ribbon, the other sharp-eyed and quick-footed.

Charlie turned slightly. “May I introduce Elle Argent, my lady-in-waiting—”

Elle curtsied with elegant ease, her eyes bright and welcoming.

“—and Tao Xu, my aide and companion.”

Tao gave a theatrical bow. “Also known as the one who actually runs this palace when His Highness forgets where he left his slippers.”

Charlie rolled his eyes, smiling fondly.

“They’ll be helping you settle in,” Charlie said, turning back to the four of them. “Your quarters are prepared. You’ll find they’re very close to mine — for practical reasons, of course.”

Nick raised a brow.

“Practical,” Tao repeated with a grin. “Sure.”

Charlie cleared his throat, cheeks pinking. “I have royal duties I must attend to now. But Tao and Elle will make sure you’re comfortable.”

“Come on,” Elle said, beckoning. “We’ll give you the grand tour.”

Christian and Otis immediately fell into step behind her, chatting animatedly. Sai followed, more composed, but clearly intrigued.

Nick lingered a second longer.

Prince Charlie looked at him then — really looked — and said softly, “I’m glad you stayed.”

Nick’s heart stuttered.

Their new quarters were… extravagant.

Nick had been in taverns, shared bunks, drafty attics — but never anything like this.

The common room was vast, lined with velvet drapes and burnished gold sconces. A fireplace carved with ivy designs crackled warmly. Four large beds were placed in connected chambers branching from the main room, each with private space, matching armoires, and thick, clean bedding.

Otis dropped onto a couch dramatically. “This is ridiculous. I might never leave.”

“You’re not meant to,” Tao quipped. “You live here now.”

“Seriously?” Christian whistled low. “This close to the prince?”

“His chambers are just down the corridor,” Elle said. “You’ll be trained in rounds, summoned for duties, and be prepared for any emergencies.”

Sai nodded, always composed. “Understood.”

Nick said nothing.

He was still absorbing everything.

The room continued to echo with exclamations.

Otis had opened a wardrobe and gasped. “These aren’t just uniforms. These are tailored uniforms. Are we marrying royalty or protecting them?”

“You think I could pull off the long cape?” Christian asked, holding a folded ceremonial cloak against his chest.

Sai merely shook his head, checking the clasp on the polished breastplate laid out on a side table. “Focus. This is all for duty.”

“You can have both,” Tao piped in, arms crossed as he leaned on the doorframe. “Fashion and function. But don’t get too comfortable—this isn’t a vacation.”

Elle slid into the room behind him, graceful as a breeze. “Ignore him,” she said lightly. “Tao always sounds like he’s preparing for battle. He’s very serious about his job.”

“I’m serious because someone has to be,” Tao retorted, straightening up. “We’re talking about the prince’s personal guard.”

Nick wandered over to the tall windows at the far end of the common room. They looked out over the western gardens, where rose trellises stretched toward the sky and the last of the sun hung low behind the palace towers. He kept his distance from the others, but he was listening.

He always listened.

“Right,” Tao continued, clapping his hands once. “Now that you’ve all gotten over the shock of luxury, let’s talk about what the next few days will look like.”

Otis groaned. “Not schedules.”

“Yes, schedules,” Tao said, eyes narrowing. “Tomorrow you begin orientation. Training starts at sunrise — that’s non-negotiable. Weapons, defense, palace routes, protocol.”

“Then you’ll have lessons in history, court etiquette, and geography,” Elle added, voice gentler. “Especially mapping the palace and surrounding grounds. You’ll need to know how to navigate without thinking.”

Nick’s head turned at that, just slightly. Mapping?

Elle noticed. “I know. You’ve all had basic orientation—clearly, since you passed the entry trial,” she said with a smile. “But the prince will want to test your deeper knowledge. You’ll be expected to know more than corridors and gardens. Secret passages. Escape paths. And—”

“This is the first time he’s ever had Swords of the Treasure,” Tao cut in, more solemn now. “His highness turned eighteen this year. The royal guard has always protected him, but this is different. You are different.”

Nick didn’t move, but his jaw tensed just enough to catch the light.

“In the evenings,” Tao went on, “you’ll either dine in the royal dining room or here. It depends on the prince’s schedule. Sometimes he joins you. Sometimes he dines with the royal family.”

“Which is… fine,” Elle said quickly. “He’s always got so much going on. But he tries to be present. He likes to know his guards personally. He’s not like—” She stopped herself. “Well. He’s not like most nobles.”

Nick didn’t say it out loud, but he still wasn’t convinced. Being less cruel than the others didn’t make someone good.

“Any questions?” Tao asked, folding his arms again.

Christian raised a hand. “What if I get lost?”

“You will,” Tao said bluntly. “That’s what the maps and lessons are for.”

Otis raised a hand. “Do we get days off?”

Tao gave him a withering look. “Do you think your enemies take days off?”

Elle laughed softly. “Relax. You’ll get downtime. And we’ll be here if you need help.”

“Seriously,” she added, her gaze turning more sincere as it swept across the boys. “We know this is intense. We’ve seen a lot of guards come and go. But you four… there’s something different about you, after you finish this first week of formation, you will become the protectors of the most precious jewel of the kingdom.”

Nick’s jaw tightened slightly, but he didn’t look away.

Tao must’ve felt the atmosphere shift, because he said, in a more formal tone, “Look, I won’t lie to you. This isn’t just about swords and shields. This is about devotion. Respect. Discipline. You’ll be representing the prince at all times. That includes protocol, behavior, speech. The crown doesn’t tolerate foolishness.”

“And Tao,” Elle said, grinning now, “takes the rules very seriously. He’s not just an aide. He’s also the prince’s fiercest protector.”

Tao frowned. “I’m not—”

“Yes, you are,” Elle cut in. “But you don’t have to be scared. Really. He only bites if you threaten the prince. Or touch his teacups.”

That finally drew a low laugh from Christian. Even Sai allowed a faint smile.

Tao looked like he wanted to protest again, but instead he just sighed. “Fine. Just… remember why you’re here.”

Elle stepped toward the door. “Now—get some rest. Tomorrow’s when the real work starts.”

The pair of them left, their footsteps fading down the corridor.

Nick finally moved, trailing his fingers along the polished wood of the armchair beside the hearth.

The room was still. Golden. Heavy with potential.

Otis stretched and collapsed dramatically on one of the beds. “Guess we’re really doing this, huh?”

Christian leaned on the doorframe between chambers. “Looks like it.”

Sai sat cross-legged on a bench, quiet as ever, observing.

While the rest of the boys poked around drawers and wardrobes, marveled at the silk-stitched hangings, and half-joked about who’d claim which bed, Nick slipped quietly out of the room.

The hallway stretched out like a storybook — all gilded sconces, tapestries heavy with gold thread, and marble floors so polished they mirrored the chandeliers above. The opulence of it all made Nick’s stomach twist. There was enough wealth in this one corridor to feed a village through winter. Maybe two.

His boots made little sound as he walked, but his thoughts were loud.

So now they’ll teach me maps, he thought bitterly. Perfect. Let them show me every hallway, every chamber, every tunnel. I’ll burn it all into memory. And when the time comes…

He didn’t finish the thought.

He didn’t need to.

Nick moved deliberately, eyes scanning corners, carvings, peculiar statues of saints and warriors long dead. The palace had too many doors. Too many halls. Too many symbols of a crown fat with self-worship. He ran a finger along a stone crest on one pillar — gold leaf embedded into every swirl.

People outside are sharing boiled potatoes for dinner, he thought. And in here, they’ve got gold on the damn walls.

He moved on. Corridor after corridor, all too similar, too grand, too confusing in their sameness. He took a left at a hallway with crimson banners, then right past an arched gallery of painted royals with bored, lifeless eyes.

By the time he tried to retrace his steps, his confidence faltered.

No.

He was lost.

Nick cursed under his breath, glancing around. Every direction looked identical. The palace might have been beautiful, but it was a maze. And he’d wandered too far.

He turned again—and felt a light tug at his trousers.

He looked down.

A small child, maybe seven, stood beside him with a head of curly dark hair and wide brown eyes, barely tall enough to reach his waist.

“Who are you?” the child asked, suspiciously.

Nick blinked. “Who are you?”

“I live here,” the child replied promptly, arms crossed. “Are you lost?”

Nick opened his mouth to answer something clever. Closed it again. He sighed.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “Guess I am.”

The boy looked proud. “I knew it.”

Nick crouched slightly, lowering his voice. “Okay, listen. I’ll make you a deal.”

The kid perked up.

“You tell me how to get back to the rooms near the royal chambers,” Nick said, “and I’ll owe you… one piece of palace fruit. Any kind.”

The child squinted at him. “Even the little peaches?”

Nick smirked. “Even the little peaches.”

The kid’s grin split wide. “Follow me!”

And then he ran.

Nick nearly tripped over his own boots as he chased after the little blur of curls and laughter, the echo of their feet slapping across the marble. For the first time since he entered this castle, he laughed — a real, surprised laugh — as the boy darted under archways and through side corridors with practiced ease.

They came to a skidding stop in front of a familiar tapestry. Nick looked up — this hallway he remembered. The golden trimming. The tall vases. Finally.

The boy turned to him, cheeks flushed from running, and held up a hand.

“Shhh,” he whispered, very seriously. “Now I tell you the secret.”

Nick raised an eyebrow. “The secret?”

The child leaned up on tiptoe, reaching for Nick’s ear—

“What are you doing here?”

The voice rang through the corridor — not cruel, but crisp, commanding.

Nick froze.

He knew that voice now.

It belonged to moonlight eyes and firm decisions. To someone who could silence a commander with a look. Prince Charlie.

Nick turned sharply and straightened his spine. “Your Royal Highness, I— I—”

Charlie stepped forward, his hands clasped behind his back, expression unreadable for a beat.

Then he smiled.

“Don’t worry, Nick,” he said lightly. “I wasn’t talking to you.”

Nick blinked. “You weren’t?”

Charlie’s gaze slid downward. “I was talking to this little guy.”

Nick looked down.

The small child was now studiously avoiding eye contact, suddenly very interested in the hem of his own tunic. Nick’s brow furrowed. Wait… does this kid know the Prince?

The boy gave an exaggerated shrug. “Uhh… I don’t think so?”

Charlie narrowed his eyes playfully. “Are you sure about that?”

He stepped closer, then bent slightly, wiggling his fingers at the child’s sides.

The boy yelped, then broke into helpless giggles as Charlie tickled him expertly, his earlier bravado instantly crumbling into shrieks of laughter.

“Okay, okay!” the child gasped between laughs. “I was helping him find his way back!”

Charlie leaned back, still chuckling, then looked up at Nick.

“Were you listening?” he asked.

Nick swallowed. “Maybe, Your Royal Highness.”

Charlie tilted his head. “Did this little guy give you directions without bribery?”

Nick, flustered, lied terribly. “Absolutely.”

The small boy gave him a look.

Charlie groaned. “Oh, Olly. Fruit again?”

The child crossed his arms defiantly. “You said I could have peaches whenever I wanted!”

“That doesn’t mean you can scam the royal guard!”

“I didn’t scam,” Olly sniffed. “I helped.”

Charlie sighed with affection, then turned back to Nick.

“Well, I guess this is as good a moment as any,” he said. “Nick, allow me to introduce you properly.”

He reached out, tousling the child’s curls.

“This is my little brother — Prince Oliver. We mostly call him Olly.”

Nick’s mouth fell open. “Olly. As in… the little prince.”

Olly gave him a regal nod, as if he were very used to such introductions, then whispered, “You still owe me that peach.”

Charlie raised an eyebrow. “You still owe me five minutes of silence.”

Olly grinned like it was a game, then took off running again — this time down a different corridor, his laughter trailing behind him.

Nick stared after him, still stunned.

Charlie folded his arms, watching the boy go.

“He’s impossible,” he said with a fond sigh. “But I suppose I was too, at that age.”

Nick glanced at him. “I can see that.”

Charlie turned to him, lips twitching. “Careful, Nelson. You’re not that secure in your position yet.”

Nick met his eyes. “I’ll remember.”

“Well,” he said, brushing nonexistent dust from his sleeves, “I was actually heading to your quarters. Thought I might invite you — all of you — to join me for dinner tonight.”

Nick blinked. “Dinner?”

Charlie nodded. “Yes. You’re my Swords of the Treasure now. I won’t always be able to dine with you — royal duties and all — but I thought this might be a nice way to get to know each other better.” He gave a half-smile. “At the very least, I think I’ve finally got all your names down.”

There was a flicker of something real in his eyes, something hopeful and warm, and it made Nick’s stomach twist strangely.

Charlie extended a hand toward the corridor. “Care to escort me?”

Nick hesitated, then inclined his head. “I suppose it’s my job, Your Royal Highness.”

Charlie winced. “That—see, that’s the part that’s going to take getting used to. It unsettles me a little, being called that every other breath by the men who are going to be closest to me.”

Nick gave a tight smile, the corners of his mouth barely lifting. “Well, I wouldn’t be comfortable calling you anything else.”

Anything else would be admitting he was more than a spoiled brat in a polished cage. Anything else would be betrayal.

But out loud, he offered coolly, “Though if it would be more comfortable… I could refer to you as my Prince.”

Charlie gave a startled laugh. “That’s somehow worse.”

Nick tilted his head. “I aim to please.”

Charlie grinned, then turned and began walking, his boots tapping softly against the marble. “Come on then.”

Nick fell in behind him, two steps behind. “As you wish… my Prince”

Charlie stopped just briefly, glanced back with a teasing twinkle in his eye. “I think you’ll do just fine in your lessons tomorrow, Nelson.”

He gave a cheeky wink, and Nick couldn’t help it — his lips twitched, almost against his will.

And then they walked, one in moonlight white and royal blue, the other in dark navy and quiet secrets — heading together toward a dinner neither of them would forget.

Chapter Text

The hallway outside the guards’ quarters was quiet, a stillness settling over the palace as twilight stretched across the sky. Candles flickered in iron sconces along the stone walls, their warm glow casting gentle shadows.

Nick walked slightly behind Charlie, his footsteps light but precise, not quite in unison with the Prince’s more casual, graceful stride. It was strange, this kind of silence between them—comfortable in a way Nick hadn’t expected. He still didn’t quite know how to look at Prince Charlie. For someone he hated, Prince Charlie was…pleasant, Nick thought if he would be so kind after he kidnapped him.

They reached the carved oak door of the Swords’ shared chamber, and Charlie lifted a hand, knocking twice before pushing it open.

Sai, Christian, and Otis looked up from where they’d been lounging—Christian seated with his boots off, Otis halfway through unpacking, and Sai calmly organizing the few personal items he’d brought. They all stood the moment they saw the Prince.

“Good evening,” Charlie greeted with a small, polite smile. “I hope you’re all settling in. I won’t take much of your time—I just came to extend a small invitation.”

The room stilled.

Charlie continued, “I’d like to invite the four of you to have dinner with me tonight. In my chambers. I thought it would be a good opportunity for us to get to know each other a little better. I won’t be able to join you every evening—sometimes I dine with the royal family, and other times, unfortunately, alone with state documents—but tonight… I’d like to share a meal.”

There was a beat of silence—awkward not because anyone was unwilling, but because none of them were sure how to react.

“Of course,” Sai said, offering a respectful nod.

“It would be an honor,” Christian added smoothly.

“Sounds good to me,” Otis chimed in, then elbowed Sai and whispered unsuccessfully. “As long as he’s not planning to test our fencing stances with a soup spoon.”

Charlie grinned. “Not tonight.”

Nick said nothing, but nodded once.

“Then shall we?” the Prince asked, stepping aside.

They filed out behind him—quiet, straight-backed, their boots tapping lightly on the stone floor. The guards moved with instinctive discipline now, but Nick couldn’t help but notice the shift in air around them: something had begun to form, something solid and inevitable. For the first time, they looked like a unit.

And leading them, relaxed yet composed, was the Prince of the Realm.

Nick walked at the rear, watching everything. Every painting. Every vase. Every corridor. His eyes lingered on the guards they passed, memorizing the routes. But he also kept glancing forward—at the way the Prince walked, the ease of his posture, the confidence. Nick didn’t like how natural it looked. Or how easy it was to trail behind.

The route to the Prince’s private quarters was short, only a couple of minutes and they were there.

Two guards stood posted at either side. They saluted with swift precision as Charlie approached, and one moved to open the doors for him.

“Thank you, Tavin,” Charlie said, with familiarity that startled Nick. The guard gave him a tiny, surprised smile.

Inside, the room was everything Nick had feared.

It was massive.

It wasn’t gaudy in the way he’d imagined—it wasn’t drowning in gold or lined with marble. But it was refined. Tasteful. Ridiculously oversized.

A bed the size of a tavern’s entire second floor stood against the far wall, draped in soft silks and a navy canopy. A long wall of windows overlooked a sweeping garden, the glass doors thrown open so the evening breeze rolled in. Sheer curtains danced with the air.

To the left stood a wide desk scattered with papers, notes, and books stacked haphazardly. To the right, a smaller sitting area circled around a low chess table—game mid-play. There were more bookshelves than most village libraries, a Piano near the balcony, and a quiet corner with a flickering lantern and a rug that looked far too soft to step on.

In the center of it all, a round dining table had been set with six seats.

Nick’s first thought was: Five families could live in here.

His second: Of course. He’s still a spoiled brat.

Still, something about the space didn’t match the Prince he had imagined. It felt lived in. Real. Like someone had fallen asleep in that armchair with a book over his chest, or paced the carpet bare-footed while thinking through a difficult letter.

Charlie turned back to them. “Please. Sit wherever you’d like.”

The boys shuffled forward, some awkward, some curious. Nick took the seat furthest from the Prince. Charlie sat near the head, looking utterly unbothered.

Moments later, a maid entered with quiet grace, carrying a silver tray. She laid the dishes with practiced precision—roast duck in a spiced orange glaze, vegetables steamed and seasoned, and soft bread rolls still warm from the oven.

Otis raised his eyebrows slightly as the food was placed in front of him. “And here I thought the mess hall was the highlight.”

Charlie smiled. “I figured you’d earned something a little nicer after today.”

When the maid bowed and exited, silence reigned for a breath too long—until the Prince himself picked up his fork.

“Well,” Charlie said, “perhaps you could introduce yourselves? I know your names, but I’d like to hear about you. If you’re comfortable.”

Sai was the first to answer. “I’m Sai Verma, Your Highness. My parents are schoolteachers in the East Quarter of the city. I grew up around books and blackboards.”

Charlie’s expression brightened. “The East Quarter? I’ve read a little about your school systems there. They’re very progressive.”

Sai gave a small smile. “My parents worked hard to keep them that way.”

Christian followed. “Christian McBride. My parents own textile businesses—export mostly. I wasn’t expected to apply for this, but… I wanted something different.”

Charlie nodded, eyes warm. “It’s admirable. Stepping away from comfort.”

Otis leaned forward. “Otis Smith. Son of a teacher as well. Not quite as scholarly as Sai’s folks—I usually spend more time helping my grandparents, they live in a farm, sometimes it’s better being between horse than between humans .”

That drew a chuckle around the table.

And then it was Nick’s turn.

He knew it would come eventually — the circle had gone around, name by name, like a gentle storm closing in on him. Charlie hadn’t forced anyone to speak. But now, with the table quiet and the Prince’s gaze on him, Nick felt that tug — that silent pressure — to offer something. A piece of himself.

He straightened, but didn’t lean forward. His tone stayed calm. Guarded. His fingers didn’t fidget.

“I’m Nick Nelson,” he said simply. “I was raised here, in the Capital. My mother’s name is Sarah. She’s a seamstress — the kind who can turn torn linen into something elegant. She’s known in our part of the city, not just because of her work, but because she’s kind. Fierce, too. If you short her on coin, you’ll regret it.”

A soft smile curled at the edge of his mouth.

“I grew up with the sound of scissors on fabric and the smell of ink on measuring tape. We didn’t have much. She worked every day of her life just to keep us fed. I helped her whenever I could — mending buttons, carrying orders.”

He hesitated then, and for a moment something shifted in his voice — a quiet tightness.

“There was a time we had more. When I was very small, there were silks in the house. Toys carved from real oak. Boxes of sweets from Sorelle. That was when we still had his attention.”

The words thudded into the quiet like a drop of water onto stone.

Charlie tilted his head gently. “His?”

Nick’s jaw flexed once.

“My father. Stéphane de la Fournière.”

Christian sat up a little straighter. Even Sai looked mildly surprised. That name carried weight — not just noble, but high-ranking, intimately tied to the court.

Nick didn’t look away.

“My mother met him when she was seventeen. She was working at a tailor’s shop. He came in for a new coat — velvet, embroidered cuffs, the works. He flirted with her. Said she had clever hands. Told her she was different.”

He paused, voice low and unhurried.

“She fell in love. Believed him when he said their child would be claimed, protected, cherished. That love could defy status. That he would find a way.”

Nick’s fingers curled slightly on the tablecloth.

“And for a while, he did. He paid for a flat just outside the noble district. Came by in secret with little gifts. Promised more. She believed him.”

Nick glanced up at the prince.

“I was born into that in-between. Not noble. Not commoner. Just… hidden. But I was dressed like a little lord. My brother tells me he called me ‘son.’”

He swallowed.

“But as soon as his family found out…well, you can guess. The scandal was too close. Two illegitimate children — too much of a liability. So he disappeared.”

Nick didn’t blink.

“The money stopped. The letters stopped. The gifts vanished. One day we had enough bread for the week. The next, we had nothing.”

He took a breath.

“I was five the first time I saw my mother cry from hunger.”

Silence.

No one moved. Even the candle flames seemed to hold still.

Then, as if pulled back into himself, Nick shook his head lightly. “But she didn’t stay broken. She worked. She never stopped. She made something out of nothing — every single day. So if I’m here, it’s because she bled her fingers raw to make it possible.”

Charlie’s gaze hadn’t left him once. He looked… affected. And quietly reverent.

“Thank you,” he said softly. “For sharing that.”

Nick nodded once, tight and brief.

And just as the weight was settling heavy over the table—

“Well,” Otis said loudly, “what a prick.”

Christian’s mouth opened. Sai looked like someone had slapped him.

Otis paled. “I—sorry—Your Highness—I mean—”

Charlie blinked. Then laughed.

Not politely. Not softly.

A full, honest, shoulder-shaking laugh.

“Yes, Otis,” he said, grinning. “What a prick indeed.”

A wave of quiet laughter followed, easing the air like a breeze through a tense room.

Nick didn’t laugh.

But he looked at Charlie then, truly looked — and for a moment, the prince wasn’t a title, or a mission, or a spoiled royal boy.

He was just a boy.

The first thing Nick registered was the sound of a door slamming open.

The second was the unmistakable bark of Commander Harrow’s voice.

“Up! All of you! I want boots on marble in three minutes or I’ll have your spines mounted over the palace gates!”

There was a crash as Otis fell out of bed with a strangled groan. “Is it war?” he mumbled from the floor, still wrapped in his blanket.

“Feels like war,” Christian muttered from the other room, one arm draped over his eyes.

Nick sat up already half-dressed, his instincts snapping him into wakefulness before the rest could figure out where the hell they were. The room was dim, lit by the first orange streaks of dawn slicing through the velvet drapes.

Across from him, Sai was already up, lacing his boots with quiet precision.

“You get used to this,” Sai said under his breath.

Nick raised an eyebrow. “You’ve done this before?”

Sai gave a slight shrug. “If you like going to have a dance in a tavern, you must be prepared for the day after.”

Nick nodded. “Fair enough.”

“Two minutes!” bellowed the Commander from beyond the doorway. “And if I smell unwashed skin, I will personally scrub you down with the palace fountain!”

Otis whimpered. “Please tell me he’s bluffing.”

“He’s not,” Christian said grimly, tugging on his shirt. “I heard from a boy in the tests that a guy in the East Wing ended up dunked in lavender soap for coming down late.”

“Lavender soap?” Otis blinked. “Okay, but that sounds kind of nice—”

“Now!” came the thunder.

There was a collective scramble. Tunics were pulled on backward, boots were jammed onto the wrong feet, belts were fastened at impossible angles. By the time they filed out into the corridor, they were breathless, disheveled, but mostly clothed — and very, very awake.

Commander Harrow stood at the end of the hall like an iron statue carved from the very stone of the palace. Arms crossed. Eyes sharp. Disapproval radiating like heat.

“You’re late,” he said, though they clearly weren’t.

Nick noticed the corner of the Commander’s mouth twitch — not quite amusement, but something close.

“This week,” Harrow continued, voice clipped and military, “you are not protectors. You are learners. This is your first and only week to acclimate to His Highness’s routines, habits, preferences, and protocols. You will rise with discipline, train with focus, and if you dare yawn in front of the prince, I will have you running laps around the courtyard until your legs fall off.”

Otis made a very small sound of dread.

“You will know the sound of his footsteps, the weight of his silence, the cadence of his breath. The prince is your charge, your symbol, your responsibility.”

Nick resisted the urge to roll his eyes. The cadence of his breath? Really?

Commander Harrow turned abruptly on his heel. “Now. Gardens. Walk.”

The palace gardens, at that early hour, didn’t feel real.

Mist clung low over trimmed hedges and rose beds, like breath exhaled by the earth itself. The trees stood still, their leaves dripping with dew. Even the fountains burbled more quietly, as if the world hadn’t quite remembered how to be loud yet.

And then came the footsteps.

Four boys in navy uniforms, jogging lightly through the gravel-lined paths under the watchful eyes of Commander Harrow.

It wasn’t a fast run — more a jog with structure — a way to guide them through the grounds while keeping them alert. Otis was panting dramatically before they’d reached the first courtyard. Sai, of course, was completely composed. Christian kept pace, occasionally adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves mid-stride, and Nick…

Nick ran like he’d been doing this his entire life.

His eyes weren’t on the path. They were on everything else.

The palace was waking up.

Servants moved through side corridors, baskets and linens balanced in their arms. Kitchen boys carried trays of bread through hidden gates. Maids in soft pastels swept steps and shook out morning laundry from high balconies. A few stable hands led horses toward the lower yards.

A few lanterns still flickered in stone alcoves, their orange glow no match for the rising sun. Through open gates and side corridors, Nick watched the staff begin their quiet ballet: servants moving in pairs, carrying folded linens, trays, and tall buckets of flowers. A young maid crossed a stone bridge with a copper kettle tucked under her arm, her braid bouncing against her shoulder.

Above, in a far window, a curtain was pulled aside — not by a lady draped in pearls, but by a yawning maid with her sleeves rolled up, already tying back her hair.

Nick followed her movement for just a second. She lit a lantern, then disappeared again into the shadows of her duty.

They wake before the sun to scrub gold floors for people who sleep on silk and never say thank you, he thought bitterly.

Commander Harrow barked out directions. The group veered left, then jogged past an ivy-wrapped arch.

“This way leads to the eastern courtyards,” the Commander called. “Prince Charlie’s falcons are trained in the spire above!”

“Falcons?” Otis wheezed. “Great. Just what we needed. Royal birds that hate us.”

“They probably get treated better than the guards,” Christian said under his breath.

“Do you think we’ll be trained to fight them?” Otis asked. “Like, sword against beak?”

“I think they’d win,” Sai replied dryly.

Nick stayed behind them, quiet as always, but something flickered in his chest.

They reached a stretch of gravel path lined with two massive rose arches, pale petals scattered across the ground like silk.

Otis stumbled slightly as they passed beneath the second arch. “Nope. This one’s cursed. I’m telling you. My lungs gave up right here.”

Nick, without breaking pace, muttered, “Maybe your lungs just fear commitment.”

The other three turned to him so fast they nearly collided.

Christian blinked. Otis gaped. Sai narrowed his eyes like he wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly.

Then Christian let out a laugh.

“A joke. An actual joke.”

“From Nick Nelson, no less,” Otis gasped. “Our boy’s got claws.”

Nick didn’t look at them. “It was barely a joke.”

“No, no,” Sai said, lips twitching, “It was cold-blooded. I respect that.”

“I feel personally attacked,” Otis added dramatically. “You’ve been here for a day and you’re already better at insults than me.”

Nick allowed the faintest hint of a smirk to pass over his face. Just for a moment.

They rounded another corner, sunlight glowing stronger now across the palace rooftops, and the sounds of the waking world followed them — laughter, chatter, the clip of boots across courtyards.

Once they finished, Commander Harrow led them without a word to have breakfast, boots echoing against the stone floors, and when he finally pushed open a heavy oak door, the sound that hit them was immediate:

Chaos. Glorious, delicious chaos.

The Royal Kitchens were massive — more like a hall than a room — with tall ceilings that echoed with shouting, clattering pans, and bursts of laughter. Long wooden tables lined the center, loaded with trays and baskets and bowls. Fireplaces roared along the stone walls, each one feeding a different bubbling pot or pan.

Dozens of staff moved like clockwork — slicing, stirring, washing, running from one station to another with practiced grace. The smells were dizzying: baked cinnamon, roasted garlic, melted butter, fresh bread, and something sweet with a hint of rose.

“Watch your step!” barked a red-faced kitchen boy as he skidded past them, holding two steaming pots by the handles. He grinned as he saw the newcomers. “Don’t worry, lads — Miss Miriam adopts everyone. You’re hers now.”

“Miss who?” Otis whispered.

He didn’t have to wait long.

From behind a stack of copper pans emerged a woman built like a fortress, with arms thick from years of kneading dough and a face as warm as the ovens behind her. Her graying hair was tucked under a floral scarf, and her apron had flour handprints smeared across the front.

“There you are!” she bellowed, seeing the boys. “My boys of the blade! Come in, come in, heavens, you look like you haven’t eaten in days!”

Otis whispered, “I love her.”

“You must be the new Swords of the Treasure,” she said proudly, waving them toward one of the long side tables near the window. “And look at you — like matchsticks, all arms and shoulders. Sit, sit! I won’t have you fainting in front of the prince.”

They obeyed without protest, and the moment they sat, plates began to appear.

Loaves of bread, each different: crusty, soft, braided, dark, spiced. Rows of butter — golden, herbed, honeyed. There were bowls of berry preserves, fresh-cut fruit, sliced meats, and still-steaming eggs cooked every way imaginable.

Nick just… stared.

He had never seen so many types of bread in one place. Or so many ways to spread butter. It was absurd.

“Try the honey butter,” Sai whispered.

Nick hesitated — then did.

And his soul briefly left his body.

Miss Miriam patted his shoulder as she passed. “Eat, darling. You’ll need strength. You’re protecting our prince now.”

A few kitchen hands passed by with curious glances, all a little flushed, a little starstruck. One of them — a slim girl with dark curls and flour on her nose — lingered near the ovens, eyes flicking toward the boys’ table.

Specifically… toward Nick.

Otis noticed first. His grin grew wide.

“Oh my gods,” he whispered, elbowing Christian. “She’s blushing.”

Christian followed his gaze. “I think she’s staring at Nelson.”

Sai glanced over without lifting his spoon. “Confirmed.”

Nick looked up, caught the girl’s gaze for half a second, then looked right back down at his plate. “Ignore it.”

“I don’t think she can,” Otis teased. “Look at you. Palace rebel and heartthrob.”

Nick muttered something that sounded suspiciously like a threat, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him — just a twitch, barely there.

The kitchen buzzed around them. Somewhere near the back, someone shouted for more eggs. A bell chimed. A maid passed through, collecting a tray destined for the Queen’s wing. Morning light spilled through the high windows, catching the copper pots in gold.

They were just four boys, sharing bread, heat, and a slow-forming bond over a borrowed table. While Nick ate, Otis laughed or Christian poured tea. “Anyone want?”

“Absolutely,” Otis said, taking a roll and stuffing it in his mouth whole. “Is this how the royals eat every day?”

Sai nodded. “Probably. Though I imagine they don’t shovel it in like starved goblins.”

“I am a starved goblin,” Otis said through a mouthful of bread. “I’m not ashamed.”

Nick reached quietly for a slice of pear, chewing slowly while the others talked. He listened.

Christian and Sai started lightly arguing about which house in the palace had the best vantage point for defense. Christian claimed the south balconies. Sai argued for the high northern walkways.

“I’m telling you,” Sai insisted, “from the north you can see three wings of the palace and the entire courtyard.”

“But the south faces the royal gardens,” Christian argued. “Perfect for observation. Plus, better sunlight.”

“You’re just obsessed with sunlight,” Otis chimed in, “you’re like a cat.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Christian replied smoothly.

Nick sipped his tea, just watching them. Sai’s steady logic, Christian’s artistic flair, Otis’s constant stream of ridiculous commentary.

“You’re quiet,” Sai said suddenly, looking over at Nick.

Nick looked up. “Observing.”

“Still?” Otis leaned over dramatically. “We passed the test, Nick. You can chill now.”

Nick raised a brow. “This is me chill.”

Christian laughed. “Gods help us.”

They stayed at the table longer than they probably should have, refilling their tea and nibbling the last of the fruit. The palace had already come alive outside the window — they could hear the footsteps of passing staff, the chiming of bells from deeper within the estate, the distant calls of guards changing shifts.

By the time they left the kitchens, the warmth of the ovens still clinging to their clothes, the palace had fully come alive.

Servants moved in careful order now — cleaner lines, brisker steps. The light from the tall windows was sharp and clear. The day had begun.

Commander Harrow led them across a marble passageway lined with tall glass doors and through a narrow staircase guarded by an ornate metal gate. As they ascended to the eastern wing, Nick took note of every detail: the steps that creaked slightly, the small passage to the right, the way the sunlight angled through the windows, hitting only part of the hallway. Every inch of the palace whispered secrets, and Nick listened.

They reached a set of double doors flanked by two guards in white and gold livery, both standing straight as pikes. The sigil of the royal family gleamed on their chests — a rising sun over a crowned branch.

Commander Harrow halted the group.

“These are the Prince’s private chambers, I know you are familiar with them” he said. “Eventually, this post will be your responsibility. Two stationed outside. Two inside.”

Otis leaned closer to Sai and whispered, “I call inside. Less chance of dying.”

“Quiet,” Harrow snapped, though his eyes didn’t move.

As if on cue, the doors from a the room next door swung open — not from other guards, but from within.

“Good morning, gentlemen!” came a bright, almost musical voice.

Elle, dressed in soft pinks and silks with golden embroidery, stood just inside the doorway, her hands clasped in front of her.

Behind her, slightly more serious but no less familiar, Tao gave them a nod.

“You’re right on time,” Tao said. “His Highness appreciates punctuality. Even if he doesn’t… always match it himself.”

Otis looked concerned. “Wait, so we’re waking up the prince?”

“No, we wake up the prince, you just watch we don’t do “anything improper”, he isn’t supposed to be left alone after turning eighteen, You’ll get used to it,” Elle said cheerfully. “It’s one of the perks of the job. Come on in.”

They stepped inside cautiously.

The room was mostly dark.

Thick velvet curtains blocked out the sunlight, and only a few faint glows from candles lit the corners. The air was warm, scented faintly of lavender and fresh linen.

Nick blinked as his eyes adjusted, searching for movement, a voice, a sign of life.

Nothing.

Until—

“Why are you doing here so early?” came a muffled, sleep-heavy grumble from the direction of the bed.

Elle giggled.

“My prince, it’s nine in the morning.”

From under the blankets, a dramatic groan emerged. “No. Absolutely not.”

Tao moved toward the windows with the certainty of someone who did this every day. “Don’t make me call the Queen.”

“You wouldn’t,” came the horror-struck reply.

“Oh, he would,” Elle said, stepping beside him.

And then, with a practiced flourish, they threw open the curtains.

Sunlight flooded the room.

The figure on the bed recoiled like a vampire, pulling the covers over his head.

Nick blinked at the sight: a mop of golden curls, a pair of bare feet sticking out from under navy sheets, and a truly royal groan of resistance.

“This isn’t fair,” the prince mumbled. “I need my beauty sleep.”

“You say that every morning,” Tao muttered, already pulling open drawers and fetching a set of clothes.

Elle turned back toward the boys and winked. “Welcome to the royal morning routine.”

Now that the sunlight had fully claimed the room, the details of Prince Charlie’s quarters came into view: soft rugs in creams and golds, a dressing screen painted with scenes from the myth of Aelis, books stacked haphazardly on a nearby side table, and a tall mirror facing a wardrobe large enough to fit a horse.

At the center of it all sat Prince Charlie, still curled up in his blankets like a sullen cat.

“I’m not coming out until the sun apologizes,” he declared, voice muffled by the sheets.

“You said that yesterday,” Tao said, placing the day’s clothes carefully on the nearby dressing chair.

“It still hasn’t apologized.”

Elle clicked her tongue and crossed the room to the prince’s side. “Come on, now. Up. I’ve combed your curls already in my mind — let’s make them real.”

Charlie peeked out from under the covers. His eyes — even half-lidded and sleep-drunk — were bright, pale, and just the slightest bit mischievous.

Nick watched, arms crossed behind the rest of the boys. It was… strange. This wasn’t the commanding figure from the training field. This wasn’t the boy with the moon-glow eyes and the elegant posture. This was someone smaller. Softer. Someone still half-tucked in sleep and refusing to face the day like any other teenager.

Elle gently coaxed him upright, fussing over his hair with her fingers.

“You’re lucky I like you,” she muttered as she tugged a brush through a particularly stubborn curl.

Charlie made a face but allowed it.

The boys stood along the wall, watching the ritual unfold like a play. Otis leaned over to Sai and whispered, “Do you think she’d do our hair, too?”

“Don’t push it,” Sai replied, though his mouth twitched as Elle finished.

The prince blinked blearily toward the boys. “I suppose I should say good morning now.”

“Good morning, Your Highness,” Christian offered with a smile.

Charlie gave a slow, regal nod. “Good morning my Swords.”

A soft knock at the chamber door interrupted the moment, and a maid entered carrying a silver tray.

“Breakfast, my prince.”

“Oh thank heavens,” Charlie sighed, sitting at the small table near the window.

The tray was unveiled with elegant flair: tiny berry-filled pastries, a honeyed roll, warm cinnamon oats, a soft poached egg in a porcelain dish, and a tall glass of something orange and sparkling.

Nick blinked.

So this is what royalty eats for breakfast.

Charlie tore a piece of his roll and chewed slowly, his expression brightening with every bite.

“Alright,” he said mid-chew, “since you’ve all been subjected to my morning dramatics, the least I can do is ask how your morning has been.”

Otis jumped in, naturally. “We’ve been up since the sun rose and running through gardens. I’m fairly sure I died twice.”

Charlie raised an eyebrow. “Well, I’m glad you came back from the dead just in time to see me yawn.”

Sai added calmly, “We had breakfast in the kitchens. The head cook, Miss Miriam, threatened to adopt us.”

“Ah,” Charlie grinned, “she does that. Don’t be surprised if she starts leaving you little pies wrapped in napkins. She once sent me a ham with a note that said ‘Eat or die.’ I always said when I was a child that I was afraid of her, but in reality I escaped my governess as much as I could to spend time in the kitchens”

The boys chuckled.

Nick said nothing — but his eyes stayed fixed on Charlie as the prince gently wiped jam from the corner of his mouth with a lace-trimmed napkin. Everything about him was so… soft. So different from the sharp, clipped commands Nick had expected from a royal.

And yet, he held the room effortlessly.

“Right then,” Charlie said, finishing his last sip. “Tao, could you fetch my papers?”

Tao handed over a neat stack of parchment bound by a silver clip. Charlie flipped it open and scanned quickly, eyes now serious, thoughtful. He scribbled something in the margins with a fountain pen, muttering to himself as he read.

Just like that, the air shifted. The sleepy boy was gone, replaced by the young sovereign-in-training who would one day inherit the throne.

Nick stared at him for a beat longer than he should have, then looked away.

Charlie set down his papers at last, scribbled one final note in the margins, and pushed the stack aside with a little sigh.

“I suppose it’s time to look princeling,” he said quietly, mostly to himself.

Elle stood from where she’d been sitting on the edge of the chaise and crossed the room with practiced ease. With both hands, she flung open the wardrobe doors.

Inside, the wardrobe looked more like a miniature museum of fashion than a place for everyday clothing. Robes of emerald silk, embroidered jackets in navy and cream, shirts with gilded cuffs, and coats with epaulets in polished silver. Velvet, satin, linen. Dozens of outfits, each perfectly pressed and ready.

“Let’s go with the midnight blue today,” Elle said to herself, pulling out a deep-colored jacket with the royal crest stitched in gold over the left shoulder. “With the high collar. You’ll have the council’s eye this afternoon.”

Charlie rose slowly, visibly reluctant, his cheeks already dusted with pink.

He turned to the boys — who were still standing dutifully, hands behind their backs near the windows — and cleared his throat.

“Um… if it’s not too much trouble,” he mumbled, “could you all… turn around for a moment?”

All four boys blinked.

Otis gave an immediate smile. “Of course, Your Highness,” he said, overly formal as he turned on his heel.

Christian followed, raising one eyebrow at Sai as if to say, did he really just blush?

Nick, as always, moved silently — but just before he turned, his gaze caught a glimpse of Charlie pulling his shirt over his head.

Just for a second.

The curve of the prince’s neck caught the morning light — pale, smooth, vulnerable. There was something delicate in it, the kind of softness that had no business belonging to someone who’d held the authority to command soldiers with a glance the day before.

Nick looked away quickly, jaw tight.

Get a grip.

Behind them, there was a brief scuffle of silk, the sound of buttons, of Elle’s voice low and fussing: “Lift your arms, higher — no, not like that, you’re not a scarecrow—”

Otis, whispering under his breath: “I feel like I’m committing treason just by existing during this.”

Christian chuckled. “The royal dignity is very vulnerable today.”

Sai shook his head and muttered, “We are going to be executed before noon.”

Then:

“Alright,” Charlie’s voice called. “You can turn back.”

They did.

The transformation was sharp — sudden.

Prince Charlie now stood tall, dressed in midnight blue with gold trimming, his curls perfectly combed, shoulders back. The sunlight caught on the subtle embroidery at his cuffs, and he looked — for the first time that morning — like a ruler.

Even Nick, rebel to the core, felt something stir in his chest.

Charlie looked between them, clearly trying to keep his composure. “You’re all very polite. Thank you.”

Otis grinned. “We’re sworn to protect your virtue, after all.”

Charlie rolled his eyes. “Gods help me.”

Once fully dressed, Prince Charlie adjusted his cuffs and looked toward Tao, who had reappeared with a stack of additional scrolls and a rather serious expression.

“Is my tutor expecting me already?” Charlie asked, exhaling slowly.

Tao nodded. “Lord Ajayi has requested a full review of the eastern alliance treaties before midday. And there’s a rhetoric exam waiting after.”

Charlie pulled a face. “Ah. My favorite.”

Otis leaned toward Sai and muttered, “What’s a ‘pugnacy’? Sounds like a place where people politely punch each other.”

“It’s the prince’s school,” Sai whispered back, “for diplomacy, history, political theory… it’s basically royal brain training.”

“Tragic,” Otis said. “He has to study and look good?”

“He’s very talented,” Elle said from her spot near the wardrobe, tucking away unused fabrics.

Charlie turned back to the boys. His voice was softer now, almost regretful. “I won’t see you for a few hours — my lessons tend to devour the morning. I hope you tell me everything about your first morning here after supper”

The boys bowed at the same time.

With a final glance at Elle and Tao, Charlie exited through the side doors, his attendants following closely. The echo of his steps faded quickly.

Then came the sound of leather gloves being clapped together.

Commander Harrow had re-entered the room.

“Enough standing around,” he barked. “Your Highness is gone. Time to learn how to function like swords, not decorations.”

The boys straightened.

“You will now begin your training in royal protocol,” Harrow said. “There are rules. Rules for presence. For silence. For deference. For weaponry etiquette in court spaces. You will learn what to say, how to say it, and when to say nothing at all.”

“Sounds uplifting,” Christian muttered.

Harrow ignored him.

“You’ll also receive instruction in mapping, as you’ll be expected to memorize every hallway, passage, and escape route in this palace.”

Nick’s ears perked up at that. Perfect.

The commander finished “We’ll also be helping with personal grooming, public presentation, and escort strategy. Oh — and you’ll rotate through duties: guarding the prince directly, standing watch outside his quarters, and learning his schedule inside out.”

Then in an unexpected soft voice he pointed to the door.

“Follow me. Welcome to your first day.”

Chapter Text

The training room was already warm with morning light when the boys entered — wide windows casting long shadows across polished floors. The royal crest glinted on the far wall, painted in deep navy and gold. There were no swords, no sparring dummies, no scent of sweat or leather.

Just scrolls. Books. Stacks of folded parchment. A long table with silver-tipped quills and, standing stiff-backed at the head of the room, Master Vallon.

He looked like a statue carved from cold authority. His robes were deep gray with black cuffs, his silver hair swept back with mathematical precision. In one hand, he held a pointer. In the other, a thick, leather-bound folio.

He didn’t welcome them.

He didn’t ask for names.

He walked to the center of the table, opened the folio, and with a sharp motion, unfurled a calendar as large as a flag. Thick vellum. Fine calligraphy. And circled in brilliant red ink were dates that might as well have been warnings.

“This,” he said, “is the life you are entering.”

The boys exchanged glances. Otis looked like he was bracing for a riddle. Nick stood very still.

“You are not training to be simple soldiers,” Vallon continued. “You are being forged into swords — polished, sharpened, ceremonial and lethal. If, after this week, you prove yourselves worthy, the King himself will knight you and you will become officially Swords of the Treasure.”

A pause. Vallon tapped the calendar.

“Your duty is not only to guard the prince’s life. It is to move beside him through court life. You will attend diplomatic functions, ceremonies, audiences with nobles, and royal galas. You will be seen. You will be measured. Every mistake will be whispered across kingdoms.”

He jabbed three red circles on the calendar. “And this is why you must be perfect. In two months’ time begins the Royal Season.”

Otis blinked. “Is that like noble spring break?”

Sai replied calmly, “It’s when every noble in the kingdom shows up here to strut, court, and scheme.”

“The Christmas Ball, the Royal Midwinter Banquet, the House Procession,” Vallon listed. “Crowds. Eyes. Dignitaries. Foreign heirs. Lords and ladies who can read disrespect in the twitch of an eyebrow. And you, gentlemen, will be standing three steps behind the prince at all times.”

Christian tilted his head. “So we’re supposed to be… elegant shadows?”

Vallon’s pale eyes cut to him. “Shadows with discipline.”

He rolled the calendar back into place with military precision.

“You will learn etiquette,” he continued. “You will learn to bow until your backs ache. You will study history, protocol, posture. You will learn how to watch without staring, how to listen without speaking, how to exist without offending. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Master,” Sai said, already straightening his shoulders.

“Yes, sir,” the rest echoed.

Nick said nothing — but his spine was already perfectly aligned.

Vallon gave a slight nod. “Good. Let us begin.”

The next hour was a haze of formal hell.

They started with posture drills — standing still with feet planted shoulder-width apart, hands behind their backs, and eyes forward. Master Vallon walked up and down the line, correcting shoulders, chins, and breathing patterns with terrifying efficiency.

Otis swayed like a leaf in a storm. Christian stood too dramatically. Sai held still like a stone statue.

Nick? He didn’t flinch once.

Then came bowing technique — the angle of the neck, the softness of the gaze, the position of the feet. Vallon demonstrated three distinct styles: one for the king, one for the prince, and one for visiting nobility.

Otis got them all mixed up.

“I’m going to bow myself into a knot,” he whispered to Christian.

“You’re already halfway there,” Christian replied.

Nick didn’t speak. He simply mirrored Vallon’s stance, clean and unshakable.

“Nelson,” Vallon called, his tone clipped. “What is the proper angle of the shoulders when bowing to a marquess?”

Nick replied without hesitation. “Thirty-five degrees. Eyes lowered, but not closed.”

A pause.

“Correct,” Vallon said.

Otis leaned toward Sai and whispered, “He’s like a machine.”

Sai smirked. “A very serious, terrifying machine.”

They moved next to a set of long tables where maps of the palace had been unfurled. Thick parchment. Inked lines. Dozens of rooms, hidden staircases, servant tunnels, emergency routes.

“These,” Vallon said, tapping the sheet with his pointer, “are the arteries of the palace. You will learn them like you learn the bones in your hands. Know where to stand, where to hide, where to escape. If you are ever confused inside these walls, you will be replaced.”

The boys leaned in.

Nick already recognized several of the passageways. He’d started mapping them during quiet wanderings and sharp-eyed walks. But now, the full picture was taking shape in his mind — the palace not as a home, but as a living, breathing fortress.

“Nelson,” Vallon snapped. “Fastest route from the East Library to the Western Rose Gate.”

Nick barely blinked. “Servants’ hallway behind the chapel. Bypasses the main gallery.”

Silence.

Vallon stared at him for a moment longer than necessary.

“Correct.”

Otis gaped. “He’s part palace rat. That’s the only explanation.”

Christian turned toward Nick. “You memorized that already?”

Nick just shrugged. “It’s useful.”

“Useful?” Otis said, voice rising. “It’s sorcery.”

Sai glanced up from his scroll and said dryly, “Confirmed. Nelson is secretly the grand vizier of maps.”

For the first time that morning, Nick cracked the barest smile.

They broke for a short rest. Water was passed around. The palace bells tolled a soft hour as sunlight spilled across the marble floor.

Nick stood near the window, sipping slowly.

“You’re good at this,” Sai said, joining him.

Nick didn’t respond right away. Then: “It’s just memorizing.”

“No,” Sai said. “It’s watching. You see everything.”

Nick glanced sideways. “That a problem?”

Sai smiled faintly. “No. That’s what makes it useful.”

Otis joined too. “It is just…how do you know all of that already?

Christian looked at Nick, eyebrows raised. “You mapping the place in your sleep?”

Nick didn’t answer.

Sai smirked. “He’s been mapping it since we got here.”

Otis leaned over and whispered, “Alright, so you’re either secretly royal, or secretly dangerous.”

Nick muttered, “Both’s a stretch.”

Otis plopped down dramatically near them. “If I die during etiquette class, tell Miss Miriam I want to be buried in warm bread.”

Christian sighed. “Noted.”

The light shifted again, shadows stretching across the floor.

And in the quiet, the four of them stood together.

By late afternoon, the castle had softened.

The bells had tolled three times past midday, and the warmth of the sun had mellowed to a gentle gold. Footsteps no longer rushed across marble — they drifted. Courtiers spoke in lower tones. The palace, as vast as it was grand, seemed to exhale.

The boys had just finished reviewing another map set with Master Vallon when Tao arrived.

He greeted the group with his usual brisk nod and an expression that, while serious, was far gentler than the commander’s. “His Highness is spending the evening with his brother, Prince Oliver,” Tao said. “We thought it would be good for you four to see how informal court moments unfold. These duties won’t all be posturing and protocol.”

“You want us to guard a playroom?” Otis asked.

“Guard it, yes,” Tao replied. “Observe, more importantly.”

“And,” Elle added, appearing beside Tao with her usual unbothered grace, “you might learn something. His Highness is very himself when he’s with family.”

The boys followed.

They were brought up a smaller stairway — not one of the grand, gold-rail banisters, but a narrow, quieter path that led to a bright corner of the eastern wing. Here, the walls were painted in soft pastels. Floral embroidery stretched across long curtains. A velvet runner muffled their steps.

Two guards stood at the entrance to the royal nursery. One nodded and opened the door.

The four of them stepped inside.

The room smelled of warm milk, sugar, and storybooks. A carpet of plush blue and cream covered the floor. Toys — elegant, well-maintained — lined the shelves in neat rows: hand-painted figurines, wooden trains, alphabet blocks polished to a shine. A miniature library hugged one wall, while the opposite corner boasted a play tent that shimmered like starlight.

And at the center of it all sat Prince Charlie.

Not as a monarch. Not as a figure of poise or rank.

But as a brother.

He was seated cross-legged on the floor, sleeves rolled up, a small smudge of ink on his wrist. In his lap, half-asleep but still murmuring with stubborn energy, was Prince Oliver — soft curls falling into his face, one cheek pressed to Charlie’s chest, and a stuffed rabbit tucked securely under his arm.

Nick lingered near the wall with the others, watching in silence.

Charlie didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t fidget or act distracted. He read from a heavy storybook with full commitment — voices, sound effects, even pauses for Oliver to gasp or laugh or object. He gave the boy his full attention, as if there were nothing else in the entire palace more important.

Oliver interrupted mid-sentence. “No, no, the dragon can’t have tea, Charlie! He just burned the knight’s house!”

Charlie closed the book and held up one finger. “Ah, but have you considered — maybe he’s sorry. Maybe tea is his apology.”

Oliver looked suspicious. “Dragons don’t apologize.”

Charlie’s eyes twinkled. “This one does. This one feels things.”

Oliver huffed, clearly unconvinced.

Nick watched the exchange and felt something strange unfurl inside his chest.

Something… quieter. Something he didn’t want to name.

Because Charlie was, in this moment, entirely genuine.

And not just kind — but effortlessly kind. He knew how to speak to Oliver without condescension, knew when to lean in, when to tease, when to quiet the room. It wasn’t learned. It was instinct.

He’s good with children, Nick thought, somewhat begrudgingly. Too good.

Oliver climbed off Charlie’s lap and toddled over to the blocks, immediately starting a crooked tower. Charlie followed on his knees and helped steady the pieces, murmuring encouragement.

Nick crossed his arms.

His mind, traitorous as ever, whispered again:

He’ll be a great father one day, specially considering he can get pregnant

That shouldn’t have meant anything. Not to Nick. Not here.

But the thought didn’t stop there.

I wonder who will be the one to knock him up.

His stomach dropped.

Where the hell did that come from?

He crossed his arms tightly, eyes narrowing. He needed to stop thinking things like that. Charlie wasn’t kind. Charlie wasn’t warm. This — this softness — was probably performative. Something trained into him by his handlers to charm the kingdom.

Nick ground his molars together.

What does that matter? He’s a spoiled royal with silk bedsheets and sugar in his tea. Just because he knows how to make a toddler laugh doesn’t mean he—

“Nick,” Sai whispered beside him, nudging his arm. “You good?”

Nick forced a blink. “Fine.”

But he wasn’t.

He didn’t like how quiet his heart had gone.

Didn’t like the weight in his chest.

Didn’t like the way Charlie had looked kneeling beside a child with stars in his eyes, like he belonged there.

Like he could be something else.

Then the heels clicked outside.

A sharp sound. Rhythmically soft. Purposeful.

The tension in the room shifted.

Charlie glanced toward the door and straightened his back. His smile softened — not vanished, just… adjusted.

Otis whispered, “Who’s that?”

The door opened.

And Princess Victoria stepped in.

The door opened with a slow, deliberate motion.

And Princess Victoria — Tori to those who dared — stepped into the nursery like she owned the room.

Which, Nick suspected, she probably did.

She didn’t walk — she glided. Her forest green gown shimmered like moss under candlelight, cut in sharp, royal angles that screamed elegance. A thin gold chain lay across her collarbones. Her dark hair was twisted up in pearl pins that looked like they might double as weapons.

Every step was measured. Every blink calculated. Every word, Nick was certain, was about to feel like a test.

The boys straightened instinctively.

Elle, who had quietly joined them by the doorway, gave a tiny nod that screamed now.

The four Swords bowed in perfect unison — as they had been taught, drilled, scolded.

Not too deep. Not too shallow. Eyes down. Hands clasped behind the back.

“Ah,” Victoria said lightly, folding her hands. “So these are the famed Swords of the Treasure. All arms and shoulders and very serious expressions.”

Otis, mid-bow, looked like he might faint.

Charlie cleared his throat gently. “Tori, please.”

“What?” she said with faux innocence, stepping further inside. “Am I not allowed to greet your very first set of knights? It’s a historic day, baby brother.”

Nick lifted his head slowly, just in time to see her sweep the group with a critical, amused gaze — a lioness evaluating cubs.

She passed over Otis (who immediately broke eye contact), moved past Christian and Sai (both of whom maintained their composure with varying degrees of effort), and then—

She stopped on Nick.

Not for long. Not dramatically.

But long enough.

Her gaze held his for exactly three seconds.

Enough for Nick to feel seen in a way he didn’t like.

Enough to make him wish he hadn’t blinked.

“Mm,” she said, eyes flicking away. “You’ve picked a rather striking group. Dangerous too, I hope?”

Charlie tried to keep the mood light. “They’re excellent. Composed. Dedicated.”

Victoria tilted her head. “And very quiet, apparently.”

Nick’s jaw clenched.

“Oh, don’t look so tense,” she added, smiling as she stepped toward Oliver, who was hiding behind a stack of blocks. “I’m only terrifying to those with secrets.”

Oliver peeked around the tower. “You are scary, Tori.”

“Good,” she whispered playfully. “That means it’s working.”

The tension didn’t fade — it shimmered underneath everything. But it wasn’t harsh. It was graceful, effortless. Victoria didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t demand space. She simply took it.

Charlie moved beside her, trying to smooth the mood. “They’re still getting used to palace dynamics. It’s only been a few days.”

“Ah, so still trainable,” she said sweetly. “That’s good. It would be such a shame if you ended up with four dogs who only knew how to growl.”

Christian coughed softly. Otis might’ve squeaked.

Charlie rolled his eyes and stood, dusting imaginary lint from his sleeve. “Tori, please. You’re scaring the help.”

“The help?” Tori gasped, mock-offended. “You mean your handpicked protectors of purity and virtue?”

Charlie flushed. “I never said they were—”

“I’m teasing.” She leaned over and ruffled his hair. “Sort of.”

She gave Oliver a quick kiss on the forehead and then turned, her steps already echoing toward the hall.

At the door, she paused — and without turning — said:

“Do try not to let them die, Charlie. It would be such a waste.”

And then she was gone.

The silence she left behind was much louder than when she entered.

Charlie sighed. “That’s Tori.”

Otis blinked. “Princess Victoria?”

“The one and only.”

“She seems nice my Prince,” Otis lied.

“She can read minds,” Charlie added.

The heavy silence that followed Princess Victoria’s departure had just begun to lift when a sudden sound broke through it — a soft gasp of delight, small feet thudding against the plush carpet.

“It’s you!” cried a familiar voice.

Nick blinked.

And then, from behind the toy shelves, a whirlwind of curls and royal silk bolted forward. Prince Oliver all but flung himself toward Nick, arms stretched high, eyes wide with recognition.

“You really do live here now!”

Nick took a startled step back as Oliver collided with his legs and latched onto his hand like an old friend.

The room turned as one.

Otis’s jaw dropped. “Wait—you know the prince’s little brother?”

Sai raised an eyebrow. “And here I thought you didn’t talk to anyone.”

Christian folded his arms. “He’s full of surprises, isn’t he?”

Nick cleared his throat. “It… was a small incident.”

“It was a rescue,” Oliver insisted proudly, still clinging to Nick’s hand. “He was super lost. I found him and showed him all the secret places. I told him the one about the fat man painting.”

Otis turned. “You got lost?”

Nick muttered, “The halls look the same.”

Christian leaned over, grinning. “You bribed a seven-year-old, didn’t you?”

Oliver lit up. “He said I could have fruit. Even the little peaches!”

Nick winced.

Charlie stepped closer, folding his arms, “Olly wouldn’t stop talking about you last night. The ‘giant with no sense of direction.’”

Nick looked away. “He was a very fast guide.”

“I told you I was the best,” Oliver said, puffing his chest out.

The other Swords were watching him now, amused and curious.

“Can’t believe you didn’t tell us,” Otis said. “You made a secret deal with royalty.”

“It wasn’t a deal,” Nick tried.

“It was definitely a deal,” Charlie said, grinning. “With peaches as currency.”

Nick looked down at Oliver. “You still want that fruit your highness?”

Oliver’s eyes went round. “You mean it?”

Nick nodded once. “I always pay my debts.”

The boy beamed and hugged his leg again.

Charlie chuckled and crouched beside them, ruffling his brother’s curls. “Olly, you know the Swords can’t always play with you. They’ve got very important duties.”

Oliver looked up, confused. “Even if they owe me fruit?”

Charlie sighed dramatically. “Even then.”

Nick gently rested a hand on Prince Oliver’s shoulder. “It’s not a bother, Your Royal Highness.”

He looked up and met Charlie’s gaze — and to his own surprise, there was no sarcasm in it. Just something quiet. Soft. Steady.

Charlie tilted his head, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.

“You’re going to spoil him.”

Nick shrugged. “Too late.”

Oliver let out a delighted cheer and spun in a circle.

Christian leaned over to Otis. “He’s doomed.”

“Completely claimed,” Sai added with a smirk.

Nick didn’t argue.

Because at the same time Oliver tugged at his sleeve and asked, “Do you think the kitchen has strawberries too?”

Oliver was still bouncing with excitement when Charlie straightened, glancing at Nick, then at the rest of the boys, lips twitching in amusement.

“Well,” Charlie said lightly, “I could also use a trip for strawberries to the kitchens.”

Nick raised an eyebrow. “Do princes not have access to strawberries by default?”

Charlie smirked. “You’d be surprised. The best ones are always hidden.”

He turned toward the door. “Come on. Let’s go, all of us.”

Otis’s face lit up. “A field trip?”

“A royal errand,” Charlie corrected, already walking. “And your first escort in a non-ceremonial capacity. Make me proud.”

The boys fell into step with practiced formation just as they had been taught that morning, Christian and Sai flanking Charlie’s left, Nick and Otis taking the right as Oliver danced ahead.

They descended through the servant corridors, laughter echoing faintly behind them. Charlie chatted lightly as they walked, pointing out a portrait or a hidden alcove now and then, clearly more at ease than he ever was under the gaze of nobility.

When they reached the royal kitchens, the air shifted.

The moment Charlie stepped through the arched doorway — followed by his brother and four uniformed guards — everything stopped.

Ladles froze mid-stir. A tray clattered slightly as someone caught it just in time. The smells of butter, sugar, and roasted rosemary hung thick in the air, and all motion ceased.

Every cook, servant, and scullery maid bowed low.

Ms Miriam was near the hearth turned, her red cheeks dimpling into a smile that warred with duty.

“Prince Charlie,” she said, voice rich and familiar, “and Prince Oliver. This is an unexpected pleasure.”

Charlie lifted a hand casually. “Miriam, please, we have been escaping here since we were children. Everyone, carry on. We’re just passing through. No need for all the bowing.”

But they bowed anyway, a ripple of reverence running through the room.

Oliver, unfazed, darted straight toward Miss Miriam, clutching Nick’s hand only until he saw the bowl of candied fruit she was stirring.

“Miss Miriam!” he cried.

The woman beamed. “Oh, Your Highness. What are you doing down here? Don’t tell me you want one more chocolate cake.”

Charlie stepped in behind him, raising an eyebrow. “What chocolate cake, Miriam?”

Miss Miriam placed a hand on her hip. “The one the little prince requested I set aside — said it was for the both of you.”

Oliver immediately looked at the floor, grinning wide enough to split his face.

Charlie’s lips twitched. “Olly…”

Oliver peeked up, mischievous. “It was a very big slice.”

Charlie gave him a look that was half-scold, half-laughter. “You have no remedy.”

Otis leaned toward Christian. “He’s a criminal mastermind.”

Christian nodded solemnly. “Born for it.”

Oliver grabbed at Miss Miriam’s apron. “Miss Miriam, Miss Miriam — we came for peaches! And strawberries! For Nick!”

Nick blinked. “For you.”

“Same thing!” Oliver chirped.

Miss Miriam laughed, reaching over to ruffle his curls. “You are going to charm your way through every pantry in this palace my prince.”

She turned to the table and gathered a small cloth bundle, carefully tucking in slices of ripe peaches and a generous helping of freshly picked strawberries.

“There,” she said, handing it over to Oliver with a wink. “Don’t say I never spoil you.”

Charlie took the second bundle she offered him and nodded. “You spoil all of us, Miriam.”

Miriam smiled proudly. “That’s my job. I’m everyone’s mum in this kitchen”

Charlie turned to Oliver. “Shall we eat them in the gardens?”

Oliver was already halfway to the door. “Yes! Yes! Thank you, Miss Miriam!”

And then he was gone, sprinting barefoot down the corridor, laughing wildly.

Charlie blinked after him. “Oh gods—someone please be with him before he ends up in a fountain.”

Otis stepped forward with a theatrical bow. “I’ve got it, my prince!”

He broke into a full sprint, calling out: “Lads! Don’t forget to pick some strawberries for me!”

Christian snorted. “He’ll end up eating five strawberries and diving into a hedge.”

Sai followed after more calmly. “Come on, let’s keep up before someone mistakes this for a royal escape.”

Charlie turned to Nick as they walked, both of them trailing slightly behind the others now.

“Does his highness listen to you like that?” Nick asked.

Charlie smiled, amused. “Only when I mention fruit or chaos.”

Nick glanced down at the cloth pouch in his hand — still warm with sun-soaked strawberries.

For a moment, it felt like something real.

And very far from everything he’d come to do.

Chapter Text

The afternoon air had turned golden by the time they spilled into the East Garden.

It was a quieter part of the palace grounds, nestled behind high hedges and tall white-stone columns, sheltered from the rest of the world. Ivy climbed the outer walls in lazy spirals. Wildflowers brushed against trimmed grass. Bees hummed drowsily from bloom to bloom. The fountain in the center trickled gently, a soothing soundtrack beneath the breeze.

Oliver ran ahead, his slippers forgotten somewhere in the kitchen, the hem of his tunic flapping as he darted between rosebushes.

“I love this garden!” he shouted. “It’s got the soft grass!”

Otis finally caught up, panting, and collapsed dramatically onto a patch of daisies. “He’s too fast. He’s… he’s got wings.”

“He’s seven,” Christian said, grinning as he dropped beside him. “You’re just old.”

“I’m twenty!”

“Exactly.”

Sai settled nearby, leaning back on his elbows. “At least it’s peaceful out here.”

Charlie walked in behind them with Nick at his side, a few paces behind the chaos, his expression amused and unreadable.

Nick had to admit — grudgingly — that it was… nice.

Not just the weather. Not just the sweetness of the fruit in his hand or the smell of crushed mint beneath his boots.

But this.

This moment.

Oliver now had strawberry juice running down his chin as he sat cross-legged beside the fountain, sloppily eating with both hands like he’d been starving for days. Charlie knelt beside him, wiping his little brother’s face gently with a handkerchief while Oliver protested dramatically.

Nick watched them and felt that strange, now-familiar twist in his chest.

Charlie wasn’t faking this. Not for show. Not for public. There were no nobles watching. No advisors scribbling notes. No performance.

Just a big brother making sure a seven-year-old didn’t choke on a peach slice.

He’ll make a great father someday…

There it was again. That thought.

Nick scowled at the grass and popped a strawberry into his mouth as if to smother it.

“Hey,” Otis called, his mouth half-full. “I think this is the first time I’ve seen Nick actually relax.”

“Don’t ruin it,” Christian said. “He’ll start scowling again.”

“I don’t scowl,” Nick muttered.

“You do,” Sai said, chuckling.

Nick didn’t respond. He was too distracted by the sight of Charlie settling down onto the grass beside Oliver, one leg folded beneath him, his back straight despite the soft setting.

Charlie looked up — and caught Nick’s eye.

There was something calm in his expression. Something quietly content.

He lifted the cloth bundle still in his hand and offered it out. “Trade you a peach for a strawberry?”

Nick stared at him for a beat too long.

Then, slowly, he crossed the garden and sat down.

“Only if you don’t mind the strawberry being a little bruised,” he said.

Charlie laughed. “Well, I’m not a prince about it.”

Nick gave him a look. “You are a prince.”

Charlie smirked. “Exactly. I can say that.”

They traded fruit.

Oliver was on his third peach slice now, half of it smeared across his cheek. He sat near the edge of the fountain with Otis beside him, who was currently attempting to balance one of the fruits on the top of his head like a crown.

“You look ridiculous,” Christian called, watching from the grass.

“I look regal,” Otis corrected, arms spread. “A new kind of knight. Sir Peach-a-lot.”

“Don’t encourage him,” Sai muttered.

Oliver giggled and clapped. “You look like a wal—”

Otis cut in with a dramatic gasp. “Careful, Your Highness. You mustn’t insult your knights.”

Christian smirked. “I’m not sure the King has knighted you yet.”

Charlie, seated a few paces away with his legs folded neatly beneath him, laughed under his breath. “I can promise you, he did not.”

Nick sat under the shade of a laurel tree, watching it all unfold in a rhythm that felt too easy — too pleasant — for something housed within palace walls.

Charlie turned slightly, his eyes flicking to Nick. “You’re quiet.”

Nick shrugged. “Watching.”

“I figured.”

There was a pause. The kind that wasn’t heavy. Just full.

Charlie leaned back on his palms, gaze lifting to the sky beyond the stone wall. His expression, so often schooled and proper, had softened — loosened into something real.

“This is nice,” he murmured.

Nick glanced sideways.

Charlie didn’t look at him when he continued. “Sometimes I spend all afternoon buried in paper and decisions. And silence. There are days I forget there’s a world outside the council room.”

Nick considered that. “Then I guess you needed this.”

Charlie smiled. “Apparently so.”

Oliver tumbled across the grass toward them and landed in Charlie’s lap, sticky fingers and all. “Charlie, I want to throw one of the peaches like a cannonball.”

Charlie raised an eyebrow. “Do you want to lose dessert privileges for a week?”

Oliver giggled. “Nooooooo.”

“Then I suggest you keep the cannonballs in your mouth.”

Oliver scrunched his face. “That’s not where cannonballs go.”

Charlie ruffled his curls. “That’s where peaches go.”

Otis called from across the grass, now trying to juggle two strawberries. “Your Highness, if I may, perhaps someday I could teach the prince how to juggle actual objects.”

Nick immediately turned to him, horrified. “Don’t you dare.”

Charlie laughed — a clear, delighted sound. “I’d love to see the council’s face if Olly juggled grapes into the King’s wine.”

Sai muttered, “That would be the end of all of us.”

“Or the beginning of legend,” Christian added, lounging in the sun.

Nick leaned back against the tree, arms crossed loosely, the scent of summer and sugar thick around him.

He was still watching Charlie.

The sun was beginning to dip lower, slanting golden light through the high windows of their chamber. The garden laughter had ended hours ago, and the Swords had been gently dismissed — told to rest, bathe, and ready themselves for dinner, should they be summoned again.

Otis was inside their bathroom humming an off-key tune while he was in the bath. Sai had tossed himself face-down onto one of the velvet-cushioned beds, muttering about sore feet. Christian, naturally, was already halfway dressed for evening, thumbing through a book he wasn’t really reading.

Nick sat on his own bed, legs crossed, still half-dressed, his hair slightly damp from a quick wash. A folded blanket rested at his side. His writing kit — modest, leather-bound — lay open on his lap.

The candle wasn’t even lit yet. He didn’t need it. Not yet.

He took a breath and began the first letter.

Mama,

I’m well. I was installed the moment they chose me, and everything is as comfortable as can be. The beds are warm. The food is… something else. They have at least five different types of bread, and I’m not even sure what half of them are called. I haven’t gone hungry once.

The work is intense, but I’m managing. We rise early and go to sleep later than I’m used to, but I’m used to work, right? You raised me for this. To keep going. To keep listening.

I’m being careful. I’m being good. You’d say I look handsome in the uniform, though you’d also say my hair needs trimming.

I hope you’re well. I hope David’s being kind. I hope the stars have been bright lately — I remember you always said they looked clearest after the harvest.

I wish I could tell you more. Maybe soon. But know that I’m safe.

I hope they’ll give me permission to visit one day, I think that after this week of training, when the king knights is, we will have more privileges, like visiting. Or at least write more often. I miss the kitchen window in the morning. I miss the way you hum when you sew.

I’ll write again soon. You don’t need to worry.

I promise.

Love,

Nick

He let the ink dry a moment, then folded the paper slowly and neatly. The edges aligned perfectly. He smoothed the parchment once with his hand, then reached for the second sheet.

This one he labeled only: D.

He hesitated before the first word. Then began, slower this time.

Made it safely.

The flowers are gold. The ceiling’s high.

The peach trees are blooming early.

The shepherd sings to his flock.

The garden walls are taller than I expected. But not impossible.

I’ve started to see how the roots twist under the floor.

The fox is quiet. Observing. No need to show his teeth yet.

Others near me. Loyal? Too soon to know. One laughs too loud. One listens more than he speaks.

Progress slow. But steady.

— N.

He didn’t sign it with love. He didn’t need to.

The revolution didn’t run on sentiment.

But still — something in him lingered as he folded the letter. As he sealed both with wax and pressed the plain military sigil ring into each one.

The wax cooled beneath his fingers.

Nick leaned back slowly, the mattress creaking beneath him as he exhaled — long and quiet. The sealed letters sat on the bedside table, waiting to be collected with the others in the morning.

The candle finally flickered to life beside them, a soft orange glow casting shadows across the walls.

He stared into the flame.

First, his mother.

He pictured her by the hearth, thread in her fingers, lips pressed together as she hummed something he hadn’t heard in years. He pictured her in that patched apron, cutting root vegetables for stew, brushing hair from her eyes with her wrist. He could almost feel the warmth of her kitchen.

He missed the smell of her skin. That quiet steadiness in her voice. The way she smiled when she was proud — not wide, just soft. Gentle. Like it might vanish if you looked too hard.

She had been everything.

She still was.

Then — the rebellion.

The weight of it never left him.

The names. The cause. The history written in blood and quiet hunger. He thought of the meetings by candlelight. The hidden passages. The papers burned before dawn. He thought of David — too angry, too loud, but right in his own terrible way.

And he thought of everything he’d sworn.

No kings. No crowns. No boys born into silk while others starved.

He was here for a reason.

He was here to take it all down.

And yet—

His mind strayed.

Against his will. Against his principles. Against everything.

He thought of Prince Charlie.

Of the way he’d laughed today — head tilted back, curls catching sunlight like it belonged to him. Of the way he’d gently wiped Oliver’s face with a handkerchief. The way he had crouched beside a strawberry-stained child and made the world feel… small. Safe.

Nick clenched his jaw.

No. Don’t. Stop.

But he couldn’t unsee it.

Couldn’t unhear the quiet warmth in Charlie’s voice when he said Nick’s name. Couldn’t forget the way his eyes had flicked toward him in the garden — not by accident.

He was a prince. A Spring.

A symbol of everything Nick had been raised to loathe.

And yet—

The candle flame swayed.

And Nick stared.

Still.

🍂🌕🍂

The invitation came just as the sun began its descent behind the palace walls.

Tao arrived at their door with a small scroll in hand and a barely concealed grin. “His Highness would like your company again for supper,” he announced, with mock formality. “Apparently, last night’s wasn’t enough.”

Otis cheered. “More bread baskets, thank the stars.”

Christian arched a brow. “Perhaps tonight we’ll receive some cake.”

“Or a bottle of wine for the room ,” Sai added hopefully.

Nick said nothing — but he stood and reached for his tunic, mind already drifting toward the prince’s rooms.

The suite was bathed in warm amber light when they arrived.

The tall balcony doors stood open, and the breeze that swept through the sheer curtains carried the scent of lavender and late-summer rain. Lanterns glowed low in the corners, casting soft shadows over the bookshelves, over the desk half-covered in scrolls and ink, and over the small round table, where five chairs had been arranged with care.

Charlie was already there, waiting.

He wore deep blue evening robes, embroidered subtly at the cuffs with silver thread. His curls were neater tonight, but not too formal. He looked… elegant. Relaxed. Like this was his favorite hour of the day.

“Welcome back,” he said with a smile as they entered.

The boys bowed — even Otis remembered to be coordinated this time.

Charlie gestured toward the table. “Please, sit. It’s a bit less ceremonial tonight, I thought.”

They took their seats — Christian to Charlie’s left, Sai to his right, Otis directly across, and Nick, as if by quiet design, settling beside him.

The food was set before them by two maids and then left alone — roasted vegetables, honeyed poultry, fig preserves, herbed rice, and thick, crusty bread served warm. There was wine tonight, too, though only lightly poured.

Conversation came slowly at first. Tentative. A little awkward, as meals with royalty often were.

Until Otis — halfway through a bite of potato — suddenly blurted, “One time I tried to impress this girl in the village by carrying a whole sack of flour on one shoulder. I sneezed halfway through and dropped it in a puddle.”

Everyone paused.

Then laughed.

Even Charlie — a rich, open laugh that made the air feel lighter. “Did it work?”

“No,” Otis said gravely. “She married the baker instead.”

More laughter followed. Christian, swirled glass in hand, leaned slightly into the warm air drifting from the balcony.

“The lighting in here is poetic,” he said. “Everything glows like a painting. It’s very… otherworldly.”

Charlie raised an eyebrow while kept eating. “I’ll tell Elle she’s managed the candle placement with divine success.”

They were on their second course — herbed rice and slow-roasted poultry — when Sai, after a quiet stretch, looked up at the prince.

“May I ask a question, Your Highness?”

Charlie set his fork down with a soft clink. “Of course.”

Sai’s voice was gentle, but certain. “Do you like it? Being the prince, I mean.”

The question hung in the warm air like steam from the wine.

Otis blinked and froze mid-chew. Christian subtly tilted his head in curiosity. Even Nick, who had kept his eyes on his plate most of the meal, looked up — just barely.

Charlie didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he leaned back slightly, the candlelight painting soft shapes along the curve of his cheek. He glanced toward the balcony for a moment, as if the wind might offer help.

Then, finally: “Some days… I do. Some days it feels like a gift — the chance to speak, to help, to be heard. When it works… when I make something happen, or when someone writes me to say their village finally got a new well or their harvest was protected — it feels real. And worth it.”

Nick’s fork paused, halfway to his mouth.

“But there are other days,” Charlie continued, “when I feel like a symbol instead of a person. Or like I’m locked in a story that was written generations before me, and I don’t know how to change a single line.”

He looked down, fingers tracing the stem of his glass.

“I can’t change laws without the Council. I can’t undo centuries of division. I can’t always reach the people who need help the most. And then I hear whispers—of places still starving, of taxes being misused, of nobles who harm without consequence.”

Nick’s knuckles tensed under the table.

“And now,” Charlie added quietly, “there are… movements. Whispers of people who want to burn everything down. Rebels. Revolutionaries.”

That word.

Spoken aloud for the first time.

Nick didn’t breathe.

Charlie’s voice remained even. “Some say they’re violent. Some say they’re desperate. Some say they’re right. I don’t know what I believe yet. But I know… we have to do better. I have to do better.”

The room fell into silence.

Not heavy. But weighted. Like the crown Charlie wasn’t wearing still pressed down on the table between them.

Otis shifted first, his tone light but thoughtful. “You think if you weren’t a prince, you’d still try to help?”

Charlie’s smile returned — a little crooked now. “I’d like to think so.”

Sai gave a slow nod.

Christian lifted his glass. “To doing better, then.”

Charlie raised his in turn. “To doing better.”

Even Nick, after a beat, raised his.

He didn’t say anything.

But the wine burned a little different going down.

They returned to their quarters with the kind of comfortable silence that only came from full stomachs and lingering warmth.

The lamps had been lit low. The breeze from the balcony doors still carried the scent of night-blooming jasmine. Their uniforms were discarded on the chairs, boots scattered near the wall, and someone had already flung their sash over the nearest bedpost (probably Otis).

Nick moved toward his bed without a word, pulling his shirt over his head and tossing it into the corner with casual precision.

Christian dropped onto his mattress with a dramatic sigh. “I think I’ve eaten my weight in fig preserves.”

“I think you’ve eaten our weight in fig preserves,” Sai replied, already tugging a blanket over his legs.

Otis flopped onto his own bed with the grace of a man twice his size. “I can’t wait to wake up tomorrow.”

There was a beat.

Then Christian groaned. “Don’t tell me you mean for training. The commander’s going to skin us alive before sunrise.”

“No,” Otis said with a grin. “I was thinking of the breakfast that awaits for us in the kitchens. Miss Miriam’s morning rolls. The sugar ones.”

Sai sat up just to throw a pillow at him. “You’re going to die with pastry in your mouth.”

“Worth it.”

Nick, from his bed, said without looking up, “If the commander makes us to stop eating those muffins Ms Miriam made me try this morning because you vomit all over the kitchens, I’m strangling both of you with a breadstick.”

The room paused—then exploded with laughter.

Otis wheezed, “You’re not even joking, are you?”

Christian snorted, “Breadstick! That’s royalty-approved execution!”

Nick rolled onto his side, facing the wall — but he didn’t hide the sound of their laughter as it echoed through the room.

And he didn’t stop the smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Nick woke up to the sound of Commander Harrow’s voice thundering through the chamber like a war drum.

“UP!”

Across the room, Sai groaned softly into his pillow. Otis muttered something unintelligible about bread and rolled over. Christian already had one leg on the floor, rubbing sleep from his eyes with soldier’s precision.

The routine had settled in like dust on polished floors.

A run in the gardens came first. Always the gardens.

Still dewy with morning mist, the wide paths curved around manicured hedges and marble fountains, their footsteps echoing quietly beneath the stone arches. The air smelled like cut grass and roses. Sometimes birdsong. Sometimes silence.

Nick was always out first. The others followed.

Some mornings they ran as a group, pacing together like a unit. Other times they scattered, letting thoughts and breath lead them. But they always ended at the same fountain — sweaty, winded, smirking.

Then the kitchens.

Miss Miriam never failed.

The moment they walked in, the warmth of fresh-baked bread hit them like a wall. She was already bustling between ovens and trays, apron dusted in flour, curls pinned in a tight bun that never quite held.

“Here, sit, sit!” she barked like a general with a soft heart. “You’re wasting away! I can see your ribs, boy!”

Otis patted his stomach dramatically. “That’s slander, Miss Miriam.”

“You’ll be slandered with butter and jam if you don’t sit faster,” she snapped back.

The boys sat. They always did.

She brought them piles — enough to feed a royal platoon. Fluffy rolls, honey-smeared toast, warm eggs, soft cheese, berries bursting with juice. Otis once claimed he saw the face of a god in one of her fig scones.

Nick never said much during these meals. But he ate. And he listened. And every so often, when Miss Miriam passed by, she gave his shoulder a squeeze without a word.

At nine sharp, they were back on duty.

Prince Charlie’s room.

The curtains were always still drawn. The prince, still curled beneath satin sheets, face hidden in the crook of his elbow, groaned dramatically the moment Tao knocked.

“My prince,” Tao would say, perfectly formal, “it is nine o’clock.”

“No, it isn’t,” came the reply, muffled and offended.

“It is,” Elle would add, already pulling open the drapes with a whoosh. “And if you make me wrestle you out of bed again, I’m letting the guards do your hair.”

The boys — standing at attention just inside the room — learned not to laugh too loudly. It became their favorite private show.

Once upright, Charlie was dressed quickly. Elle’s hands moved like magic over buttons, clasps, and cuffs. Tao double-checked boots. A maid brought in the morning tea.

Nick watched it all. Every morning. Quietly.

Every morning, it got easier to watch.

Then Charlie left — usually for his own lessons, or a seat beside the King in council.

And the Swords?

Back to study.

Protocol, court etiquette, language drills. One day they had to memorize the guest seating arrangements for a banquet that hadn’t even happened yet. Another day, they were quizzed on royal lineage.

Nick was good at it. Of course he was. But he never looked like he cared.

In the evenings, they trained with swords or horses. Sometimes they were called back to the prince — to sit in his quarters, to join him at a second dinner, to simply exist nearby while he worked at his desk.

It had been six days.

And though Nick would never admit it — even in his own mind — it felt almost… normal.

The boys stood at attention — or something close to it — just inside the royal chambers, boots polished, uniforms neatly pressed. Morning light spilled through the windows now, brushing gold across the marble floor.

Charlie, as always, was still half asleep.

He sat slouched on the edge of his bed in silk underlayers, blinking blearily while Elle tried to tame his curls with a comb and Tao fussed with his cuffs.

“My prince,” Tao said for the third time that morning, “please lift your arm.”

Charlie raised the wrong one. “I’m lifting it.”

“That’s your left.”

“I’m emotionally right-handed,” Charlie mumbled.

Sai suppressed a smile.

Otis leaned toward Christian. “I give it ten minutes before Elle dumps tea on his head.”

Christian whispered, “She’s already considering it.”

Nick, standing at his post by the wall, let his eyes flick across the scene. It was familiar now — the sleepy sighs, the soft laughter, the absolute chaos of silk and silver brocade.

Charlie finally sat up straighter as Elle clasped the last of his morning coat. “There,” she said, satisfied. “Presentable. Barely.”

“I strive for mediocrity,” Charlie replied with a regal yawn.

Tao stepped aside to let Charlie rise. He turned to the four guards waiting patiently.

“Gentlemen,” he said, blinking as if he’d just remembered they were there. “I think I have news for you.”

They all stood straighter.

Charlie stretched his arms behind his back, then crossed to the long table where his breakfast had been set — delicate toast, sugared fruit, and a pot of something warm and fragrant.

He picked up a grape absently. “It’s been nearly a week, hasn’t it?”

“Yes, Your Highness,” Sai replied.

Charlie smiled faintly. “Well, it seems you’re not terrible.”

Otis let out a mock gasp. “High praise.”

Charlie ignored him — or pretended to. “So, i was told that as the final part of your evaluation… we’re going on a trip.”

That silenced the room.

“A trip?” Christian echoed.

Charlie nodded, biting into the grape. “This afternoon. To the city. We’re visiting an orphanage.”

Otis blinked. “Us? Outside the palace?”

“With people?” Christian added.

Charlie gave them a flat look. “Yes, believe it or not, I’m occasionally allowed fresh air.”

He set the grape down and poured himself tea. “We’re expected to be social. Polite. Inspirational, probably. I’m still unclear on what they think I do at these things.”

“And us?” Nick asked, surprising even himself.

Charlie looked up. “You’re coming with me. It’s part of the test.”

He moved to the window and drew back the sheer curtain, looking out over the gardens. “They want to see how you perform in public. Among crowds. Civilians. It’s not all polished halls and palace marble, after all.”

Nick folded his arms. “And if we don’t perform well?”

Charlie glanced back over his shoulder, a smile in his voice. “Then I suppose I’ll have to find four new swords.”

He was teasing. Probably.

He turned to face them fully now, his tone softening. “If everything goes well, my father will meet with you tomorrow. Officially.”

There was a pause.

Even Nick felt his breath catch, just slightly.

Charlie gave a small shrug. “Which usually means… you’re in.”

By late morning, the boys were back in the instruction hall — the room used for protocol lessons, law briefings, and the occasional nap Otis swore wasn’t a nap.

Today, no one dared blink too slowly.

“You’ve been summoned for external duty,” their instructor Sur Vallon said, unrolling one of his documents. “As part of the prince’s entourage, you’ll be escorting him to the southern quarter of the capital — specifically, to the St. Elora Orphanage.”

Otis leaned toward Sai. “St. Elora. That’s the one with the goats, isn’t it?”

Sai raised an eyebrow. “Why would an orphanage have goats?”

Otis shrugged. “For milk. Or emotional support.”

The instructor cleared his throat — once, pointedly.

“Your duties will be as follows,” he continued, ignoring them. “One: provide immediate protection to the prince at all times. Two: remain visible, yet non-intrusive. You are symbols as well as shields. The people must see you as part of him.”

Christian nodded slowly. “So… walk, smile, don’t look terrifying.”

“Three: engage in polite conversation with civilians only when appropriate. If spoken to, respond. If a child tugs your cloak, do not draw your weapon.”

Otis raised a hand. “Has that happened before?”

“Four,”  Sir Vallon said, not dignifying that with an answer, “follow the prince’s lead. If he speaks to someone, you are permitted to remain nearby. If he moves, you follow. If he stumbles, you catch him. If he bleeds, you protect him with your own.”

That quieted the room.

Even Otis didn’t have a quip for that one.

Nick sat still in his chair, spine straight, listening with something darker curling under his ribs. Bleeds. Protect. With your own.

The instructor finally looked up, expression unreadable.

“You were chosen for a reason. And you’ve nearly proven yourselves. Tomorrow may seal it. But today… today you must become visible.”

He let the scroll he had in his hands roll itself closed with a snap.

“Dismissed.”

The late afternoon sun bathed the palace corridors in amber light by the time they returned to the prince’s chambers.

Inside, the air buzzed with quiet preparation.

A valet laid out boots and gloves. A chambermaid adjusted the curtain cords. Tao stood near the wardrobe, inspecting every thread, while Elle hovered over Charlie with the same focus she’d give to trimming a royal rose.

“Arms,” she commanded, and Charlie, with an exaggerated groan, lifted them.

He was already half dressed — a fitted midnight blue coat snug over a silver-grey tunic, cinched with a sash embroidered with the royal seal. His boots were high and polished, dark leather gleaming. A pair of soft gloves rested on the table beside a silver hair clasp.

And resting neatly at the base of his curls — not quite a crown, but not far from it — was a small jewel-studded circlet, delicate and glinting in the light. More ornament than authority. It wasn’t just a tiara, it was a symbol.

Otis whispered to Sai, “He looks like he stepped out of a painting.”

Sai nodded. “Or into one.”

Nick didn’t say anything. But he agreed.

Charlie looked… regal. Yes. But also like himself. Youthful, calm, and bright-eyed beneath the weight of the silk and expectation.

As if he wasn’t about to walk into the public for the first time with four guards who were barely past probation.

“Alright,” Elle said, brushing a final crease from his sleeve. “He’s yours, boys.”

They fell into place without needing to be told.

Charlie in the center. Two guards on each side. Synchronized, solid. They moved as if they’d rehearsed it a hundred times, though it had only been six days.

They passed through the lower halls like a current — quiet but unmistakable. Servants parted before them. Courtiers paused mid-step. There were nods, and murmurs, and the faint clinking of dishes as a footman nearly dropped a silver tray watching them pass.

Nick caught a reflection in a mirror as they moved — four figures, dressed alike, surrounding a boy who glittered like dusk — and something in his chest pulled tight.

They reached the palace gates, where Commander Harrow was already waiting beside the polished black carriage.

The horses snorted, anxious. The gold crest of the Spring family glimmered on the door.

Harrow stepped forward, eyes sharp, voice low.

“You’ve been briefed. You know your places.”

He pointed quickly.

“Verma — front. Ride beside the driver. Smith — rear. Keep watch. McBride, Nelson — inside, with the prince.”

They nodded. No one questioned it.

Then Harrow’s voice lowered.

“One last thing.”

They straightened instinctively.

“Be sharp,” he said. “It’s a public appearance. Crowds can turn. Not everyone out there bows when they see a prince.”

Nick felt it before he heard it. That tension. That edge of warning beneath the words.

“There are rumors,” Harrow went on. “Movements stirring. Quiet ones. Masked in poverty and sermons and fire.”

He looked directly at Nick when he said:

“Rebels don’t wear uniforms.”

Then he stepped back and nodded to the driver.

The carriage door opened.

Charlie stepped in first.

Nick followed.

The door shut behind them with a click.

And the city waited.

Chapter Text

The carriage rocked gently as it rolled away from the palace gates, the cobbled road clacking beneath the wheels.

Inside, the space was richly furnished — velvet-lined seats, gold leaf in the corners, a small etched window that let the sunlight through in fractured pieces. The air smelled faintly of polished wood and rose oil.

Charlie sat across from Nick, legs crossed at the ankle, gloved hands resting on his lap. Christian at the side of the Prince.

For a few minutes, neither of them spoke.

Nick kept his gaze fixed out the window, watching the city ripple past. It was already busier than the world inside the palace walls — merchants shouting, children darting between stalls, dust rising from passing wagons. Life, loud and real.

Charlie finally broke the silence.

“You’ve been quiet today.”

Nick didn’t look at him. “I didn’t know I was expected to be talkative my Prince .”

Charlie hummed. “You’ve been doing very well, though. The others follow your pace.”

Nick gave the smallest shrug. “I’m used to being followed.”

Charlie tilted his head. “Were you a leader before this?”

Nick turned, just enough to meet his gaze. “Depends who you ask.”

Their eyes locked — for a moment too long.

Charlie looked down at his gloves, adjusting them pointlessly. “It’s strange,” he said softly. “Going outside like this. Everyone thinks it’s easy — being adored, being seen. But most days, I just feel… watched.”

Nick’s voice was low. “You are.”

Charlie looked up again, expression unreadable.

Nick added, not unkindly, “That’s the job. To watch you.”

The silence stretched.

Then, Charlie smiled faintly. “And what do you see?”

Nick didn’t answer right away.

Outside, a child waved at the carriage.

Charlie lifted a hand and returned the wave — gentle, unforced. The child lit up, spinning in place with joy.

Nick watched him.

Then he said, “Someone who waves at children, even when they’re not looking.”

Charlie blinked.

Nick looked back out the window, jaw set. “That’s what I see.”

The wheels rattled. The sun shifted again.

By the time they reached the southern quarter, the streets were thicker with life.

Nick had moved slightly to peer out the window again. The outer ring of the capital wasn’t as polished as the palace-adjacent streets — here, the cobblestones were uneven, and buildings leaned into one another like gossiping neighbors. But still, people lined the roads.

At first, just a few.

Then a dozen.

Then more.

Word had spread fast.

A royal carriage. The prince inside. His newly chosen guard.

Nick watched them gather like moths to fire.

Mothers lifted children to their shoulders. Old men doffed caps. Vendors paused mid-sale just to turn and catch a glimpse. A teenage girl, breathless with excitement, waved a paper handkerchief as they passed. A little boy chased the wheel for half a block before his sister pulled him back.

They smiled. They clapped. Some even bowed.

Nick didn’t understand it.

He pressed one hand against the velvet frame of the window, watching them surge closer, kept at bay only by the palace guards who had arrived in advance.

Why do they cheer?

What is it they love so much? The title? The silk? The hope that someone in gold will look their way for half a second and bless them with a smile?

They didn’t know Charlie. Not really.

They didn’t know his voice when he mumbled half-awake. They didn’t know the way he laughed at Otis’ terrible jokes, or how he combed his brother’s curls with his fingers. They didn’t see him spill ink on his sleeve or forget where he left his quill. They didn’t know he stayed up late reading, or that he stole pastries from his own breakfast tray.

They cheered for a prince.

For a crown.

For a name.

Nick swallowed something bitter.

Then the carriage slowed.

They were approaching the orphanage gates now — tall iron bars wrapped in ivy, with a small crowd already pressing eagerly along the fence.

The hooves clicked to a stop. The carriage swayed once, then stilled.

Charlie exhaled once through his nose. Not nervous — not quite. But grounded. Alert.

He reached for the door latch and paused.

“I suppose this is it,” he said, mostly to himself.

Nick didn’t reply. He was already reaching for his gloves.

Outside, the murmurs turned into shouts.

The prince! It’s him! Look, there—there!

A bell chimed somewhere down the street.

Charlie straightened his coat. “Ready?”

Nick nodded once.

The cheers rolled like thunder as the carriage door opened.

Nick stepped down first, boots meeting the stone with a practiced thud. He turned, scanning the crowd automatically. Faces everywhere. Color. Movement. Wide eyes and eager mouths. Then—

Charlie appeared.

He emerged in a soft sweep of royal blue, the circlet catching the sun like a wink of starlight. The crowd gasped.

The prince stepped forward.

And the Swords of the Treasure closed in around him like instinct.

Otis took up his left flank. Sai on the right. Christian hung back by the carriage, watching the outer edge. Nick took his place just behind and slightly beside Charlie — the nearest guard, the quiet shadow.

They moved as one.

The crowd reached for him — outstretched hands, clutching at hope and lace.

Charlie didn’t flinch.

Instead, he stepped closer to the iron gate where the guards had formed a loose perimeter. He nodded once to the captain on duty, who allowed a narrow lane to open. And then—

He reached out.

One by one, he touched hands. Old, young, roughened by labor or soft with age. He smiled. He asked names. He nodded, and listened, and said thank you as if it meant something.

The Swords didn’t blink.

Otis laughed with a baker’s wife.

Sai gently redirected a toddler trying to crawl through the gate.

Christian offered a bow to an elderly man who bowed too deeply.

And Nick stood still, eyes darting, gaze sharp — watching the hands, the faces, the bodies pressing closer. Always within reach. Always half a second from threat.

But also—

He watched Charlie.

Not the prince. Not the crown.

Just the boy.

And Nick couldn’t quite understand it — how someone so protected, so pampered, could look so natural in the middle of the chaos, smiling like he’d waited his whole life for this moment.

“He bows his head when he greets folk,” someone murmured near the gates. “Not just a nod — proper, like he sees you.”

“Do you think he’ll say something?” another whispered, clutching a bouquet of wildflowers.

A boy clung to the hem of his mother’s skirt, blinking up as Charlie passed. “Is that really him?”

“It is,” she breathed. “That’s our prince.”

Nick kept close — a steady figure just behind Charlie’s right shoulder, steps aligned, posture perfect. He scanned for threats, for movement, for sudden shifts in the crowd. It was all reflex now.

But what he saw wasn’t danger.

It was adoration.

He spotted a woman with white-streaked hair and a baby strapped to her chest. She didn’t reach for the prince. She just looked at him like she’d spent her whole life waiting to know that someone like him existed.

Near the corner of the orphanage wall, an old man leaned heavily on his cane, one foot crooked from an old injury. He didn’t try to approach. Didn’t speak. He just lifted a hand — a small salute, nothing grand — and gave a single, slow nod as Charlie passed.

Charlie noticed.

He returned it with equal weight.

Respect. Mutual. Quiet. Deep.

Watching Charlie kneel to tie a girl’s shoe.

Watching him ask a boy what he wanted to be when he grew up.

Watching him listen like it mattered.

He accepted a drawing from a six-year-old as if it were parchment from the Royal Archives. When the boy told him it was a dragon flying over the castle, Charlie smiled and said, “I’ll see if we can get that added to the official maps.”

Otis knelt beside a cluster of children and began sketching a sword in the dirt, earning gasps and giggles.

Sai let a toddler chew on his finger without complaint.

Christian held a baby for fifteen minutes straight while its older siblings crowded around the prince.

And Nick… watched.

He watched Charlie charm a space not with title, or gold, or grandeur — but with stillness. With care. With the simple act of kneeling when everyone else had always stood above.

Near the wall, a teacher leaned toward one of the caretakers and whispered, “He’s got his mother’s  beauty. But his father’s presence.”

“He’ll be a king worth following, he will make us proud” the other whispered back.

Nick heard that, too.

And it twisted something inside him.

Because he remembered cold nights in hidden tunnels.

He remembered withered hands passing secret letters. He remembered the hunger, the firelight, the oath he’d taken at seventeen — his name etched onto the page beneath his brother’s, sealed in blood and ash.

He remembered everything he was meant to tear down.

And now here he stood.

A sword sworn to protect the boy he was supposed to deliver into the hands of rebellion.

A witness to a kingdom not of cruelty, but of unexpected kindness.

Nick’s eyes lingered on Charlie.

The way he smiled.

The way he ruffled the hair of a boy who had only one shoe.

The way he saw people.

And suddenly, Nick’s thoughts turned bitter and sharp, because…

While he crawled in the shadows to destroy this regime — risking prison, pain, his name — there were people out here who loved it. Who loved him.

They didn’t want the crown gone.

They wanted it to wave back at them.

And what did that make him?

A ghost in a room of sunlight.

A knife among flowers.

The large double doors of the orphanage creaked open, spilling golden afternoon light across the worn stone floor. Inside, everything was still. Waiting.

Charlie stood at the threshold for just a moment.

Behind him, the crowd murmured, hushed now — as if even the people outside could feel it, that something sacred was beginning.

Then Charlie stepped forward.

The Swords followed, perfectly positioned.

Otis and Sai moved slightly ahead, flanking each side like ceremonial banners. Christian lingered behind, scanning quietly. And Nick, ever the shadow, walked at Charlie’s back — steady, silent, watchful.

The orphanage’s entry hall was humble but spotless. The stone floor had been scrubbed clean. Simple pennants hung from the rafters — probably painted by the children — and vases of hand-picked wildflowers had been placed on the long wooden table beneath a painted portrait of Queen Jane.

A row of staff stood waiting. Behind them, further back in the main common room, the children were gathered, packed in neat little lines — some bouncing with excitement, others whispering behind hands, others just staring wide-eyed.

The headmistress stepped forward with grace, bowing low. “Your Royal Highness, welcome.”

Charlie bowed his head in return — not deep, but respectful. “Thank you. I’m honored to be here.”

She smiled, tight-lipped but proud. “The children have been looking forward to this all week. We’ve spoken of your visit every night before bed.”

Charlie glanced toward the cluster of small faces peeking over one another’s shoulders. “I hope I live up to the hype.”

That earned a few giggles.

“Please, come in,” the woman said, stepping aside.

Charlie moved forward again — and the Swords shifted with him, each taking their place naturally. They didn’t need instructions anymore.

As they crossed the threshold into the common room, a rush of warmth hit them — the scent of baking bread, lavender soap, ink and candle wax. Everything was humble, but cared for.

The children sat on rugs or mismatched chairs, their eyes huge and hopeful.

Some were in patchwork tunics. Others wore carefully pressed hand-me-downs. A few held each other’s hands tightly.

And when Charlie smiled — that same quiet, radiant smile he always gave Oliver — the entire room relaxed.

One little boy gasped, loudly, “He’s so shiny.”

Otis barely kept himself from laughing.

Another boy whispered, “Is that a real crown?”

Nick caught Charlie’s glance — and for a second, he saw the prince hesitate.

But then Charlie crouched down to eye level with the nearest child and said, “What do you think? Would a real crown sparkle more or less?”

The little girl wrinkled her nose in thought. “More.”

Charlie nodded seriously. “Then I’ll tell the royal jeweler he has work to do.”

The kids erupted into delighted laughter — and just like that, the formal edges of the room softened. The line between royalty and children blurred.

Charlie began to move among them.

As he walked, the Swords didn’t fall behind.

They adjusted, adapted.

Christian kept watch from the back wall.

Otis and Sai moved between rows of children with gentle eyes and easy words.

Nick stood close. Always close.

They moved from the common room to the courtyard beyond — a patch of sunlit earth behind the orphanage, surrounded by a worn wooden fence and shaded in places by peach trees, their fruit just beginning to show.

And in the center of the courtyard: three goats.

Two were dozing in the sun.

One was enthusiastically trying to eat a child’s tunic.

Charlie, to Nick’s complete disbelief, didn’t even hesitate. He laughed, stepped forward, and gently tugged the goat away from the fabric.

“Madam,” he said solemnly to the goat, “this is a formal offense.”

The child stared at him, wide-eyed.

“She does this all the time,” the girl whispered.

Charlie leaned in conspiratorially. “We may need to hold a royal trial.”

The girl giggled so hard she covered her mouth.

Nick stood in the shade of a nearby tree, arms crossed, watching.

And watching.

Everywhere the prince moved, a wake of light followed. The children adored him. He patted heads, knelt in the dirt, accepted wildflowers, asked names, remembered them. He let a boy braid a section of his hair and made a terrible face when another handed him a raw carrot.

He didn’t condescend.

He didn’t distance.

He belonged, somehow — among them, with them.

And when one of the caretakers offered a worn book — The Tale of the Sleeping Sword, its spine cracked and pages dog-eared — Charlie accepted it like it was gold.

“Story time?” he asked.

Cheers.

The children gathered like waves against his ankles.

Charlie settled onto the grass, his coat tucked under him. He opened the book carefully and began to read.

His voice was gentle, slow, expressive — and when he did different voices for the dragon and the swordsmith, even Nick felt something in his chest shift.

Otis and Christian leaned against the fence, smiling. Sai sat cross-legged on the grass, a child on either side of him.

Nick remained standing.

Still. Cold.

Where was this, he thought, when my mother cried from hunger?

Where was this golden boy and his perfect smile?

Where was this hand reaching down to offer bread, or shelter, or warmth when he’d sat with his arms around David in a leaking attic and told his little brother, don’t think about your stomach, just sleep?

Where was this prince?

Not here.

Not in the west quarter, where people lined up for salt water and prayed for rain. Not on the outskirts where mud soaked through boots and children sold buttons to survive.

Not where Nick was.

And yet.

Here he sat.

Smiling.

Reading.

His voice soft and melodic under the blue sky. A curl of hair falling across his brow. A flower tucked behind one ear by a bold little girl who declared, “You’re not a prince now — you’re a forest elf.”

He laughed.

And Nick’s heart — traitor that it was — twitched.

He’s not what I expected.

But that wasn’t enough to forgive.

Because the crown on his head — no matter how softly worn — was still the reason Sarah had bled her fingers raw to keep them fed.

It was still why Nick had joined the rebellion at seventeen with fire in his chest and nothing left to lose.

And no kindness, no storybook prince, would erase that.

Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

The sun had begun its descent, painting the orphanage courtyard in warm, sleepy gold.

Charlie sat on the grass, the book closed in his lap now, surrounded by a dozen yawning children — heads on shoulders, feet curled up under cloaks, some swaying gently as they fought off sleep.

One little girl with half-closed eyes murmured, “Is the story over?”

Charlie nodded with a soft smile. “For now. But stories don’t end, not really. They just… rest. Like us.”

She blinked slowly. “Will you come back?”

Charlie hesitated — just a second. Then he reached down and brushed a lock of hair from her brow.

“I promise.”

Nick’s jaw tightened.

Liar.

Royals don’t return. Not to places without velvet curtains or portrait halls. Not to rooms with cracked ceilings and mended bedsheets. They came once, let everyone clap and cheer and say look, how gracious, and then they vanished behind gold doors.

Nick had seen it before. Always.

And still… the child smiled.

As if she believed him.

As if a promise from Charlie Spring was a lullaby.

The caretakers guided the children back indoors, offering bows and thanks and tearful smiles. One slipped Charlie a note folded in the corner of a napkin — a drawing, likely — and he tucked it carefully into his pocket with a sincerity that shouldn’t have been real.

The Swords fell back into place.

Polished.

Silent.

Imposing.

And the prince rose.

He brushed off the grass from his coat and turned to them with that same bright-eyed warmth, cheeks flushed pink from sun and laughter.

“Well,” he said, “how did we do?”

Otis grinned. “Like heroes.”

Christian smirked. “No one died. That’s a win.”

Sai nodded. “Not a single breach. We held formation. The children liked us.”

Charlie tilted his head. “They liked you?”

“We’re very charming,” Otis said solemnly.

Even Nick cracked the ghost of a smile.

Charlie chuckled and shook his head. “Alright, alright. Back to the carriage. One last round of royal wave-and-smile before they drag me to whatever dull meeting tomorrow brings.”

They stepped through the orphanage doors again and into the fading sunlight.

The crowd had grown.

Not massive, not a riot, but still there. People had waited, patiently, just for a second glimpse. Children on rooftops. Vendors still holding their unsold goods. Guards clearing paths. One woman was still there with her baby, like she hadn’t moved all afternoon.

The moment Charlie appeared, they all shifted forward with a breath.

He didn’t rush.

He lifted a hand — just once — and smiled.

The wave.

Controlled. Elegant. But somehow still kind.

They erupted in response — cheers, clapping, hands raised skyward like prayers.

The Swords formed around him again, almost effortlessly now.

The carriage waited.

As they approached, Otis whispered to Christian, “Well, I’d say we passed.”

Christian nodded. “Not a stumble. Not a misstep. We were perfect.”

Maybe he shouldn’t have spoken so soon.

Charlie stood near the carriage, still offering nods, a wave here, a smile there — gentle, practiced, warm. His Swords formed a half-circle around him, relaxed but alert, their roles second nature now.

A child nearby held up a flower, and Charlie leaned slightly to accept it.

Then—

From somewhere to the left, where the crowd had thickened just past the line of guards, a man slipped through.

He moved with alarming ease, sliding beneath a guard’s distracted glance. His boots hit stone with purpose. No stumbles. No hesitation.

Just intent.

“Look at you,” the man said, too loud, too close. “Soft as butter.”

Charlie turned at the voice, startled.

The man was in front of him before anyone could move. Close enough to touch.

“You like being paraded around, don’t you?” the man went on, his smile warped, wrong. “Wrapped in silk like a gift no one gets to open.”

Charlie took a half-step back, instinctive.

“I’m going to ask you to return to the line,” he said — calmly, politely, though his voice caught faintly on the last word.

The man didn’t move.

“Bet you’re kept nice and untouched,” he said. “But how long can that last, huh? A body like yours, I could entertain you if you summoned me to the palace one day, my prince—”

“Stop,” Charlie said, sharper this time. His chin lifted. His face had gone pale, but his eyes flashed. “That’s enough. Guards—”

He tried to move away.

The man stepped forward.

He reached.

And Charlie flinched.

Not a dramatic gesture — not a cry — just a full-body pull away, as if his skin recoiled on instinct, his spine braced for something terrible.

His hand lifted slightly, fingers splayed in front of his chest.

He wasn’t breathing right.

And for a moment — just one awful moment — the boy who commanded commanders, who smiled with poise and held his people’s gaze without blinking, looked like a terrified eighteen-year-old.

The other three Swords surged forward, but Nick moved faster.

The man reached toward Charlie — hand half-raised, fingers too close —

And Nick’s fist met his face with a sound like thunder on marble.

The man crumpled instantly.

Nick followed him down — hand at his collar, dragging him back with a snarl in his throat.

“Don’t you ever,” Nick hissed, too low for anyone but the man and the prince to hear, “look at him again, you disgusting bastard!”

The man spat blood, dazed.

Christian and Sai grabbed Nick’s shoulders. Otis crouched to grab the attacker by the arms. “Whoa. Nick. Nick—easy—”

“We’ve got him,” Sai said sharply, taking the man from Nick’s grip. “Back off. He’s ours now.”

Christian nodded toward the approaching line of uniformed guards. “We’ll deliver him to the city wardens.”

The man howled. “I didn’t even touch him!”

Christian leaned in, voice aggressive. “And you should be grateful we stopped you or you would be dead by now.”

They shoved the man toward the guards. Orders were barked. Iron cuffs clicked into place.

The crowd murmured, buzzing and restless. Some faces were horrified. Some stunned. Others—Nick caught it—were grateful, praising their work at keeping the Prince safe.

But Nick didn’t stay to watch.

Because Charlie was still standing there.

Stiff.

Frozen.

His breath just now returning to normal.

Nick moved to his side.

Said nothing.

Didn’t ask if he was okay.

Didn’t wait for permission.

He simply placed a steady hand between Charlie’s shoulder blades, fingers warm against fine blue silk, and guided him — carefully, firmly, without a word — to the carriage.

Charlie let himself be led.

No protest. No resistance.

Only when they reached the step, just as Nick opened the door, did the prince glance at him, eyes still wide.

Nick didn’t meet his gaze.

He just helped him inside.

And shut the door behind them like he was sealing off the world.

Inside the carriage, the world shut away.

No cheers. No chaos. Just quiet.

Charlie sat across from Nick, hands resting in his lap — fingers twisted together tightly, like he didn’t know what else to do with them. His shoulders were tense, jaw clenched, breath shallow.

Nick didn’t say a word.

He sat perfectly still, knees apart, fists still faintly red at his sides. He watched the prince with a soldier’s stillness, eyes forward, posture stiff — as if still braced for the next blow that might come from anywhere.

Outside, they could hear the bustle: the guards securing the attacker, Sai entered the carriage, Otis hopped into place at the back. The muffled sound of Christian’s boots as he took the seat beside the driver.

Then the driver snapped the reins.

The carriage lurched forward.

And the silence inside became complete.

Charlie didn’t cry.

He didn’t speak.

He just… breathed. One shallow breath after another, like he was slowly trying to reassemble himself bone by bone, thought by thought. Nick watched the rise and fall of his chest. Slow. Unsteady.

A long minute passed.

Then another.

Finally — gradually — Charlie exhaled, long and low, his posture easing just slightly. His eyes closed. Not to sleep — just to gather strength.

The carriage rocked onward.

Nick looked at him once. Only once.

And then forced himself to look away.

The castle gates opened just as the sky turned lavender.

The horses clopped across the bridge, the wheels clicking as the carriage moved through the inner courtyard. Servants stood waiting at the steps. The commander was there, stiff-faced. Tao and Elle were present too — eyes wide, lips tight.

The doors opened again.

Charlie stepped down first, face composed, though still pale.

The four Swords followed — Otis flanking him to the left, Christian at the rear, Sai beside Nick as they crossed the polished floors.

Behind Charlie, the boys murmured.

“Fuck,” Otis whispered. “I thought we nailed it. We had everything under control.”

Sai muttered, “Until that bastard showed up.”

Christian let out a low breath. “Do you think they’ll hang us?”

“He touched the prince,” Otis hissed.

“He tried,” Sai corrected, louder than he meant to. Then, quieter, almost to himself, “Gods, I shoved him hard.”

Nick said nothing.

Because he could still feel the man’s collar in his grip. Still feel Charlie’s shoulder under his palm. Still hear that word — soft as butter — like it had been carved into his skull.

He was revisiting every second. Every motion. Every blink.

And justifying every one of them.

What he said was vile.

What he did was wrong.

What I did…

Was necessary.

They reached the familiar hallway. The walls gleamed gold in the torchlight.

At the end stood the door to the prince’s chambers.

Charlie slowed.

And the Swords of the Treasure, silent now, slowed behind him.

The hallway, for once, was quiet. No servants brushing by. No rustling silks. Just the soft flicker of torchlight on gold, and the four Swords of the Treasure standing behind him — worn, steady, silent.

He turned to face them.

Gratitude.

Real and visible, like warmth bleeding through frost.

“You did well today,” Charlie said softly. His voice was steadier now — back to the careful composure he wore so well, but gentled by something else. “More than well.”

The boys didn’t speak. Didn’t know if they were supposed to.

Charlie glanced down for a second, then back up, and smiled — small, tired, but sincere. “If it were up to me, I’d have you knighted tonight. Right here. On the marble.”

Otis made a choked sound that could’ve been a laugh.

Charlie’s smile grew for a moment, then softened again.

“You protected me. All of you.” His voice lowered. “When it mattered most, and I can’t even express how grateful I am.”

There was a pause.

Then Charlie stepped forward.

He reached for Otis first, placed a gentle kiss to his cheek.

Otis blinked like he didn’t dare move.

Then Sai — the same, light and warm, a whisper of skin against skin.

Then Christian.

Each one stood frozen, stunned.

Then, last — he turned to Nick.

Their eyes met.

Charlie stepped in close.

Nick didn’t move.

And Charlie’s lips touched his cheek, just barely — so soft it was almost a breath. Not formal. Not expected. Something else.

Something quiet and careful and unspoken.

Charlie stepped back.

“Goodnight, my Swords,” he said gently.

And then he disappeared behind the door.

The lock clicked.

Silence followed.

Their boots echoed softly down the corridor as they made their way back to their quarters — not marching, not even walking in formation anymore. Just tired boys, hearts still full, nerves slowly unwinding.

As soon as the door closed behind them, it erupted.

Otis let out a victorious yell and flopped backwards onto his bed, arms spread like a fallen hero. “Did you hear him?” he gasped. “He said if it were up to him, he’d knight us tonight! On the marble!”

“We bloody did it,” Sai said, pulling off his boots with one foot and grinning wide. “Protected the prince, didn’t we?”

“I thought we were done for when that bastard came through the crowd,” Christian muttered, sitting at the edge of his bed. “But no — handled. Handled like pros.”

“Handled like legends,” Otis corrected.

Nick dropped onto his mattress, slowly. Quietly.

He didn’t speak.

Just raised one hand — almost without thinking — and touched the side of his cheek. Right where Charlie had kissed him. His fingertips lingered. Warm.

He didn’t even notice he was smiling.

“Alright,” Otis said dramatically, “I don’t care what anyone says. I’m not washing my face. Not for a week.”

Sai snorted. “You’re disgusting.”

“He kissed me! Right here!” Otis pointed with theatrical pride. “On Otis Smith’s actual face. Do you know what that does to a man?”

Christian threw a pillow at him. “You don’t even like boys.”

“I don’t!” Otis shouted, catching it. “But that was Prince Charlie. I’m allowed to be excited! The Prince kissed my cheek!.”

Sai grinned. “You’re a mess.”

“We all are.”

“But we’re his mess now,” Christian murmured, rolling onto his back with a smirk.

Nick didn’t say anything.

He turned his face into the pillow and closed his eyes.

But his fingers still brushed his cheek once more.

And even as sleep crept in — soft, slow, and earned —

He could still feel the ghost of that kiss.

Chapter Text

Nick awoke before the first chime of the tower bell.

The ceiling above him loomed in quiet grandeur, carved wood gilded in gold that glimmered faintly with the breath of dawn. A thousand tiny flourishes crowned the vaulted arches — lions, laurels, stars, crowns — the symbols of a kingdom he had sworn to bring down.

He lay still for a long moment.

This bed. This palace. The silk sheets warm around his waist. It was too soft. Too quiet. And yet, after a week… it was no longer foreign.

That was the danger, wasn’t it?

Comfort could cradle complacency.

He exhaled through his nose and sat up, careful not to wake the others. The morning light poured in like a blessing. Or a warning.

Today, they would be knighted.

By the King.

He scoffed silently and reached for his trousers. The idea would’ve once made him laugh aloud — a boy who had hidden under cellar stairs during raids, a bastard with dirt beneath his nails, now bowing in front of gold-draped tyrants for the sake of strategy.

Not faith or loyalty.

Purpose.

He crossed the room and stood at the tall arched window, pushing the drape aside.

Outside, the gardens were still soaked in sleep. The fountains had yet to wake. The guards had not yet changed shift. This was the in-between. The moment before everything changed.

The week had been exhausting.

Not from the training.

It was the watching.

The memorizing.

He’d traced every hall with his eyes, every path of the guards, the glances exchanged between pages, the patterns in the palace breath itself. The layout, the blind spots, the exits hidden in plain sight. A building like this sang its own secrets if you listened long enough.

But even now, the plan wasn’t ready.

There were too many variables. Too many unpredictable parts. The prince’s schedule shifted daily. Charlie was never without someone — Tao or Elle or one of the boys. The servants rotated erratically.

Charlie.

That name crept in too easily now.

Soft as a secret. Sharp as a slip of the tongue.

Nick had spent the week studying him just as intently as the palace. Watching how he moved, how he spoke to his staff, how he laughed when no one was listening. How he faltered in the mornings, sleep-drunk and half-dressed, mumbling into teacups. How he looked when he spoke to orphans. How he looked when he was touched.

He was small. Too small. Fragile in a way Nick hadn’t anticipated.

All lace and skin and something else beneath — something quieter than defiance, but stronger than weakness.

Nick could take him.

He knew that.

He could drag Charlie into the darkened alcove behind the prince’s wardrobe, press a hand to his mouth, pull him against his chest. He could lift him and no one would hear. No one would stop him.

The palace was large. Full of corners. Full of secrets.

Charlie was soft. Warm. A feather in the storm.

Nick could carry him beneath the moonlight, over the walls, through the tunnels he’d begun to map in his head. He could take him and disappear with him in the night and the slim Prince couldn’t defend himself in any way against his physique.

A groan behind him broke the stillness.

Otis rolled over with a grunt. Christian muttered something about missing breakfast. Sai stretched, bones cracking in the quiet.

The room stirred to life.

Nick turned from the window, and returned to his bed

The ceremony would begin soon.

He was here to serve.

To protect.

To steal.

To bring the kingdom to its knees.

But first, he would kneel.

🍂🌞🍂

The light poured through the high palace windows like liquid gold, splashing across the stone floors and catching on the edges of the boys’ beds, the steel clasps of their boots, the half-draped uniforms hanging over chairs.

“Wake up lads!” Otis crowed, already half-dressed and bouncing from bed to bed. “You’re being knighted today!”

“Speak for yourself,” Christian muttered, sitting up slowly, pushing his curls from his face. “If the King sees me with this hair, he’ll revoke the honor.”

Christian reached for a comb and began furiously untangling strands. “I swear the palace air gives me knots. Do we know what we’re doing, exactly?”

Otis flopped onto Sai’s bed. “Assessment first. Commander Harrow, bless his shriveled heart, wants to make sure we didn’t forget how we did yesterday, although that makes impossible for us to go have one of those delicious breakfast, I swear, after just on week here, I think I have eaten more than in twenty years of existence.”

“Then,” Sai said, tugging his tunic over his head and ignoring Otis rumble “we go fetch the prince.”

“And after that,” Otis said dramatically, “we get knighted in front of a thousand nobles who probably already hate us for breathing their air.”

“Gods,” Christian muttered, “I should’ve shaved.”

Sai laughed. “You don’t even have anything to shave.”

Nick rose, adjusting the hem of his training uniform, eyes distant, while he waited for the rest to the house to finally go to the gardens .

He was waiting for the moment they’d fetch Charlie.

The silver-clad prince. The softness in a room of steel.

The training arena inside the gardens was sun-washed and silent, filled with the smell of scorched sand and the faint tang of steel. The space always felt too big when empty — like it held echoes of battles never fought. The boys stepped inside with purposeful steps, their boots crunching on the gravel floor.

Commander Harrow stood dead center.

Arms folded. Shoulders squared. Shadow slicing across the floor behind him like a drawn blade.

He didn’t speak at first.

He just watched them approach, gaze sharp and unsmiling.

They fell into line — Nick at the center, Sai and Otis on either side, Christian slightly behind — a formation that had taken shape on instinct over the last few days.

They didn’t speak either.

The air between them hummed with quiet weight.

Then, at last, Harrow broke the silence.

“I’m not known for compliments,” he said. His voice, as ever, was gravel soaked in command. “So you better remember this one.”

He took a slow step forward, boots steady on the sand.

“You’ve done well.”

A beat.

“You held your ground. You learned fast. You adapted. And yesterday…”

Another pause. This one longer.

“…You demonstrated something more than training. You demonstrated control.”

Nick’s fingers twitched at his side.

“You managed a public crowd. You maintained a perimeter. You kept the prince visible, accessible, and protected — without causing panic or disrespect. You made it look easy.”

Otis blinked. Sai straightened. Christian’s brows furrowed in faint surprise.

Nick said nothing. But he was listening.

Commander Harrow’s voice darkened slightly.

“And when that man crossed the line…”

A muscle in Nick’s jaw jumped.

“…you reacted. Immediate force. Target contained. And you did it without allowing the public to spiral. The prince was shielded. The threat neutralized. That is what you were chosen for.”

He let his eyes rest on each of them — one by one.

“But you should understand something now, before you step into that throne room.”

The boys stiffened as Harrow stepped closer, just enough for his voice to fall low, tight, personal.

“Today, you will swear an oath. To serve. To protect. To die, if you must.”

He looked directly at Nick.

“It is not a secret that rebel forces tend to disturb the order of the kingdom.”

The word cracked the air.

Otis flinched.

Christian’s lips parted, just barely.

Sai’s shoulders tensed.

Nick’s heart gave a single, slow thump.

Harrow didn’t blink. “That boy is not just the future king. He is the heir of the Throne. He carries something no other living male does.”

Silence followed.

Nick did not look away.

Harrow gave one final nod. “Dismissed. Fetch the prince. And pray you keep yourselves composed.”

The corridor outside Prince Charlie’s chambers was as polished as a mirror. Two palace guards stood at attention on either side of the ornate door, halberds gleaming, expressions carved from stone. From that night, it would be the swords the ones to be always by his door.

The boys arrived still dressed in their simple training clothes — tunics clinging slightly from the morning’s exertion, boots dusted with the arena’s pale grit, hair tousled despite best efforts.

They expected to wait.

Prince Charlie was not known for early mornings.

But before they could even knock, one of the guards — the taller one with a faint scar on his chin — stepped aside and pulled the door open.

“His Highness is ready,” he said.

Nick frowned.

Ready?

Otis raised an eyebrow. Sai blinked.

They stepped into the prince’s chambers—then stopped as if they’d hit an invisible wall.

Charlie stood in the center of the room.

Already dressed.

Already radiant.

He wore a tailored ensemble of silver silk and soft cream, layers of fabric draped and embroidered with vines so delicate they seemed alive. The fabric shimmered with the light, catching the soft pinks and golds of the sunrise. A single spring blossom, pale and perfect, was tucked behind his ear, nestled into the loose curls of his hair. And his silver tiara reflected the blue of his eyes.

His gloves were ivory, soft as breath, and his boots laced high in matching silver ribbon.

He turned at the sound of their entrance and smiled like the sun peeking through clouds.

“Excited for your big moment?” he asked, voice light and melodic.

The boys nodded — not in formation, not in unison, but stunned and silent, murmuring their “Yes, Your Highness” like they were afraid too much noise might crack the porcelain vision in front of them.

Nick stared.

For a second too long.

He had expected silks. He had expected elegance.

But he hadn’t expected Charlie to glow.

And he did — not in the ethereal way the nobles whispered about under chandeliers, but in a real, terrifying way. Like something sacred draped in softness and light. Something untouchable.

Charlie giggled softly, hands behind his back, head tilted.

“Good,” he said. “Because you’re not going like that.”

They blinked.

“Like what?” Otis asked cautiously.

Charlie gestured toward them with a tiny, playful shake of his head. “Like that,” he repeated. “You’re a mess. You can’t meet the King looking like you just escaped sword practice.”

Sai looked down at his dust-covered sleeves. “Well… we sort of did.”

Charlie’s eyes sparkled. “Exactly.”

Just then, the sergeant of servants entered with a clap of his hands and a chorus of bustling attendants behind him.

“Time for a makeover, gentlemen,” he said, already waving toward them. “Try not to faint.”

The moment the sergeant of servants clapped his hands, the chamber erupted into chaos.

Attendants flooded in like a well-rehearsed invasion, arms loaded with bolts of fabric, boxes of polished silver buttons, combs, oils, boots, and crisp linen. The sergeant surveyed the boys like a general facing a battlefield of wrinkles and dust.

“Boots off. Tunics too. Quickly. We need you stripped and sorted before the prince decides to knight you in mud and shame.”

Otis whistled low, grinning as he tugged his tunic over his head. “Didn’t think I’d be showing skin before breakfast.”

“Well,” Christian said, already unfastening his belt, “if we’re putting on a show, I might as well give them a reason to talk.”

Sai laughed as he yanked off his own shirt, lean muscle catching the light. “This is the most attention my chest has ever gotten.”

Otis flexed — fully, dramatically — and raised his brows toward the nearest mirror. “Think they’ll let us keep the uniforms?”

Christian rolled his eyes. “Think we’ll survive the tailoring first.”

All around them, shirts came off, boots were kicked aside, belts dropped with little metallic clinks onto the stone floor.

And across the room — from where he stood near the desk — Charlie froze.

He had been smiling just a moment ago. Light, breezy, teasing.

But now…

His mouth parted slightly. His fingers curled around the edge of the book he’d been holding — upside down. His eyes darted quickly across the room, and then just as quickly away again.

His cheeks flushed — pink first, then blooming into full-blown rose.

And his eyes—those storm-blue, moonlit things—lingered half a second too long on Nick, who stood shirtless and quiet, his skin bronzed and scarred from years of labor and fight. He hadn’t spoken once. But his presence was magnetic, his body marked and powerful in a way that drew the eye.

Charlie looked away so fast it was nearly comic. He turned toward the desk, grabbing at a quill he didn’t need.

Sai noticed.

So did Otis.

It was just as the day they were chosen

Otis elbowed Christian. “The Prince may be the Crown of Spring,” he whispered, “but right now, he’s red as a summer apple.”

Christian choked on a laugh. “He’s being noble. Not blind, although I think when he planned for us to have a makeover in his room he forgot this part.”

Charlie, pretending to read, turned a page in the wrong direction.

Eventually, the attendants stepped back.

The transformation was complete.

Each boy now stood tall in deep navy and silver — the official ceremonial garb of the Swords of the Treasure. The coats were long and fitted at the waist, silver threading tracing the crest of Spring across the lapel. Sashes hung over one shoulder, boots polished until they gleamed.

They looked—finally—like the legends the kingdom had promised.

Otis turned in the mirror. “Okay. I’d knight me.”

Sai snorted. “You’d flirt with yourself.”

Christian gave an approving nod. “We look good.”

Charlie finally turned fully to face them, his composure regained, but his blush still faint at the edges.

“Well,” he said with an exhale, hands folded neatly in front of him, “you clean up far better than I expected.”

Otis bowed, hand over heart. “At your service, Your Highness.”

Christian followed, elegant. Sai nodded with a grin.

Nick was last.

He bowed low, slow and steady, but his eyes lifted just before his head did.

And Charlie caught them.

For a breath, neither of them looked away.

Charlie stepped forward, just as they were all about to move.

“Wait,” he said gently, eyes narrowing with practiced attention.

He stopped in front of Nick.

The room quieted.

“This is folded wrong,” Charlie murmured, fingers already reaching out.

Nick blinked. “I—”

But Charlie was already adjusting the drape of his sash, lifting it slightly and smoothing the fold where it crossed over Nick’s chest.

The tips of Charlie’s fingers pressed against the fabric, light but deliberate. The polished navy beneath his hand was warm from Nick’s body, and for a heartbeat too long, he didn’t move away, lingering in the warmth of Nick’s chest, caressing it softly.

His breath caught — just faintly — as his eyes flicked up and found Nick’s, far too close now.

Nick didn’t flinch. He barely breathed.

“There,” Charlie said, voice quieter than before. “Better.”

He stepped back with a kind of graceful reluctance, clasping his hands once again behind his back.

No one said anything. Sai raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Otis gave Christian a subtle nudge with his elbow.

Nick stood just a touch straighter.

Charlie turned away, pretending not to notice the way his own pulse had betrayed him.

“Well then,” he said, a little breathless. “Shall we?”

The doors opened with ceremony.

The sound was soft, but final — polished hinges creaking like a page turning in a very old book.

Charlie stepped out first, radiant in silver.

The hallway beyond was lined with torches, light bouncing off marble and gilded trim, giving everything a low golden sheen. Servants paused, mid-step. Advisors halted their whispers. Courtiers straightened as if caught slouching. All eyes turned toward him.

He didn’t seem to notice.

Or rather, he didn’t let it change his stride.

The four Swords fell into step behind him — Christian to the left, Sai to the right, Otis just behind, and Nick… two paces back, watching everything.

Their new uniforms shimmered in the light. Steel polished to ceremony, navy cloth tight and regal, sashes crisp over their shoulders. No longer the scrappy lads who had run barefoot through the palace gardens days ago.

Now, they moved as one.

A unit.

A symbol.

The guards stationed along the corridor offered low bows as they passed, but no one spoke. The silence that followed them wasn’t fear.

It was awe.

Nick kept his expression still, eyes scanning every arch, every shadow, every figure that passed too close. And yet—

He was aware of Charlie.

The way his curls bounced gently with each step. The scent of his cologne—light, floral, clean. The shimmer of silver thread at his waist. The careful posture of someone raised to be watched but never to break.

He looked… untouchable.

Nick’s jaw flexed.

They reached the end of the corridor — two guards waiting at a towering double door carved with the royal seal.

Charlie turned to them.

His voice was soft.

“You don’t have to be afraid.”

Otis chuckled nervously. “Too late.”

Charlie’s eyes flicked over them, resting for just a breath longer on Nick.

“I’m proud of you,” he said. “No matter what they say in that room… I’ve already made my choice.”

Nick’s throat tightened.

Christian nodded, jaw set.

Sai offered a hand briefly to Otis — a steadying grip.

Then the guards pushed open the doors.

The golden doors groaned open with a slow, reverent sweep — not loud, but deliberate, as if the palace itself were holding its breath.

Prince Charlie entered first.

He was a vision in silver and silk, each step deliberate, polished boots echoing softly on the marble floor. The soft spring blossom still tucked behind his ear danced slightly with each movement, catching the light from the stained-glass windows that bathed the chamber in hues of emerald and sapphire.

He walked alone down the central aisle — an heir in full bloom — and approached the dais without hesitation, ascending the three wide steps until he stood in the side of the thrones.

Already waiting at the top stood Princess Victoria, statuesque in plum and silver, her crown gleaming subtly beneath her dark hair. She nodded once to Charlie as he arrived, regal but fond — the unmistakable air of a big sister who had coached every one of his nerves into silence.

And beside her, perched on a velvet-cushioned seat just shy of the platform, sat Prince Oliver — fidgeting, legs swinging, clearly trying very hard to look serious and very royal, despite the way his tiny golden circlet tilted slightly off-center.

Charlie gave him a gentle look. Oliver beamed back.

The Throne Room was nothing short of breathtaking.

The ceiling soared high above them, painted in soft, swirling frescoes of the crowned stag, symbol  of the Spring Dynasty, reigning at the top, crowned in vines and petals. The walls were lined with silver-veined marble, and massive stained-glass windows reached from floor to arch, casting soft color across the long aisle. Light danced over gold-framed portraits of rulers past, silent and judgmental.

At the far end of the room, set atop the dais, stood the Twin Thrones — one for the reigning monarch, the other for the consort. For now, both were empty. And next to them, a little throne, smaller yet not less majestic.

A hush fell over the throne room like the slow closing of a book.

The herald stepped forward, his voice steady, smooth, and ringing with ceremony.

“Their Royal Majesties — King Julio of Spring with Queen Jane of Spring. Monarchs of The Kingdom, Protectors of the Realm and Masters of the land”

The nobles rose like a tide of velvet and polished boots.

Prince Charlie bowed. His spine was straight, his expression careful.

Beside him, Princess Victoria tilted her chin ever so slightly, observing her father’s entrance with the sharp, polished stillness only years of court had honed. Prince Oliver — seated with small, swinging legs and an oversized sense of duty — gave a little nod, then looked up at his brother as if to say, Did I do it right?

Charlie offered him the barest smile.

King Julio was taller than most had remembered. Not just in height, but in presence. His hair, streaked silver at the temples, was swept neatly back, and though he wore a ceremonial crown, it was clear he had no need of it to command the room. His eyes were deep brown — sharp, but tired — and his coat was tailored in emerald velvet edged with gold, the stag of Spring stitched in thread so fine it caught the light like wire.

Queen Jane walked with him, graceful in a gown of golden yellow, her red hair braided intricately into a crown of its own. She moved with calm purpose — not just regal, but rooted, as though the throne room was grown from her steps alone.

They ascended the dais as one, each step perfectly timed. As they took their seats on the twin thrones , the weight of monarchy seemed to settle, once more, into its rightful place.

There was a pause as they sat — ceremonial, intentional. Just a breath.

But in that breath, Nick, watching from the line of boys below, felt something shift.

The throne where Charlie sat.

He looked at it — silver and pale green, the heir’s seat, smaller, next to the Twin Thrones — and then, almost without meaning to, he glanced at the one in the opposite side, where Queen Jane was sat.

If he failed his mission, Someday Prince Charlie would sit on the throne, and one day, someone would sit on the consort throne.

Not standing beside Charlie.

Not guarding him from behind.

But seated beside him. As his equal.

The Prince Consort.

King Julio’s voice rang out with practiced precision.

“Loyal houses, honored court. We gather today not for spectacle, but for promise.”

The chamber listened.

“This ceremony predates my father. And his father, and All the way to the beginning of the Spring Dynasty. For generations, the heir to the throne has stood protected by those chosen not only for strength, but for loyalty beyond question.”

“I remember when I was only a boy — younger than some of you — I took part in this same ceremony. In my case six man stood with me. My Swords. My brothers in arms. My shadows. My peace.”

He paused, gaze sweeping over the boys.

“It is no small thing to be chosen for this honor, specially now where not six, but just four of you have been chosen. To guard the prince is to guard the future. It is to carry the weight of peace, of power, and sometimes… of sacrifice.”

A court attendant in deep green robes stepped forward, scroll in hand, and cleared his throat softly.

“Step forward, Otis Smith.”

Otis straightened. He stepped from the line with pride in his stride and light in his smile. He bowed low, dropped to one knee, and lifted his chin toward the throne.

King Julio stood, drawing the ceremonial blade from the hilt presented to him by a squire. It was long, gleaming, more symbolic than practical — though in the king’s grip, it seemed anything but ornamental.

The king’s voice was steady.

“Do you swear to defend the heir of Spring with your life, should the moment come?”

“I do,” Otis said clearly.

“Do you swear to serve the crown with loyalty and discretion?”

“I do.”

“Do you swear to protect the prince’s purity, peace, and person, with all that you are?”

Otis paused half a second. “I do.”

The sword touched his left shoulder, then his right.

“Rise, Sir Otis Smith.”

The nobles gave a brief, approving clap. Otis grinned, stepped back into line.

Next: “Sai Verma.”

Sai moved forward smoothly. His posture held calm, but his hands were curled tightly behind his back. He bowed, knelt, and answered the oaths without hesitation.

When he rose — “Sir Sai Verma” — his smile was soft but proud.

“Christian McBride.”

Christian’s name carried easily through the room. He moved with a sort of effortless elegance, bowing with precision and a hint of old family manners. The court murmured with polite familiarity. His family was known, they were the owners of one of the most important textile business of the Kingdom.

He took the vows with smooth, unwavering cadence.

“Sir Christian McBride.”

Then came silence.

It lasted half a beat too long.

“…Nicholas Nelson.”

Nick’s spine straightened. The name rang out like an accusation.

He stepped forward slowly.

The throne room felt cavernous.

He moved past Otis and Sai and Christian. Past the nobles whispering behind gloved hands. Past the heir of the kingdom, who stood still and quiet beside the throne.

He lowered himself to one knee.

The stone was cold beneath him.

He bowed.

To the King.

To the man whose crown sits on the very empire Nick has trained to break.

He tasted iron in his mouth.

King Julio regarded him quietly. His eyes, dark and unreadable, gave away nothing.

The words came. Slow. Ritual.

“Do you swear to defend the heir of Spring with your life, should the moment come?”

Nick’s throat was tight.

“I do,” he said.

“Do you swear to serve the crown with loyalty and discretion?”

“I do.”

“Do you swear to protect the prince’s purity, peace, and person, with all that you are?”

There was a pause.

Just a moment.

Nick heard the beat of his own heart in his ears.

He thought of Charlie — soft-voiced, radiant, laughing in the gardens, yawning in the mornings, frowning over papers, cradling a child.

Breakable. Beautiful. Royal.

“I do,” Nick said, voice low, but clear.

The king lifted the blade.

The weight of it hovered.

Then rested.

First on Nick’s left shoulder.

Then his right.

“Rise,” King Julio said. “Sir Nicholas Nelson.”

Nick stood.

The crown did not fall.

The air did not change.

But something inside him had shifted — and he didn’t yet know if it was triumph, or betrayal.

The ceremonial blade was lowered. The scroll was rolled and tied in green silk.

And with that, the chamber exhaled.

A courtier somewhere began the polite, restrained applause customary at such royal appointments. The rest followed. The sound was soft, measured — not wild with celebration, but dignified. The kind of applause given to tradition. To duty.

To oaths that would now never be undone.

The four boys — now four knights — stood together at the center of the throne room, facing the full court of Spring. In their navy-and-silver finery, they looked like a painting brought to life.

Otis, with his open grin.

Sai, quietly glowing with pride.

Christian, poised like he’d been sculpted into place.

And Nick — still, solemn, the storm beneath the surface.

The king returned to his seat.

Only then did Prince Charlie step forward, descending the dais with light steps that rang like glass against marble.

He didn’t speak right away. Just stood before them, his hands folded gently at his waist, a rare smile curling across his mouth — proud, but somehow tender too.

“You’ve made it,” he said softly. “And I hope you know… I chose well.”

The four of them bowed in unison.

Charlie’s gaze lingered for the barest second on Nick. Not longer than the others. Not quite.

Then he turned and ascended again, following the King and Queen as they began their ceremonial exit. Queen Jane’s gown trailed behind her like water. The king didn’t look back.

Charlie did.

Just once.

Over his shoulder, he glanced toward the boys now sworn to follow him — one hand brushing his sash into place, the flower still tucked behind his ear.

He nodded.

And the Swords followed.

Chapter Text

The stone corridors of the royal wing were quieter at night — the bustle of daytime servants replaced by the distant hush of guards on their evening rotations. Candle sconces flickered across the arched ceilings, throwing long shadows down the length of the hall outside Prince Charlie’s chambers.

The four Swords of the Treasure stood in formation — freshly knighted, uniformed in ceremonial navy and silver. Their boots were polished, their hair combed, and not a word passed between them as they waited.

Commander Harrow arrived a moment later, his footsteps as sharp as the lines etched into his jaw.

“Well,” he began, looking them over. “You’re not the worst I’ve seen before a night watch. That’s something.”

Nick didn’t flinch under his scrutiny. Neither did Sai. Otis, predictably, grinned. Christian gave the faintest twitch of a bow.

Harrow stepped closer, folding his arms.

“I’ll say this plainly: you’re not enough.”

That earned a blink from Otis. “Sir?”

The commander huffed through his nose, not quite a sigh. “Traditionally, the heir to the throne is guarded by six men — two stationed outside his door, two inside, two off duty. King Julio had that arrangement, back when I—” He stopped himself. “Back when it was still standard.”

Nick’s attention sharpened. The commander’s tone had shifted slightly.

“You were one of the Swords when King Julio was the prince?” Christian asked amused.

Harrow’s eyes flicked over to him, for a moment Nick thought he could see a glance of happiness from the rough men, before he masked it off and shoved it away. “Doesn’t matter. What matters is that four of you can’t stand watch in shifts the way six could. Not without burning out.”

He glanced at the prince’s closed door, then back to them.

“Prince Charlie is the first heir in decades to be born with…his ability. Because of that… he’s forbidden from being left alone overnight. You were supposed to rotate, two inside, two outside, until this morning the Prince realized that it was impossible”

Nick almost rolled his eyes, really no one had thought that they needed to sleep until Prince Charlie told them?

Sai frowned. “But there are only four of us.”

“Exactly,” Harrow snapped. “Which is why the arrangements have changed. His Highness has insisted on keeping his private life just that — private. So, from now on, two of you will guard the door while the other two rest. You’ll rotate every three hours.”

Nick processed this silently, his gaze fixed forward. The gears in his mind were already turning.

A change every three hours. At night. For some minutes, only one man on duty while the other walks the corridor to relieve him.

It would take less than five minutes. Slip the prince out into the shadows. Cover his mouth if necessary.

Another tick on the checklist.

Harrow continued, unaware of Nick’s inner calculations.

“Your sleeping quarters are close. If something happens, you’ll hear it. But for protocol, only two guards at the prince’s door at all times. No one goes inside unless summoned. And I don’t care if you hear sobbing, singing, or a bloody harp. You don’t enter.”

“Yes, sir,” Sai murmured.

Harrow took a step back and regarded them all.

“You’ll rotate cleanly. No talking through the night. No noise. This is the final stage of your integration. From here on out, you are his shadows.”

He turned to the door, knocked once, and then nodded toward it.

“Verma. Nelson. You’re up first.”

Nick stepped forward with Sai, their boots echoing softly off the polished marble.

As Harrow turned to leave, Otis leaned toward Christian and whispered, “Shadows, huh? I would prefer ‘pretty boy with a sword.’”

Christian snorted.

Nick didn’t join in the laugh. His mind was already elsewhere.

Christian and Otis wished good luck to the boys and dozed off to their quarters.

The door opened with a soft creak, and Elle peeked out, her face glowing in the warm spill of candlelight.

“Oh, good,” she whispered, grinning softly. “It’s you two.”

Nick and Sai stepped inside quietly. The air was thick with warmth and lavender — the scent of steeped herbs and old wood polish.

“Come in, come in. He’s finishing up.”

Even after a week in the palace, the sheer intimacy of the space made Nick straighten his back.

The bed ,massive, draped in soft silks and a navy canopy that shimmered faintly in the candlelight. A wall of windows stretched across the far side, and the glass balcony doors had been left open, letting in the night air. Sheer curtains danced on the breeze, ghostlike and gentle.

To the left, a broad desk sat scattered with parchment, letters, open books with dog-eared pages. Ink stains marked one corner like bruises on paper.

To the right, a sitting area encircled a low chess table, the game frozen mid-play — a single black pawn teetering toward checkmate. Beyond that, shelves of books climbed up the walls, crowded and worn in some places, glimmering and gilded in others.

A piano stood near the balcony, closed and quiet. And in the far corner, beneath a soft gold lantern, was a plush reading rug, woven so thickly Nick was sure his boots would vanish in it.

And in a corner, was Prince Charlie, half-curled in his boudoir chair, his silver nightrobe lined in soft lace, slipping from one pale shoulder. His curls were loose and slightly damp from a recent bath. Tao, ever dutiful, stood at his side, carefully combing through them with the delicacy of a ritual.

“Please stop,” Charlie murmured with a tired laugh, lifting a hand. “You’re going to make me bald.”

“You’d still be prettier than every duke in court,” Tao replied smoothly.

Charlie huffed and reached for the brush himself, taking it from Tao’s hand with mock offense. “I’m brushing myself. I am not five.”

He turned to the mirror of his vanity, tugging gently at a few tangles as Elle hummed near the bed, pouring a small cup of steaming tea from a porcelain pot.

Nick stood by the wall, posture straight, eyes scanning the room — and then returning, again and again, to Charlie.

There was something unreal about it. The robe slipping over his collarbone. The way the candlelight flickered across his cheeks. His fingers moving slowly through his curls. Softness made human. Vulnerable, domestic, unaware that the man standing across from him had once sworn to drag him from his bed and disappear into the shadows.

Charlie placed the brush down gently, then moved toward the bed. The canopy stirred as he pushed the fabric aside and slipped beneath the layers, careful not to wrinkle the robe. Elle handed him the tea, and he took it gratefully.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

“To sleep?” Tao asked.

“Not yet.” Charlie smiled softly. “I’ll read a bit.”

Tao placed a familiar, worn book on the nightstand. Charlie’s fingers traced the spine like it was a ritual.

Then, he turned toward the two boys standing silently.

“Thank you,” he said, voice soft but clear, gaze lingering on both Sai and Nick. “For your watch.”

Nick managed a small nod. “Of course, Your Highness.”

Charlie reached toward the candle beside his bed and pinched it slightly to the side. Elle gently extinguished every other flame in the room, one by one, until only a single golden glow remained at Charlie’s bedside.

The prince leaned into his pillows, the book open, his face cast in flickering light.

Sai bowed his head. “Goodnight, my prince.”

“Goodnight, Sai. Nick.”

Nick didn’t respond. Not out loud. Just one more look — to memorize how he looked folded into his silks, eyes already dipping toward the page.

It’s just a boy, Nick said to himself, stepping backward toward the door with Sai. Just a boy…with moonlight eyes and dimples, nothing special…

Then Tao and Elle nodded once to the boys and slipped out in silence.

Nick and Sai followed.

The door shut behind them.

And then there was only the corridor, the candlelit hush, and the knowledge that on the other side of that door, the boy Nick had sworn to steal lay curled up in silks, reading stories by moonlight.

The kitchen was already alive with clatter and chatter by the time the four newly minted Swords of the Treasure stepped in. The scent of warm butter, rising bread, and spiced apples wafted thick through the air, mingling with laughter and complaints in equal measure.

Long wooden tables stretched across the room, already crowded with servants in aprons and faded uniforms, all cradling mugs of tea or biting into thick slices of toast. Copper pots bubbled quietly along the back stoves. Plates clinked, fire crackled, and someone swore softly as a spoon clattered to the stone floor.

Miss Miriam stood in the center of it all — a small mountain of a woman with flour-dusted forearms and cheeks like apples. She moved between cauldrons and baskets like a general inspecting her troops, ladling porridge and spooning eggs as if she were personally responsible for keeping the monarchy fed.

“You four look too clean for people who’re supposed to guard royalty,” she barked when she saw them, but her eyes softened almost instantly. “Sit. You have to eat.”

She slapped plates onto the table with affectionate force, dropping thick slices of toast, berries, boiled eggs, and a wedge of something golden and flaky onto each plate.

“Bless the gods,” Otis muttered, eyes wide as he sat down. “This is enough food to satisfy three dukes and a horse.”

“I don’t cook for dukes,” Miriam replied. “I cook for stomachs.”

Otis beamed. “You’re an artist.”

Across the table, a footman groaned loudly, mouth half full. “I swear if Lady Staunton makes me re-polish her slippers one more time—”

“You’re lucky,” another servant chimed in. “I had to iron her bedsheets. Twice. Who even sweats in their sleep?”

From farther down the table, a scullery maid leaned forward with a sly grin. “Did you hear about Thomas and Danvers from the north wing?”

A gasp from the table. “No!”

“They’ve been seen together. Very together.”

“No!”

“Yes.”

Otis leaned in, mouth stuffed with toast. “Are we gossiping? Let me refill my tea.”

Christian chuckled, shaking his head as he passed Otis the pot.

Meanwhile, Nick sat quietly, chewing methodically. The kitchen was too loud, too full of life — it made him feel like an outsider all over again. And yet, it wasn’t unpleasant. There was something oddly comforting about the way the staff moved together — lived together.

A maid passed by with a steaming tray and paused, her eyes flicking to Nick. The same one who had glanced at him days before. She offered a tiny smile, then looked away before he could respond.

He blinked.

Next to him, Sai elbowed his side gently. “You’ve got admirers.”

Nick frowned. “No, I don’t.”

“Sure,” Sai said. “And I’m a baron.”

Miriam returned to their table, wiping her hands on her apron and planting herself down on the edge of the bench with a grunt.

“Well?” she asked, eyeing Nick and Sai directly. “How’d the night go?”

Nick straightened slightly. “Smooth. No disturbance.”

“We rotated every three hours,” Sai added. “He slept soundly. Elle left one candle lit. He turned it out himself before dawn, i don’t actually know if he does anything else, but he didn’t asked for us to come inside the room the whole night.”

Murmurs rose softly from the other servants nearby, many having gone still to listen. Nick noticed the hush — how the mention of the prince quieted the room, even if just for a breath. Everyone listened.

Everyone loved him.

Miriam gave a nod, her eyes unexpectedly warm. “That’s how it should be. He’s a good boy.”

A few others nodded in agreement. The room was filled with clatter and salt, but when it came to the prince — the real boy behind the throne, not the fairy tales — even the staff grew reverent.

After breakfast, the boys were fetched from the kitchens by Elle, who had gone early in the morning  to let the boys know they could go to have breakfast while she was in the room preparing the Prince’s morning routine.

“We need you lot,” she said over her shoulder, her voice hushed but amused. “He’s trying to disappear under the covers again. And we can’t leave the room unattended without the official guard in place.”

When they arrived at Prince Charlie’s chambers, Tao was already pacing just inside the door, looking like he’d aged a decade in the last ten minutes.

“You’re late,” he said as soon as the boys appeared.

“We were eating,” Otis offered, rubbing a crumb from his chin. “You know, sustaining our lives and all.”

“You were summoned five minutes ago.”

“Then it’s practically early,” Sai said, breezing past him.

They stepped into the prince’s room — where the bed still lay occupied by a lump of silks and curls. The navy canopy had been drawn back slightly, but Charlie was burrowed under at least two layers of quilts, his hair barely visible on the pillow.

Tao stood at the bedside, hands on hips.

“My prince,” he said firmly. “It’s well past nine.”

A muffled groan answered him.

“Your guards are here. You need to rise. You’ll be late for your lesson with Master Ajayi.”

Still no movement. The sheer curtains danced in the breeze. A pigeon cooed from the balcony.

Elle leaned down next to the bed. “Charlie, darling. Do you want your toast to go cold?”

The covers rustled.

A bleary-eyed Charlie emerged at last, curls a mess, robe half-draped around one shoulder. He looked around at the boys — all four now standing in attention — and blinked like he’d wandered into a war meeting.

“Oh, gods,” he croaked. “You’re all so… vertical.”

“We do our best my Prince” Christian offered, grinning.

Tao handed the prince his slippers, muttering something about decorum and routine under his breath.

Once Charlie had shuffled off to the bathing room (after some very dramatic sighing), Tao turned to the boys with full commander energy.

“Now that he’s up,” Tao said, “let’s review today’s schedule.”

He pointed to the tufted desk and small sofa now stationed in the corner of the room. “You’ll stand or remain nearby when inside his chambers. The Prince insisted this were brought in for your use when he studies or rests. But do not assume this is a break room.”

Otis looked at the seat longingly.

“You are not here to nap,” Tao warned.

Charlie’s voice called from the next room. “Don’t listen to Tao!”

The boys looked up. Charlie reappeared, face washed and now in a linen dressing shirt and looking marginally more human. “I hate the thought of you standing on your feet all day like glorified candlesticks. Sit. I’ll even order you to sit if necessary.”

Tao’s eye twitched. “That doesn’t make it proper.”

With the prince now properly awake and Elle beginning her work on his curls, Tao returned to business.

“This morning, the prince hasn’t been called to go to the council room, so he will attend a private lesson in the royal library with Master Ajayi. You’ll escort him and remain in the room.”

Tao continued. “After his lesson, the prince is expected to return here for some leisure. You will remain posted.”

“Great, more standing, I hope he isn’t here” Christian muttered under his breath.

“And then,” Tao added, “he’ll take supper with the royal family. You’ll escort him to the great dining hall, then be dismissed briefly to dine with the service staff.”

Otis perked up at that.

“But,” Tao warned, “you must return to retrieve him promptly and remain with him through the evening. There are no public engagements tonight, so his chambers will be the final stop of the day, dinner included.”

The royal library took Nick’s breath, though he would never admit it aloud.

It rose like a cathedral — towering shelves that stretched three stories high, lined in carved wood and gold detail. A spiral staircase wrapped around one of the marble columns like ivy, leading up to a gallery of balconies that overlooked the endless sea of spines. Every few feet, a globe, an ancient statue, or a glass case of scrolls stood like guardians of history. The upper windows filtered in soft, golden light, casting long shadows over tapestries and book-lined walls.

It smelled of dust, parchment, and something softly floral. Timeless.

Nick had never seen so many books in his life.

He was careful not to stare too long.

They were positioned along the sides of the chamber — the Swords of the Treasure, now armored in navy uniforms and silence. They stood at ease, two near the wide entrance, two tucked behind the velvet reading chairs. The sound of quills scratching and pages turning filled the air.

Master Ajayi, a tall man with dark skin and spectacles perpetually slipping down his nose, was pacing before a blackboard.

“Now, diplomacy,” the man was saying, tapping a piece of chalk with one finger. “Is not always about truth, but about language. The truth you imply, not state. The space you leave between sentences for others to fill.”

Charlie, seated at the central study table, didn’t look up. He was bent over his notes, elbow smudging the corner of the page as he wrote.

Nick’s eyes flicked toward the doorway. Then the arched window. Then back to the boy at the table.

Charlie frowned, chewing the edge of his lip as he scratched something out with a quiet huff. He tilted his head, curls falling over one eye. He adjusted his grip, then wrote again — the quill moving quicker now. The candle beside him flickered, catching a shine on his cheekbone.

Nick’s brow tightened.

He needed to stop watching.

“Prince Charles,” Master Ajayi said, glancing up. “In the treaty between Roderick the Silent and the Eastern Isles, what did the third clause forbid?”

“Marriage alliances,” Charlie said instantly. “To preserve sovereignty.”

“And?”

“And to protect bloodlines. The Isles practiced inheritance through matrilineal descent. Marrying into their courts would have meant transferring the crown’s potential line abroad.”

Ajayi looked mildly impressed. “Very good. Last question, this is a historical one, in what year did England stop prosecuting homosexuality and approved same sex marriages?

Charlie smiled and said confidently “120 years ago, my Great great grandfather, the last of the Spring males until me that could bear children insisted that if he could marry a man, so could the rest of the people”

”Perfect, everyday you get better mi Prince” Finished Ajayi with a smile

Charlie nodded, smiling. But his eyes darted, for a brief second, toward Nick.

The echo of their boots trailed through the corridor as the Swords escorted Prince Charlie back to his chambers. The lessons were done, and the morning sun had shifted west, casting warmer gold across the palace floors.

Charlie walked a little ahead of them, arms folded loosely behind his back, already tugging slightly at the collar of his formal robe.

They were almost to the doors when a voice rang down the hallway—

“Charlie!”

In a blur of curls and velvet, Prince Olly came tearing around the corner, completely ignoring the servant trailing behind him in panic.

Charlie didn’t even flinch. He turned with a grin and caught his brother mid-sprint, spinning him once in the air before hugging him tightly.

“Olly!” Charlie laughed, already out of breath from the sudden whirlwind. “You are going to break your neck one day.”

“But not today!” Olly beamed, clinging to his older brother like a squirrel on a tree. “I finished my lesson early. I want to stay with you now.”

Charlie didn’t hesitate. “Of course you can.”

The group filed into the prince’s chamber, Olly immediately threw himself onto the massive bed, bouncing once with glee.

Charlie followed, sitting cross-legged beside him.

The Swords took their places by the doors. Otis leaned slightly against the wall. Sai slid down onto the corner of the reading bench. Nick stood, as always, still.

Charlie laughed suddenly — a light, bright sound that drew Nick’s eyes like a magnet.

He was poking Olly in the side. “You’ve been staring at me weirdly for five whole minutes. What’s going on in that genius brain of yours?”

Olly turned his head dramatically, eyes wide.

“I’m just looking,” he said. “At your belly.”

“My what?”

“Your belly. Right here.” Olly patted Charlie’s stomach with an alarming sense of clinical focus.

Charlie sat up slightly. “Okay. Weird.”

“Because,” Olly said, serious as a monk, “today Master Rewell told me that you can have…babies!”

Silence dropped over the room like a curtain.

Charlie flushed bright pink. “Oh. Uh—yes. Technically. I mean—biologically, yes, I can.”

Olly’s face squinched. “But why?”

“Well, because… it’s something some Spring boys used to have,” Charlie explained slowly, “and I just happen to be one of the last.”

Olly looked mildly impressed. Then frowned again. “But I can’t.”

Charlie reached for his hand gently. “That’s okay. Papa can’t. Grandpa couldn’t either. It doesn’t mean anything’s wrong.”

“But why can’t I be a dad then?” Olly asked suddenly.

Charlie blinked. “What?”

“I want to have babies too!” Olly sat up, his lip trembling. “Tori can, you can, but I can’t at all! Why can’t I be a dad?!”

Charlie reached for him immediately. “Olly, sweetheart—being a dad isn’t just about carrying a baby, okay? You can still be a dad. I promise.”

“But how?!” Olly wailed. “If I can’t do it, how?!”

He burst into tears — big, wet ones that streamed down his flushed cheeks. He wiped at them with the back of his sleeve, looking like the world had ended.

Charlie looked helpless.

Olly sobbed again, curling against Charlie’s side like a barnacle.

Charlie stroked his curls, doubting between laughing or consoling the little kid who was having a tantrum about babies…while he was still one. “You’ll be a dad one day, Olls. I swear. There are lots of ways. We’ll make it work, okay?”

“But how?” Olly sniffled again, hiccuping. “I don’t get it. If I can’t have them myself… how does it even happen?”

Charlie turned as red as the strawberries he had been eating that morning for breakfast and looked around, clearly searching for escape.

But there was no Tao to offer a lecture, no Elle to deflect. No parental figure to whisk Olly away. Only the four boys — his freshly knighted Swords of the Treasure — standing in various states of horror and betrayal.

His eyes locked on Otis.

“Right,” Charlie said, clearing his throat and adjusting his posture. “As Crown Prince of England, I hereby decree that Sir Otis Smith shall explain to Prince Oliver how people become parents.”

Otis’s soul visibly left his body.

“Your highness, what—?!”

“You heard me,” Charlie said with deadly calm. “Knight of the Crown. Chosen by my own hand. It is your duty.”

Otis spluttered. “You can’t just—! That’s not what we trained for!”

Charlie raised an eyebrow. “Do you refuse a royal order?”

“That’s unfair!” Otis wailed, backing into the bookshelf. “I didn’t sign up for educational trauma!”

Otis looked around in despair. The room gave him nothing but betrayal. Sai backed up. Christian shook his head. Nick crossed his arms.

“Cowards,” Otis muttered. He turned to Olly, took a deep breath, and knelt down to the boy’s height.

“Right,” he said, gently. “So, you know how, uh… how you plant a seed in a garden?”

Nick’s eyes widened. Oh no.

Olly blinked, very attentive.

“Well… people work kind of like gardens too,” Otis said, visibly sweating. “And when a man like you and another person who can carry out love each other a lot, they decide to well, touch each…—”

“Otis,” Nick cut in, stepping forward. “Stop.”

Otis turned in relief. “Thank the gods. Your turn.”

“What? No.” Nick backed up instantly. “Absolutely not. I’m not—”

Charlie beamed. “Oh, I insist, Sir Nick.”

Olly had turned to Nick now, blinking hopefully. “You know, right?”

Nick sighed like a soldier walking toward a battlefield.

“Okay,” he started carefully. “So. Right. When two people love each other and they… decide to be parents, they…”

“Do they buy the baby?” Olly asked.

Nick blinked. “Not… exactly.”

“They steal it?”

“No—!”

“So they build it?”

Nick ran a hand down his face. “Gods, no. My prince—look. It’s like… there’s a process, okay? A… procedure.”

“Like alchemy?” Olly said, brightening.

“Yes,” Nick said instantly. “Exactly. Like alchemy. In fact, it’s very complicated. Only done by experts, so only adults can do it.”

“So do you know how it works?”

Nick stared at him.

A moment of stillness.

“…Yes,” he said.

Olly leaned closer. “Then how?”

Nick opened his mouth. Closed it. Panicked.

But then Olly tilted his head, leaned in a little closer with absolute, innocent curiosity and asked:

“Have you tried it?”

The silence that followed was immense.

Christian choked on his own breath.

Sai made a sound like a wounded bird.

Otis gasped so dramatically he nearly stumbled backward into the bookshelf.

Charlie froze where he stood, face going scarlet.

Nick blinked. “…Pardon?”

“I mean,” Olly said brightly, “you know how it works and you are an adult. So—have you tried the baby thing?”

Nick looked at him. Then looked at the ceiling, as if maybe the gods would strike him down before he had to answer.

Otis, meanwhile, had collapsed into a silent fit of laughter, doubled over in the corner. Christian was openly wheezing. Sai had turned fully around to face the wall, whispering don’t laugh, don’t laugh, don’t laugh to himself.

Charlie had his hand over his mouth — and was very clearly trying not to laugh — but his eyes were wide and flustered, cheeks pink, ears bright red.

“Your—Your Highness,” Nick finally managed, his voice a touch hoarse. “I… I think that question is not appropriate for—”

“But it’s just a yes or no!” Olly said innocently. “Have you?”

Nick floundered. “If I had, that would be a very rude thing to tell!”

“So you have!” Olly’s face lit up like the damn moon.

“Oh my gods,” Otis howled, dropping to the floor in laughter.

Christian slapped a hand against the wall for balance. “The Prince’s sword is experienced!”

Charlie made a tiny noise — too small to be a laugh, too loud to ignore — and turned around, hiding his burning face behind a curtain.

“I’m going to die,” Sai muttered. “This is how I die. Death by conversation.”

Nick ran both hands down his face. “I hate all of you.”

Olly tilted his head, curious as ever. “But… you don’t have a baby.”

Nick blinked again. “Well. No.”

Olly frowned. “Then why did you do it?”

“I—what? That’s not—” Nick looked around for help, but Otis was rolling on the floor, gasping like a fish. Christian had slid down to sit beside him, laughing so hard he looked like he might cry. Sai was no longer even pretending to keep it together, now thudding his forehead lightly against the wall in slow, resigned beats.

Prince Charlie, made another helpless, strangled sound.

Nick dragged a hand over his face, fully considering whether launching himself out the nearest window might be less painful than this. “It’s not just about making babies, Prince Oliver.”

Olly gasped. “It’s not? Then what is it for?!”

Nick opened his mouth. Closed it again. Tried to find the words. Failed.

“…I’m going to throw myself into the lake,” he said weakly.

Olly gave him a long, thoughtful look. “Oh! I know! It’s because you stink!”

Nick stared. “What?”

“You stink at it, you said you had to be an expert, so, you must stink!” Olly declared triumphantly, grinning from ear to ear like he’d just solved a riddle. “Charlie, your guard stinks at making babies!”

Charlie just couldn’t stop it anymore and started laughing desperately, unable to stop. “Olly—”

“He needs to practice more!” Olly shouted with glee, bouncing on his heels. “Practice lots! So he can stop stinking at it!”

“I’m going to pass away,” Nick said, voice high and thin. 

Otis wheezed from the floor, “He’s gonna need extra training. Extra drills. Daily drills.”

Christian wiped tears from his eyes. “Swordsmanship training will never be the same again.”

“Do not say swordsmanship in this context,” Nick hissed, bright red from neck to hairline, his skin tone the same as his hair. “You’re all monsters.”

Olly danced around, still chanting, “Stinky! Stinky! Stinky guard!” at full volume, clearly having the best morning of his life.

Sai finally turned around, pale with the effort of not laughing, and deadpanned, “I thought it liked him when he only bribed us for fruit, but this is so much better.”

Charlie’s voice, muffled by velvet, said weakly, “That is… not what I expected today…”

“I’m seven,” Olly said proudly. “I learned a lot today.”

Nick muttered, “So did I.”

Otis was still howling. “You should knight him again, your Highness— Sir Stud of the Realm!”

“Otis,” Nick hissed, “if you value your life—”

“I’m honoring you!”

“I’m going to kill you.”

He turned slowly, as if praying for divine intervention.

And the divine delivered — in the form of a knock at the door.

“Your Highness,” said a servant, stepping inside. “The Queen has summoned you for supper.”

Nick exhaled like a man saved from drowning.

“Oh no,” Olly whined. “But Nick didn’t finished explaining how babies were made, we were so close!”

Charlie stood with a smirk. “Don’t worry, Olls. You can ask dad after supper. I’m sure he will tell you everything, if not, I’m sure Sir Nick can finish. He’s clearly experienced”

Nick looked like he’d aged ten years in ten minutes.

Otis clapped him on the back as they turned to escort the princes. “Bet you wish you let me finish the garden metaphor now, huh?”

“Absolutely not,” Nick muttered. “You were about to say ‘watering the soil.’”

“…No I wasn’t.”

Sai wheezed. “Sir Baby Maker.”

“Stop!.”

But Charlie was already laughing, ushering Olly toward the door, his own ears still pink. “Come on, my brave knights. Meal awaits. And so does your royal trauma.”

And together, the royal heir, his beloved disaster of a little brother, and four emotionally compromised knights marched toward the dining hall — one deeply curious child still wondering exactly how babies were made.

——

The kitchen was its own kind of palace.

While the marble halls above gleamed with quiet reverence and royal silence, the kitchens beneath were alive — full of steam and smoke and voices stacked on voices.

It smelled like butter, garlic, firewood, and sugar. It smelled like home.

When the Swords of the Treasure entered, Miss Miriam turned from the hearth with her sleeves rolled up, a wooden spoon in one hand and a roast chicken leg in the other.

“Well,” she declared, “if it isn’t the princes’ guard dogs. Get in here before I feed the rest of your meal to the hounds.”

Otis stepped forward dramatically. “Miss Miriam, my dearest light, my reason for waking—”

She whacked him on the arm with the spoon.

“Plate,” she said. “Sit.”

The rest of the staff laughed. The boys grinned and settled into the long scrubbed table where servants of every kind were gathered — pages, cooks, maids, valets, all pressed in elbow to elbow, laughing and shouting over one another.

Platters were slid across the wood — roasted vegetables, spiced meats, thick slices of bread, honeyed carrots, and bowls of some custard that made Christian groan softly when he tasted it.

“Gods,” Sai muttered. “We should’ve become kitchen staff.”

Nick was quieter than the rest, but he took his plate with a nod and a soft thank you, and sat at the edge of the bench. The kitchen girl — the same one who’d stared at him a few days earlier — was hovering again. When Nick looked up and caught her eyes, she flushed, squeaked, and disappeared behind a tray of teacups.

Otis wiggled his eyebrows. “Well, well.”

Christian nudged Nick. “You’ve got fans.”

Nick gave a dry look. “You’re the one who moaned over the custard.”

Sai cackled. “No lies detected.”

“Still,” Otis said, biting into a chunk of bread, “you’re the mystery. Brooding. Silent. Protects royalty. Clearly good with children…”

That set off the rest of the table.

“Oh, right,” one of the kitchen maids chimed in from down the table. “We heard all about your baby lesson earlier, Prince Olly screams passed through his highness bedroom door.”

More laughter.

Nick stared at his bread. “I hate this kitchen.”

“You should’ve seen his face,” Christian said, dramatic as always. “The horror. The existential dread.”

“I was saving a child’s innocence,” Nick muttered.

“Oh, is that what it was?” Sai said sweetly.

Otis grinned wickedly. “What did he ask again?”

Nick said nothing.

Otis grinned, barely keeping his voice down. “He asked Nick if he’d tried it.”

Christian nearly inhaled his cider. “Tried it as in—”

“As in, made a baby,” Otis hissed. “Like—full-on. Baby-making.”

Sai slapped a hand over his mouth to stifle a laugh.

Another valet blinked, turning to Nick. “And? Did you answer?”

Nick didn’t look up. “I protected his innocence.”

“And he caught you,” Otis whispered, wide-eyed. “That means yes.”

Nick glanced sideways, one eyebrow raised. “I didn’t say yes.”

“That’s not a denial!” Sai said, trying to act scandalized.

Nick smirked into his bread. “Well. I’m not a child, I might have experience.”

That was all he said. No details. Nothing more.

But it was enough.

Otis’s jaw dropped. “What do you mean might?!”

Sai threw his hands in the air. “Okay, no, I refuse to be the innocent one here.”

Christian pointed around the table. “We’re all adults. Everyone here has “experience”. This is ridiculous.”

Nick hummed lightly. “So defensive.”

Otis pouted. “Because you’re acting like you’re some great seducer from the east or something, and I can’t remember the last time I….”

Miss Miriam returned to the table, thumping down a basket of rolls with the force of a war drum.

“What’s this nonsense?”

“The boys are arguing about who’s the most experienced,” one of the maids said gleefully.

“HA!” Miriam barked. “Only thing you’re experienced at is eating all my damn food. Now shut up and chew.”

The table laughed again, and the energy broke — more bread was passed, more cider poured. Someone started talking about a noble who kept fainting in his own baths. Another maid whispered about a footman seen sneaking into a stable with a girl who worked in the laundry.

Nick didn’t say much else.

But when Sai nudged his shoulder and Christian smirked and Otis dramatically demanded to know what kind of lover Nick was — sweet or commanding — Nick rolled his eyes and muttered:

“Oi, I’m not giving you wanking material”

Otis laughed at that while he peeled another banana “Ok, that was good, you are getting softer every day Nelson, in a couple of weeks maybe you won’t have to pretend that you have a stick in your ass all the time and you might even get to relax”

Just as Christian was threatening to stand on the table and perform a love ballad for Nick’s mysterious past lovers, a footman peeked in.

“The prince is done with supper,” he said.

Miss Miriam nodded. “Go on then, knights. Protect our little moonbeam.”

Otis stood with a groan. “Time to go fetch the heir of England before someone asks me with how many villagers I have made out.”

“No one cares,” Sai muttered.

Otis clutched his heart. “Betrayed.”

Nick chuckled, just once — soft and low.

And as they left the warm kitchen for the cold marble corridors, the laughter still echoing behind them, it was hard not to feel, just for a moment, like they were almost something real. Something close. A unit. A little family forged in sugar, steel, and whispered gossip.

They arrived in from of the dining hall until the Prince passed through the doors with Princess Victoria, and after a couple of minutes gesturing to the swords to go the room.

The halls were mostly empty by now, the palace lit gold by torchlight, the marble floors polished to a mirror shine. Nick kept to his post — two steps behind and slightly to the left — while Otis muttered something about how he still had room for dessert, and Sai swatted him quiet with a flick of his fingers.

When Charlie pushed open his door, the first thing he did was to go to his work desk and started to open some books while he asked.

“Can one of you open the balcony doors please? It helps me concentrate.

So now they were inside the room, which was filled with warm, sweet air, blowing in from the gardens — thick with jasmine and the scent of summer-hung roses. It tugged at the curtains and set the candle flames swaying. It brushed over the silk-draped bed, the chess board mid-play, the piano quiet beneath moonlight.

Nick saw Charlie sigh. Not a theatrical one, not tonight — just the kind you let out when you’re tired to your bones and your thoughts are full. He had been over the same report for half an hour and Nick was sure that if he had to bet, the prince didn’t have any idea where to start.

“Christian,” he said, flicking a lazy hand toward him, “I command you to tell me what this report means.”

“I’m sorry, Your Highness,” Christian said carefully, standing closest. “But I think that might be a bit above our station.”

Even though the command had been clearly playful — and Christian’s reply was just as light — Charlie could still hear the genuine apology buried in his voice.

“Fine,” he sighed, heaving himself upright with all the flair of a drama lead. “I’ll simply have to do it myself. The whole lot of you are useless. I’m getting new guards tomorrow. This time, I mean it.”

That earned a few muffled chuckles. Even Nick, from his place near the door, let the corner of his mouth twitch.

Charlie groaned again — a deeper sound this time, pitched somewhere between despair and boredom — and shoved the report off to the side.

“Nope,” he said, standing up. “No more cross-regional grain taxation. Not tonight. I am a child of the divine bloodline of Spring and I refuse to die at this desk.”

He wandered across the floor, fingers trailing along the back of a velvet chair, then past the chess board. His robe shimmered in the candlelight, the silver folds catching and shifting like moonlight on water. And when he paused in front of the piano — elegant and half-forgotten near the balcony — he didn’t look at any of them.

He didn’t see how every pair of eyes turned to him, sharp and suddenly very alert.

He didn’t notice how Sai tilted slightly forward, or how Christian’s hand slipped off the bookshelf he’d been leaning against. Otis’s chatter cut off mid-breath. Even Nick, looked curious, his heart beating as if he were to see one of the most important moments of his life.

Charlie rolled up the cover with a small clack. He flexed his fingers absently—long, graceful things that somehow made even this simple movement feel rehearsed, like it was part of some ancient choreography. He pressed his foot gently to the pedal, settled himself on the bench, and without flourish—

He began to play.

The notes floated out softly, almost like a question. A melody light as spun sugar, drifting toward the open balcony, catching in the breeze.

It was music like magic.

Not court music. Not practiced ballads or parlor flourishes. But something real—something aching, like it had been born out of him without warning.

It was a song of windows left open and letters never sent. Of aching ribs and hopes too fragile to speak aloud. It was—Nick realized, somewhere in the hollow of his chest—a melody he already missed, even as he heard it.

And then, without lifting his gaze, Charlie sang.

Not loud. Not polished. But clear and haunting, like the voice of some old, mournful siren, and the room held still like it had been enchanted.

Nick didn’t blink.

The sound wrapped around him, around all of them, curling into the corners and shadows, humming against the ivory shelves and gold-framed maps. Charlie leaned into the notes without fanfare, letting his fingers carry him, head bent slightly forward, loose curls catching firelight.

And Nick watched, transfixed.

Not at the piano. Not even at the song.

But at him.

At the boy who didn’t look like a prince anymore—didn’t look like anything royal or divine or burdened with bloodlines. Just… a boy who loved music, and in this moment, didn’t seem to remember the world outside of it.

Nick’s heart beat like a drum against his ribs.

He didn’t want to. He didn’t mean to.

But something about those hands and that voice, the soft crease in Charlie’s brow, the way he’d become unreachable, sent something spiraling through him.

Something hungry.

The last note drifted like a breath, then settled into silence.

For a heartbeat, no one moved.

Then—

Otis clapped.

Sai followed instantly.

Christian joined in with a low whistle, nodding in awe.

Charlie jerked upright like he’d been slapped. “Wait—you heard that?”

The boys blinked.

“You played the piano in a room with us inside,” Otis said. “Of course we heard it.”

“I didn’t mean to—I wasn’t playing for anyone—oh gods,” Charlie covered his face with both hands, ears going red. “I forgot you were here.”

“That was…” Christian shook his head. “Unreal.”

“It was amazing your Highness…right Nick?

Nick just couldn’t find words to describe what he thought while Charlie and the rest of the boys looked at him, and so, before he could stop it, he didn’t know why his brain decided to say.

“It was as if I had seen a forest Nymph”

Charlie blushed furiously while the rest of the lads laughed.

“Oi Nelson, didn’t think you were such a sap” said Otis.

Nick tried to debate him but, he still kept rewatching the scene of Charlie playing the piano in his mind.

Charlie cleared his throat, recovering slightly. “Well. Right. That’s enough of that. I— I need to eat.”

He crossed quickly to the wall, cheeks still flushed, and rang the tiny gold bell that sat beside the desk. Somewhere beyond the walls, footsteps began.

“I’ll have a supper tray brought here,” Charlie said, trying to sound casual. “And one for you lot too. You must be starving, standing around in all that armor. Or… silk.”

He wandered back toward the bed and threw himself down sideways across it, face buried in a pillow, muttering, “I can’t believe I sang in front of you.”

Nick watched him from the corner, arms still folded, heart still hammering in a way he absolutely refused to name.

This mission was going to end up with his sanity.

Dinner arrived not long after the music had faded, and the Swords of the Treasure gathered around the small table that had been set up earlier near the corner window. The breeze still floated through the open balcony doors, stirring the candlelight and the gauzy curtains as they ate.

Charlie, still slightly pink from his impromptu concert, was quiet at first—sipping his elderflower cordial and stealing bites of warm bread soaked in honeyed butter. The meal was rich, but not overwhelming: roasted chicken glazed in citrus, seasonal greens tossed in oil, soft rolls, and sugared berries for after.

The boys dug in with growing ease, especially Otis, who moaned into his spoon with the kind of reverence usually reserved for cathedrals.

“Your Highness,” he said around a mouthful of cream, “if this is the kind of supper that comes with being your sword, I’d fight off a thousand rebel plots just to stay on the roster.”

Charlie laughed, head tilting with amusement. “Well, let’s hope it never comes to that.”

They ate in relative peace, the conversation drifting between little teases, updates about the morning, and the way Sai had nearly fallen asleep during one of the prince’s history lectures.

Then came a knock at the door.

Elle answered it, and a moment later, Tao stepped inside, parchment in one hand.

“Apologies, Your Highness,” he said with a bow, “but your schedule for tomorrow just arrived from the Inner Chamber.”

Charlie made a face and gestured for him to approach. “Is it dreadful?”

“No, actually. Just… curious.” Tao handed over the folded note. “You’ve been summoned for an appearance at a local district celebration. You are supposed to be there all the day getting to know the place.”

Charlie scanned the paper quickly. “Where?”

“Old Britannia district,” Tao announced.

The words echoed in the soft hush of Charlie’s chamber.

Nick’s breath caught.

Old Britannia.

He could still picture it clearly — the crumbling stone alleys and sagging rooftops, crooked chimneys spewing grey smoke into the pale morning light. The old tenements pressed shoulder to shoulder like gossiping grandmothers. Every window was a different shade of broken. The streets wound tight, stitched together with hanging laundry and narrow gutters, and behind every door was someone just trying to make it through the day with dignity still intact.

It wasn’t just a neighborhood. It was a heartbeat of London’s slums.

That was where Sarah Nelson, his mother, had gone after she had been kicked out of Sussex by his father, where she still worked by candlelight, in their little cottages hemming noblemen’s shirts she could never afford to touch. Where resistance pamphlets passed hands in bakeries, whispers of the rebellion stirred over dark pints in low taverns. The place was always loud, always alive, always tired.

And it was home.

Nick’s fork slipped against his plate with a soft clatter.

Tao paused. Charlie turned.

Nick’s voice came before he could stop it.

“That’s my neighborhood.”

It silenced everything. Even the breeze seemed to still.

Charlie blinked, surprise flickering across his face—then wonder.

“Really?” he asked, a smile blooming. “What a coincidence! Maybe we’ll pass your street. You can show me where you grew up.”

Nick didn’t answer.

He couldn’t.

Because beneath the warmth in Charlie’s voice—genuine, joyful—Nick felt the weight of something colder rising in his chest.

He was going home.

To the narrow steps and crooked doors.

To his mother’s quiet laughter and the sounds of her sewing late into the night.

But also—

To secret knocks. To familiar eyes in the shadows.

To the undercurrent of the revolution that breathed in those alleyways.

Old Britannia wasn’t just where he came from.

It was where they were. The movement. The plan. The danger.

And now, the prince—the softest boy in England—was heading straight into it.

Nick clenched his jaw, hands curling around the edge of his plate.

He would return home tomorrow.

But not as Nick Nelson, the boy from the slums.

As Sir Nick.

Swordsman to the heir.

The rebel with the crown in his shadow.

And as Charlie turned back to Tao, already discussing times and carriages, Nick watched him with a hollow stillness in his chest.

Chapter Text

The doors to Prince Charlie’s room stood open to the golden breeze of morning. Sunlight poured in through the sheer curtains of the balcony, casting a warm haze across the polished marble floor and the thick navy rug where Nick sat cross-legged, sharpening his blade. The scent of fresh ink, parchment, and the faint tang of orange blossom drifted through the air, mingling with the ever-present whisper of silk rustling in the wind.

Charlie was already deep into his reports at his wide desk , one slippered foot tapping softly under the table. He held a quill between his fingers like it was an extension of his hand. The boy could go from drowsy and delicate to focused and forceful in seconds.

Nick tried not to notice how the light caught on the back of the prince’s neck.

Instead, he focused on the rhythmic rasp of metal against stone. He pulled the whetstone along the blade’s edge again — slow, even. His hand steady.

Christian and Sai sat at the low table near the chessboard, flipping through a book of royal etiquette. Otis had taken up position near the window, pretending to polish his boots but very clearly daydreaming as he looked out into the gardens. They were all at ease in a way they hadn’t been the week before. Like they belonged here now.

Nick didn’t feel that.

He was only just beginning to master the posture of a royal guard, but every inch of him still bristled beneath the sigils sewn into his collar. The polished leather. The carved silver pin of the spring blossom at his chest.

He’d dreamed of infiltrating these walls.

Now he was kneeling on royal rugs.

“Nick,” Charlie called gently without turning. “Where did you say the bakeries were in Old Britannia?”

Nick blinked. “What?”

Charlie glanced over his shoulder with that same boyish curiosity he always wore when asking a question that didn’t seem royal. “The bakeries. Are there many? Or just one?”

Nick hesitated, fingers still on his blade. “There’s two,” he said finally. “One that does decent bread. The other burns everything but sells cheap.”

Charlie hummed thoughtfully, jotting something down.

A beat passed.

“Do the children go to school there?” Charlie asked again, softer this time.

“Some,” Nick said, the edge of his voice sharpening slightly. “When they’re not working.”

Charlie didn’t press. Just nodded again and returned to his papers. But Nick could feel his attention lingering.

Another question came moments later. “Where do people usually gather? For markets. Or… just to talk.”

Nick didn’t answer right away.

He thought of his mother — apron tied over her dress, haggling for turnips. Of David, shoulders stiff beside him in the square where the revolution had whispered in back rooms and behind barrels.

“St. Rhea’s courtyard,” he said eventually. “On Sundays. And in front of the closed fountain near the pawn shop. No one really uses the market stalls. They’re mostly for show.”

Charlie nodded again. Scribbled more notes. “Thank you,” he said quietly. Genuinely.

Nick lowered his eyes.

The reports in front of the prince were nothing like the ones Nick had seen the Republicans steal — those were plans of buildings, troop counts, shipment dates. What Charlie read were complaints about well leaks, arguments between neighbors, proposals to open a second schoolroom in the lower ward.

He tuned out the rustle of reports, the murmurs of Christian asking Sai what post-prandial etiquette meant. Instead, he stared at the slow, steady motion of Charlie’s quill — his delicate script, the way his lips moved as he mouthed each word. He had the bearing of someone born with power but the heart of someone who still hadn’t realized he could break it.

Nick turned away, frowning.

The sun was rising higher, and in a few hours, they’d be back in Old Britannia— the same cracked stone streets he’d grown up on, the same crooked signs and low roofs and smells of roasted grain and hot piss baking in alleys.

And he’d arrive in a polished uniform. A knight. A servant of the monarchy.

He didn’t know how to explain what that felt like.

Will they still recognize me?

Will I recognize myself?

He thought of his mother — of her hands, roughened from work, her laughter echoing in the back of their tiny home. Would she be proud of the polished boots? The glint of silver at his throat?

Would she see the lie he was becoming?

The hourglass in Charlie’s study trickled its final grains as Tao entered, crisp and formal. “Your Highness, the carriage will be ready shortly.”

Charlie looked up from his desk, rubbing the back of his neck. “Thank you, Tao. I’ll get ready.”

Tao turned to the Swords of the Treasure, lined up near the door, their presence now second nature in the room.

“You’ll escort the prince to the carriage,” Tao said, then gave a sharp glance to Otis who was adjusting his collar. “Try not to trip, and don’t get too comfortable in his highness rooms.”

“I’ve only tripped twice,” Otis muttered. “That’s still passing.”

Tao rolled his eyes and gestured for Elle, who entered carrying Charlie’s city outfit.

It was simpler than his court garments — a soft robin’s egg blue tunic with silver embroidery curling around the cuffs like vines, matched with higher riding boots and white gloves. A delicate piece of silver filigree, shaped like a half-crown of spring flowers, was placed in his hair.

Charlie stood still while Elle fastened the last buttons. The moment she stepped back, all four Swords blinked.

He looked like a portrait. Regal without trying. Grace without stiffness.

“I don’t look overdressed, do I?” Charlie asked, self-conscious, adjusting his cuffs.

“You look…” Christian began, clearly searching for the right word.

“Very princely,” Otis offered.

“Impressive,” Sai said simply.

Nick said nothing. But he looked too long.

Charlie caught the gaze and smiled. “Good. Let’s go.”

The carriage was waiting in the lower courtyard, dark polished wood and gold-trimmed glass. The four Swords took formation with practiced ease — Christian up front with the driver, Otis on the rear, Sai and Nick inside with the prince.

The carriage jolted slightly as it began its descent from the palace steps. Nick turned his gaze to the window, eyes trailing along the high stone walls that marked the edge of the royal estate. Guards stood at even intervals, rigid in posture, eyes always watching. That, he thought, was the most complicated part of his plan now — getting the prince out of those walls undetected. He could move freely within the palace grounds now; he knew the layout by heart, knew the prince’s routine better than most. But crossing the border between privilege and danger? That was different. That was where his plan blurred.

The moment the carriage started to move through the streets of the capital, Charlie leaned forward and reopened the folded papers he’d taken from his desk — case studies, neighborhood reports, updates from his father’s ministers. He crossed his legs, one gloved finger tapping at the parchment.

“I was reading about the bathhouses in Old Brittania,” Charlie said, flipping a page. “Apparently, they’ve all been closed for over a year. Is that true?”

Nick blinked. “Yeah. All three. They said they were gonna fix the pipes, but…”

“But?”

“They never did. Said the funding got pulled.”

Charlie frowned, lips pursing slightly. “So where do people bathe?”

Nick’s jaw worked. “Wherever they can. Wells. Rain barrels. Some pay a coin to use a kitchen bucket behind the taverns.”

Charlie looked up. “That can’t be sanitary.”

Nick gave a hollow laugh. “It’s not.”

There was a silence. Charlie looked down again.

“I asked one of the ministers if we could reopen just one bathhouse,” he said. “He said the district doesn’t contribute enough in taxes to justify the expense, and that no businessman wanted to invest in it.”

Nick’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, that’s rich.”

“Why?” Charlie asked, genuinely curious.

“Because they can’t pay taxes,” Nick snapped. “They barely eat! When I was ten, I remember my mum boiling water in a pot just so she could sponge me down. Once a week. That was a good week.”

Charlie blinked, silent. Nick looked away, ashamed at how much he’d said.

Then Charlie asked, quietly, “If you could fix it, how would you?”

Nick hesitated. “It’s not hard. Just open one again. Just one. Let people use it for free. Have someone there to make sure it’s kept clean. Make it public. Free, or cheap enough that no one has to choose between washing and eating.”

Charlie tilted his head. “Not private even if it helps opening more than one bathhouse?”

“Look at what happened with the old ones,” Nick muttered. “Didn’t break down suddenly. But prices shot up until only the factory foremen could afford it. Then people stopped going. Fell into disuse. Then they finally broke.”

Charlie nodded slowly, absorbing that. “So: public. Accessible. And with a worker managing it, not any businessman.”

Nick gave a grim smile. “There’s a first time for everything.”

Charlie nodded. “Good. But who pays that worker?”

Nick paused. “I—well—The Crown!

“The crown relies on public taxes which the district can barely pay, if we had to mantain it we would have to raise them, and what happens when word gets out and people from the next district come too? Do you turn them away?”

Nick shifted, uncomfortable.

Everyone had the right to wash, but if everyone came to Old Britannia, they would not only saturate the public baths, but also saturate the district, making daily life even more difficult for the residents.

He hadn’t thought of that.

He hadn’t thought that far past his own sense of justice — of stripping power from those who abused it. He hadn’t considered what followed. But Charlie had.

Nick looked over, studying him.

The prince’s curls were caught in the breeze from the open window, drifting into his eyes. But he didn’t move to fix them. He was too busy reading, annotating the page in small, looping script. Focused. Intent. Present.

This boy who asked questions like he didn’t already assume answers.

Who listened.

Who wanted to understand.

For the first time, Nick wondered — not whether he could take the prince, but whether he should.

Not just yet.

The wheels rattled harder as the carriage turned off the smooth stone of the inner city and rolled onto something rougher. Uneven. Familiar.

Nick knew that sound before he even looked.

Cobbles worn flat by generations. Moss threading up between cracks. The scent of coal smoke, frying grease, and the river all tangled together in the late-morning air. Old Britannia.

Taverns leaned like crooked teeth between crumbling walls. Wood creaked overhead, where sagging shutters were cracked or missing altogether. Laundry strung between houses danced in the wind like makeshift flags — faded shirts and patched trousers, nightgowns like tattered banners of survival.

Nick sat stiffly, fingers curled into the leather strap across his chest.

He felt it in his bones.

This was home.

But not like this.

Not in polished black boots and royal blue leather. Not with a golden stag stitched across his chest and the weight of a ceremonial blade strapped to his thigh.

It felt like trespassing.

Outside, a ripple had begun — one voice turning into ten, then thirty. Shouts. Then a cheer.

The carriage slowed to a crawl.

Charlie leaned slightly toward the window, his curls catching the sunlight like they always did. “I didn’t expect so many people.”

“Few do,” Nick muttered.

The door was opened for them by one of the guards flanking the carriage. Charlie descended first, his silver-trimmed coat catching the light, his posture perfect but easy, like he wasn’t trying to rule over anyone — just meet them.

The applause was polite at first. Scattered.

People bowed, nodded, some clapped with half-skepticism, half-awe. A few whispered, squinting to make out the figure of the prince up close.

But then—

Nick stepped out.

And the street changed.

Cheers roared up like a fire catching dry leaves.

“Nicholas!”

“Nelson’s boy—look at him!”

“Would ya believe that, it’s our Nick!”

A bent-backed butcher whistled through his fingers. A flower-seller laughed so loud she had to steady herself against her cart. A few kids ducked between legs to get a better look, wide-eyed and gawking.

Nick froze.

For a breath, he didn’t know how to breathe.

He wanted to fold into himself — to run — to smile — to cry. It all hit at once.

Charlie turned, eyebrows raised in clear delight. “Looks like today might be your parade too, Sir Nick.”

Nick’s mouth opened, then closed again.

What was he supposed to say?

Yes, hello, thank you — I’m here in royal silk to kidnap the boy standing beside me?

He managed a tight, wordless nod toward the crowd. A flicker of a smile.

Someone shouted, “Your mum’s going to faint, boy!”

Nick’s throat tightened.

The streets of Old Britannia narrowed as they wove deeper into the heart of the neighborhood. The cobblestones were older here, smoothed by centuries of boots and bare feet. The buildings leaned in close, like gossiping women with secrets tucked under their eaves.

Prince Charlie didn’t seem to mind the claustrophobia of it.

He moved like water through the crowd — smiling, speaking, kneeling to ask a boy his name, shaking a woman’s hand with both of his. “Thank you,” he said often. “Truly.” He listened when an old man ranted about bread prices and nodded when a girl recited a full poem she’d written.

It was… relentless.

Nick followed half a step behind, sword at his hip, eyes always moving.

Not because he was worried about the crowd — not exactly.

Because he knew who might be hiding in it.

And when they turned past the old corner bakery — the one that always smelled like burnt crust and yeast — he saw him.

David.

Leaning against a brick wall like a shadow peeled from the stone. Arms crossed. Eyes burning.

Nick stopped moving.

David didn’t wave. He didn’t smile.

He just looked — first at Nick, then slowly, sharply, at the prince.

Charlie took a few more steps before he realized Nick had stopped.

“Something wrong?” Charlie asked, glancing back over his shoulder, curls catching again in the breeze.

Nick’s jaw flexed. “Just… a familiar face.”

Charlie’s gaze flicked forward. Then back to Nick. “A friend?”

Nick didn’t answer.

He stepped forward instead — deliberately, like walking into a fire.

David met him halfway, slinking from the shadows, boots silent on stone.

“Well,” David said dryly, eyes raking down the royal blue uniform. “Look at you.”

“David,” Nick said, low and quiet. “What are you doing here?”

David shrugged. “I live here. You remember what that’s like?”

Nick’s nostrils flared. “Did you get the letter?”

“Got it.” David’s gaze cut once more to the prince, now speaking to a child crouched near a stack of apples. “Didn’t expect a parade.”

Nick’s voice was low. “You shouldn’t be here.”

David’s gaze flicked past him toward Charlie, who was currently accepting a braid of flowers from a little girl. “Why not? It’s my neighborhood. And now my brother’s leading royalty through it.”

Nick didn’t respond.

David leaned in slightly. “You said you’d handle this.”

“I am,” Nick answered. “It’s only been a week.”

David’s eyes sharpened. “And already you’re knighted. At his side. I see how he looks at you.”

Nick glanced back briefly — Charlie had moved on, now speaking with an elderly man sitting on a stoop.

“He trusts you,” David said, with a hint of something almost like disgust. “Be careful not to forget why you’re here.”

“I haven’t,” Nick snapped. “But this isn’t the time.”

David hummed. “It might be.”

Nick’s heart thudded once, hard. “Don’t.”

But David’s eyes were no longer on him. They were on the prince again — tracking every step with cold, analytical hatred.

Charlie had noticed them now. Not the hostility, not yet. Just the pause. The distance.

He turned and began to approach, expression soft and curious.

David smiled then — but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Well,” he murmured, “maybe this visit won’t be such a waste after all.”

A cold shiver laced down Nick’s spine.

David was thinking of something…he was a rebel, and he had his main target here, in his territory.

Maybe Nick should be thrilled with the possibility of achieving his mission earlier than expected

But not here.

Not now.

Not in front of him, and seriously, he deserved this, he had been working to destroy the monarchy for as long as his brother, he deserved to be the one to give the “coup de grâce”

Charlie arrived with his usual poise — easy on the outside, but Nick could see the questions dancing just beneath his features.

“Hello,” Charlie said gently. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

Nick cleared his throat. “Your Highness… this is my brother. David.”

Charlie’s face brightened with polite warmth. “A pleasure to meet you. Nick’s spoken highly of his family.”

David tilted his head. “Has he?”

His tone wasn’t rude. Not quite. But there was something just under it — a dryness, a thrum of challenge.

Charlie’s posture didn’t change, but his smile cooled by a single degree. “Yes. He’s been a loyal companion.”

David’s eyes flicked to Nick, then back to Charlie. “Well,” he said. “Let’s hope he stays that way.”

Nick stepped between them slightly, tension bristling.

Charlie didn’t look away from David. But he didn’t push, either. “Enjoy your day,” he said, the royal mask slipping gently back into place.

Then he turned to continue the walk, nodding once to Nick — a silent signal to follow.

Nick lingered one second longer, locking eyes with his brother. There was no more to say.

Not here.

Not now.

He turned and followed the prince, his steps heavy.

Behind them, David watched — and did not smile.

The sun had melted behind the rooftops of Old Britannia, and the air was cooling fast. The long summer day was finally giving in to dusk.

Charlie, for his part, looked flushed but content, his curls pushed from his face, sleeves rolled as he gave his final thank-yous to the last line of townspeople. There were hugs from children, nods from elderly men, even the quiet gift of a hand-woven ribbon tied to his wrist.

The Swords of the Treasure stood in formation as they always did — Sai nearest to Charlie, Otis and Christian watching the perimeter, and Nick at the rear, gaze never still.

The crowd began to thin.

The carriage was waiting at the end of the street.

A boy shouted, “Long live the Prince!” and Charlie smiled, waving one last time before entering the carriage. Nick and Otis following him inside, and Sai in the back, on the rear and Christian next to the coachman.

The carriage rocked gently as it rolled away from the heart of Old Britannia, wheels clattering over worn cobblestone. The smell of soot, spice, and summer dust still lingered in the air, following them like a farewell.

Inside the carriage, it was unusually quiet.

Charlie sat back against the velvet-lined seat, one arm slung over the edge, the woven ribbon a child had gifted him still tied around his wrist. His curls were slightly tousled from the heat of the day, and a small sheen of sweat clung to the nape of his neck.

Nick sat directly across from him, gaze unfixed — looking past Charlie, past the velvet curtains fluttering at the windows, out to the narrow streets slipping by. Home, his blood whispered. But not like this.

Otis was beside him, tapping his fingers on his knee like a drum. The boy could never sit still for long.

“Well,” Otis said suddenly, breaking the hush, “I think the little old lady who gave me a scone wants to marry me.”

Charlie chuckled softly, head tipping back. “Was it the one who asked if your arms were real?”

“Yes,” Otis grinned. “She said they looked ‘chiseled.’ I said ‘heritage,’ and she looked like she was about to faint.”

Even Nick cracked a smile.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Sai called from outside, his voice entering from the little window in the back of the carriage. “She asked me if I was married first.”

“You’re married to your sword,” Otis called back.

Nick let the laughter hum past him. But something in his stomach was off. A coil tightening, imperceptibly. The laughter felt too easy. The quiet that followed, too loud.

Charlie glanced at him. “You alright, Nick?”

Nick blinked. “Yeah. Just thinking, it’s just crazy to look back one week ago and now.”

They passed a familiar square. A cracked water fountain. An old churchyard. A man on the corner lighting a pipe — he looked up too quickly and ducked away.

Nick’s jaw set.

Charlie continued, oblivious, eyes still on the ribbon at his wrist. “I hope we made a good impression today.”

“You did,” Nick answered without thinking. And he meant it.

But something—

Something shifted.

The carriage wheels shuddered. Just a little. Barely a bump. Nick’s boot slid slightly on the floor.

“What was that?” Otis asked, half-sitting forward.

Sai’s voice, outside: “We hit something—maybe a rut—hold steady—”

The carriage creaked again. Another jolt. This one sharper.

Charlie sat up properly now, eyes flicking toward the window. “What’s going on?”

“Stay seated,” Nick said tightly. His muscles were coiled now, spine straight. “Wait.”

Another sound.

CRACK.

Like wood splitting.

The horses screamed.

Then — the jarring lurch. The entire carriage rocked sideways, wood groaning as the front wheel dipped violently. Charlie slid forward, catching himself with a startled yelp.

“Outside!” Sai’s voice snapped from the front. “We’ve got movement—!”

Shouts. Echoes in the alley. Metal striking something hard.

Otis shoved open the curtain. “What the—?”

Something hit the side of the carriage — a thud — a crack. A sharp spray of splinters.

Nick was already halfway up.

“Shields up!” Sai barked from beyond.

Another stone. Another cry.

Nick’s heart slammed against his ribs. He turned, eyes flicking across the tight walls of Old Britannia. They were in the lower quarter now. The tighter streets. Too tight.

It was a funnel.

And the air—

The air had gone wrong. Thick. Stifled. Like it was holding something back.

A figure darted between doorways.

A whistle. Then another.

Nick’s breath caught.

Oh no.

Nick knew.

His blood went ice-cold. His lungs held air like it was too sharp to breathe.

Because he’d walked this street too many times. And he knew that if you struck from behind the tailor’s courtyard, it wasn’t to scare. It was to corner.

And if you heard two whistles, it meant—

Ambush.

He didn’t think. He couldn’t.

“David…” he muttered.

Another shout rang out. Another stone.

Charlie was looking around, confused but not yet afraid. “What’s—?”

“Follow me — now!” Nick’s voice cracked across the chaos.

He didn’t look for permission. Didn’t wait for protocol.

He grabbed Charlie’s wrist, tugging him out of the carriage just as another projectile clattered off the roof with a metallic clang.

“Wha—Nick?!” Charlie gasped, stumbling forward.

Nick shielded him with his body, pulling him into the shadows of the alley. “Stay behind me,” he ordered, too firm for argument. He didn’t even think about it — not about the risk, not about the touch, not about the fire racing in his chest. Just: Get him safe.

“Now!” he barked again to the others. “Get the prince out of here!”

Otis spun on instinct, sword half-drawn. “What the fuck is happening?”

“Trap.” Nick said. “This is a trap.”

Sai was already flanking them, one arm protectively pushing Charlie forward, the other on the hilt of his blade. “We’re surrounded.”

“Not if we move.” Nick barked. “I know this area. There’s a turnoff behind the butcher’s stall — it connects to old tram paths. We can lose them.”

Christian cursed low. “Are you sure?”

“No,” Nick snapped. “But I’m right.”

They didn’t question him again.

Something had changed.

In that instant — blades drawn, adrenaline surging — the Swords weren’t four strangers bound by formality and ritual.

They were a unit.

They moved as one.

Otis swept back to cover their exit. Christian slipped ahead, scanning rooftops, his eyes sharp and fast. Sai pressed closer to Charlie, adjusting their pace with practiced ease.

Nick stayed closest to the prince, his body always between Charlie and danger, never once letting go of his hand.

“Do not fall behind,” Nick hissed. “Do not stop.”

Charlie didn’t answer. He ran.

His breath came quick, curls bouncing with each step, silver jacket gleaming faintly in the moonlight — a beacon Nick tried desperately to protect. He was trembling. Nick could feel it in the grip of their joined hands.

They ducked into a narrower street. Somewhere behind, a voice shouted again — angry, guttural. The clatter of boots.

“Cut through the fish market!” Nick called.

“Where even is the fish market?!” Otis yelled.

“Left!”

They turned. Flashes of memory assaulted Nick — this alley, where he once begged for bread. That window, where a rebel banner had flown last winter. This corner, where he kissed someone in the dark when he was fifteen and furious and alone.

He wasn’t thinking like a guard anymore.

He was thinking like someone who knew these streets better than he knew himself.

And still, he held onto Charlie’s wrist, guiding him forward. His breath was ragged now, and Charlie was slowing.

Nick risked a look.

The prince was pale. His chest rose too quickly. He was scared. Not of them — of being hunted.

“Almost there,” Nick muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “Just a bit further. There’s a shortcut. It leads straight to—”

He stopped.

Charlie looked up, panting. “To where?”

Nick met his gaze, jaw clenched.

To home, he thought.

But he said only: “Just trust me.”

They ran until the streets bled into stone courtyards, until light faded and doorways blurred, and Nick’s pulse slowed only once they reached the crooked little house, half-swallowed by ivy and worn by time.

Nick stopped in front of the door. His chest heaved once. Twice. He raised his hand.

Knock. Knock.

A pause.

The wooden latch creaked.

And then the door opened.

“Nick—?”

Her voice was small. Tired. But it hit him like a brick wall.

Sarah Nelson stood in the doorway in a faded apron, fingers still stained with thread. Her eyes found his face, and for a second, she didn’t move.

“Hi, Mum,” Nick said.

Then her eyes drifted over his shoulder—and landed on Prince Charlie.

Her knees wobbled.

“Oh,” she breathed.

Nick moved quickly. “We didn’t have anywhere else to go. It’s not—there was an attack. We were—”

But Sarah stepped aside, already ushering them in.

“Inside. Quickly.”

They ducked through the low arch of the doorway, into the cottage’s warm, narrow belly. The scent of stewed lentils and rosemary lingered in the air. Fabric was folded in tidy stacks on every shelf, pinned dresses hanging from hooks on the walls. A small fire crackled at the hearth. There was barely space to move.

She looked at Nick—really looked at him—and her hands flew to his cheeks.

“Oh my God, my boy,” she whispered, pressing her fingers to the side of his face. “Look at you—how handsome you are—how tall! You’ve grown even more, what have they been feeding you up there?”

“Mum,” he mumbled, but he let her pull him down and kiss his temple.

“And this coat!” She tugged at his collar. “All this embroidery—real silver thread, my word—Nicky, my son in real noble gold. I didn’t even get to see you when they knighted you, and today I was finishing a commission, but I—”

Her words died.

Her eyes shifted past him.

To the boy standing uncertainly in the doorway, still catching his breath, silver curls clinging to his forehead, cheeks pink from the cold and panic.

Sarah blinked, the realization dawning in full.

“Oh,” she said again, but this time she dipped her knees, lowering her head and folding her hands over her apron in a trembling curtsy.

Charlie’s eyes widened like she’d shouted.

“Oh no, please—please, don’t do that, there’s no need—”

She rose slowly, eyes still on him.

“My prince,” she said softly. “Welcome to our home.”

Charlie tried a bow in return, awkward and crooked. “Th-thank you. Um. Miss Nelson, is it?”

She waved a hand and smiled. “Sarah. Just Sarah. Please.”

Charlie’s smile melted into something tender. “Then—thank you, Sarah. You’re very kind to let us barge in like this.”

She shook her head with disbelief. “I just can’t believe I’m seeing you in my doorway. You! All clean cheeks and curls and wrapped in silk. I made curtains this morning for a baroness who gossips about you over tea and now—now you’re here.”

Charlie looked bashfully down at his boots.

Sarah turned to Nick and slapped his shoulder lightly. “And you! Are you taking care of this boy? Look how sweet he is.”

“Mum,” Nick hissed through his teeth, ears burning.

“I’m serious,” she said with a hand on her hip. Then back to Charlie: “You have a beautiful spirit, Your Highness. You’ve always been spoken about as kind. I hope my boy is worthy to be near you.”

Charlie gave a quiet, earnest nod. “He’s more than worthy. He’s—he’s saved me, more than once.”

Nick blinked. His ears burned hotter.

Sarah wasn’t done. She rounded on Charlie again, hands fluttering like she couldn’t decide whether to brush dust off his shoulders or fix his curls.

“And you—look at you! I thought all those portraits in the gazettes were painted prettier than truth, but no—you’re really like this. All softness and eyes like a lake under moonlight. And your smile—oh, what a smile you have, Your Highness.”

Charlie’s cheeks turned pinker than the dying coals in the hearth.

Nick made a soft, strangled sound behind her. “Mum…”

But she wasn’t listening. She was beaming at the prince, now holding his hand like he was something made of gold.

“And so gentle with it too. I can’t believe you’re in my cottage—my house! Nicky, go to the pantry, we will need more candles lit. And flowers. And—oh my stars, I forgot to change the drapes this week!”

“Mum.”

Charlie gave her hand a small squeeze, then let it go with the same quiet dignity he carried through palace corridors.

“Please,” he said softly, “don’t worry. This is already more than I expected. And it’s beautiful.”

Sarah flushed, laughing nervously as she turned toward the far corner. “Well, I was going to light the second candle, I swear it—I just didn’t want to waste the wax unless absolutely needed…”

“It’s not needed,” Charlie said, and the way he said it made her pause.

He didn’t pity her. He just meant it. And she understood.

The fire crackled softly behind them.

There was a brief silence. Then Charlie turned to Nick and said, quietly, “What do we do now?”

Nick crossed his arms, eyes flickering to the shuttered windows. “I—I don’t know. The attack was so sudden. There’s no telling what the goal was. Could’ve been a warning. Could’ve been worse.”

Sai shifted in the cramped space. “We need to wait it out. Or at least until we know it’s safe, we don’t know what has happened to the rest of the guards that were following the carriage.”

Sarah had already started moving toward her small shelf of crockery. “If you’re waiting here, you’ll wait on full stomachs. Look at you—shivering and half-starved.” She arched a brow at the prince perched by her hearth. “Your Highness, have you eaten anything since dawn?”

Charlie flushed and glanced to the rest of the boys, Otis opened his mouth—then his stomach beat him to it with a guttural growl.

Everyone turned.

He flushed. “Sorry.”

Christian laughed under his breath. “You had one job, Otis.”

“I’m sorry! It betrayed me.”

Sarah smiled. “That’s settled, then.”

She moved with practiced hands, setting out a small pot of vegetable stew and cutting thick slices of bread from a day-old loaf. She laid the pieces on a cloth instead of plates and apologized every other word.

“I’m so sorry, Your Highness. I didn’t know you were coming—I don’t have meat tonight, or butter, or wine—”

Prince Charlie looked at her with a soft smile, and looked at Sarah in the eyes “Please, Sarah, don’t apologize. This already feels like midsummer banquet compared to the carriage rattling my teeth out. Truly, and it is enough invading your space, even more eating your food.”

“You are not invading anything my Prince, there is no way I’m letting my son and all of you go out if they have tried to ambush you” answered Sarah gracefully.

Charlie, seated on the bench beside the fire, leaned forward with that same earnest gleam in his eyes.

“It’s perfect,” he said. “It smells wonderful.”

And when he tried it, his eyes lit up.

“It is wonderful.”

Sarah pressed a hand to her chest, her eyes shining. “You don’t have to be sweet, but thank you.”

The boys sat on stools or the floor—the great, gallant Swords of the Treasure packed like sardines into a seamstress’s front room, chewing on bread, soup warming their fingers.

The warmth wasn’t just from the fire anymore.

It was in the stew between their hands. The closeness of their shoulders. The quiet understanding that they were safe — for now.

But the question lingered, unsaid, hovering above them like the rafters.

What now?

Nick was the one to speak first.

“I’ll go,” he said.

Four heads turned toward him.

Nick set his bowl down, fingers tightening slightly. “I’ll change into something less… royal. Move through the streets like I used to. No one will look twice if I keep my head low. I’ll ask around.”

Sarah’s eyes widened, halfway through pouring more soup into Christian’s bowl. “You’re not going out there again, Nicky.”

“I know the way,” Nick said gently. “I know the people. If there’s more planned — if this was just a spark — I’ll hear it before it catches.”

Charlie set his spoon down. “But it’s too dangerous. You saw what just happened. They were throwing rocks at the carriage. You—”

Nick met his eyes. “That’s why I should go.”

The prince opened his mouth. Closed it. For a moment, he looked like he might stand.

His hand twitched on the table.

Sarah stepped in, speaking before Charlie could. “His old things are still upstairs. In the chest at the foot of the bed. I couldn’t bear to throw them away. Guess a mother always keeps things, even when her boy grows too tall for them.”

Nick looked at her, and for a heartbeat, his expression softened. “Thanks, Mum.”

Charlie stood abruptly. “At least let us wait up for you. I—I want to know when you’re back safe.”

“You don’t need to—”

“I want to,” Charlie said. Then added, quieter, “If that’s alright.”

Sarah gave him a fond look, one brow raised. “You can do whatever you want my Prince, I know this isn’t the palace, but you are welcome to it as if it was your own house.”

Charlie flushed.

She smiled. “And for the rest of the night, you can rest in Nick’s old room. It’s not much, but the mattress is soft. I’ve kept it clean. Thought maybe he could sleep here when they start giving him some time off duty.”

“Are you sure?” Charlie asked, suddenly sheepish. “I don’t want to be an imposition.”

“You’re not,” she said, already moving toward the corner to fetch a worn blanket from a shelf. “You’re just another boy under this roof tonight. And I think it does my heart good to see you care for my son.”

Nick paused halfway to standing.

His ears burned.

Charlie, still flushed, looked away.

Nick run to his old room, and found his old clothes right there, he had gained a little bit of weight and muscle in just a little bit more of the one week he had been in the Palace, thanks to Miss Miriam meals, but he pulled them over, looked at his reflection in the window and saw again Nick, the rebel, the boy, not the Sword or the knight. Then, he came down as quickly as he had gone up, and went directly to the door.

“I’ll try to be quick,” Nick muttered.

He turned toward the stairs, but Charlie called softly after him.

“Nick.”

He stopped.

Charlie didn’t say anything for a moment. Just looked at him, worry carved deep in his features. Then:

“Be careful.”

Nick held his gaze. “Always, my prince.”

Chapter Text

Nick’s boots barely made a sound on the uneven stones of Old Britannia.

The streets were darker here. No grand lanterns or sweeping gaslights like in the upper districts. Just flickers of firelight leaking from crooked windows, the dim hum of whispered conversation behind warped doors, and the occasional clatter of hooves far off down a deeper alley. Nick knew these sounds. They’d raised him.

He moved fast, hood pulled low, his polished leathers long replaced by the worn, familiar weight of his old clothes. Faded tunic. Frayed boots. The fabric scratched against his skin in a way that almost comforted him.

His mind raced harder than his steps.

You saved him. You shielded him. What are you doing?

I kept him alive. I just wanted to do it my way, that’s all. That’s still part of the plan.

Is it?

The prince’s voice echoed faintly in his mind, too warm. The soft pressure of Charlie’s hand in his, the way he’d looked up at him when they ran — trusting, afraid, radiant.

Nick clenched his jaw and ducked under a low-hanging cloth banner, barely catching the painted stag sigil half scratched away on its surface. A few more turns, a familiar alleyway, and he reached the place — a crumbling wall at the base of the Green Hart Tavern, one of the oldest in Old Britannia. A single lantern swayed above a cellar door, casting a yellow light onto the stones.

He raised his hand.

Knock-knock. Knock. Pause. Knock-knock-knock.

The rhythm hadn’t changed. The rebellion might burn down palaces, but it respected tradition.

A slot in the door scraped open.

Two eyes stared out, sharp and suspicious. Then widened.

“Nick?”

One of the scouts pulled the door open immediately. “Shit, it really is you.”

“Back from the dead,” muttered the other, stepping aside.

Nick gave no reply, just lowered his hood and descended into the darkness.

The scent hit first — stale ale, damp stone, sweat. Then the low murmurs, scattered around the room like smoke. About a dozen people were gathered in the underground cellar, seated on mismatched crates and worn benches. Lanterns hung from the beams above, casting the rebels in shadow and gold.

When Nick entered, silence rolled through like thunder.

He didn’t flinch.

He walked the length of the room, every pair of eyes trained on him — some wary, some confused, some outright hostile. A week gone. A week in the palace. A week knighted.

He reached the center of the chamber, where the makeshift council sat — a trio of rebel leaders behind a battered table. David stood near the edge, arms crossed, expression carved from stone.

Nick met his brother’s eyes.

“What the fuck is this?” he demanded, his voice a whip-crack in the silence. “A week without a word, and you show up today, with him, and dressed like a damned noble? And what the hell, you really saved him?!”

Nick didn’t flinch. He walked further in, tossing back the hood of his worn jacket, revealing the sharp contrast between his fine leather boots and the grime still on his hands.

“Sit down, David,” he said coolly. “I came to report.”

Someone else — a younger rebel from the sidelines — muttered, “If he even still remembers the mission.”

Nick’s eyes snapped to them. “You think I’ve forgotten?” His voice rose, iron-hot. “You think I didn’t feel it when I had to bow to the bastard king when he was knighting me?

His voice cracked, not from weakness, but from fury. “You sent me to do this. You asked me to get close to him — and I have. Closer than anyone.”

Imogen raised an eyebrow. “Then why does it feel like you’ve gotten too comfortable?”

“I haven’t,” Nick snapped. “I’m working the plan. He trusts me. I know the palace layout — the guards, the schedules, the doors. I can take him out of there in a heartbeat. I just need more time, I’ve only been there for less than two weeks.”

Harry leaned forward, hands clasped. “And why haven’t you yet?”

Nick’s jaw clenched. “Because timing matters. Because getting caught would destroy everything. Because I’m not risking the movement on a half-baked plan.”

He paused, letting the weight of his next words hang.

“You sent me to the lion’s den. Let me finish what I started.”

The silence lingered. Imogen tapped her fingers thoughtfully.

“He’s passionate,” she said lightly. “I’ll give him that. But is he still one of us?”

David’s jaw ticked. “You’re wearing their crest,” he said bitterly. “You eat from their plates. Sleep in their gilded beds. Don’t lie to us — something’s changed.”

Nick took a step forward, his voice low. “You’re right. Something has.”

Everyone stilled.

He looked straight at Harry, then Imogen, then David.

“He’s not what we thought. He’s smart. It’s not just taking a soft, useless and clueless boy out of the palace—”

David scoffed. “Oh for gods’ sake—”

“But,” Nick continued, louder now, “he’s still a prince. And that makes him dangerous. That makes him powerful. And that’s why I have to stay close. That’s why I will finish this. You want intel? I’ve got it. You want a plan? I have one, but you can’t just keep messing, what you did today was reckless, an ambush like that? By tomorrow they would have the entire zone Burned to the grounds to find him.”

He took a breath, steadying his fury.

“I’ve been loyal to this cause longer than half the people in this room. Don’t you dare question my dedication just because I know how to play my role.”

A long beat.

Harry sat back slowly in his chair. “Very well,” he said. “Then tell us. What have you learned?”

Nick’s eyes flicked across the table. Shadows danced on the stone walls, flickering over faces he’d once trusted without hesitation. Ben Hope sat near the end — quiet, sharp-eyed, and silent. There was something unreadable in his gaze. Caution. Or perhaps doubt.

Nick cleared his throat.

“The palace is a cage made of gold,” he said. “But a cage still. They think their walls make them untouchable. They’re wrong.”

He began to pace — slow, steady. The firelight caught the edge of his leather coat, making it gleam like ceremonial armor. A rebel disguised as a knight.

“The prince usually has his lessons in the morning, or goes to the council, in the evenings he has free time, or other ceremonial events. Me and the rest of the Swords stay with him almost all the time, they have even put a couch in his room so we can be with him. As incredible as it sounds, His Royal—”

He hesitated, he had accepted to call the prince by his tittle in just one week but he knew it was weird for the whole rebellion to refer to him so highly.

“Charlie.”

The name slipped out. Too natural. Too… soft.

David noticed. His jaw flexed.

Nick went on. “He’s more popular among the servants than the rest of them combined. He doesn’t rule — not yet — but they already adore him. You have seen him in Old Britannia today. He walked the streets like he wasn’t afraid. Like he wanted to listen.”

“And?” Harry asked. “What’s he like?”

A few snickers rippled down the table. But Harry wasn’t mocking. He was testing.

Nick crossed his arms. “He’s clever. Young. But not naive like we thought. He asks questions. Not out of suspicion — out of care. I’ve never seen a noble look a kitchen maid in the eyes and remember her name.”

Someone else muttered, “I never thought I would hear those words from one of the Nelsons.”

Nick turned, gaze cold.

“You want me to hate him?” he snapped. “Fine. Hate’s easy. But I’m not here to play pretend. I’m here to take down a system. And to do that, I have to understand how it breathes. Right now, he’s the lungs. Every heartbeat in that palace flows through him — he’s the heir, he is even more protected than the king himself. He’s the future. You want to collapse the monarchy? You collapse him.”

Silence followed.

Imogen, who had been silent until now, finally spoke. “So? When?”

Nick looked at her. Then at David.

“Not yet.”

David scoffed. “Of course.”

“Not because I can’t,” Nick said, louder now. “But because if I move too early, we lose. There are still things I don’t know — plans I haven’t placed. I need more time. I need to figure out how to escape from the palace with him.

Harry exchanged a glance with Imogen, then nodded.

Ben leaned forward, elbows on the table at last.

“And how close are you to him?” he asked quietly.

Nick froze for a half-second. His voice dropped.

“Close enough.”

Ben held his stare. “Good. Just remember who you’re there for, Nick. Not for him. For us.”

Nick gave a sharp nod. “I haven’t forgotten.”

But the words rang hollow in his ears. Because he had — for a moment. In the candlelit hush of a country home, under Charlie’s soft voice and steady eyes. For just a moment, he had forgotten everything but him.

The cold night air wrapped around Nick like a second skin as he stepped out from the meeting chamber. The familiar alleys of Old Britannia had gone quieter now, but there was still a current running under the cobblestones — tension humming like a wire stretched too tight.

David followed.

Their boots echoed in tandem for a while before David broke the silence.

“I’ll go with you,” he said, too casually. “Back to the house.”

Nick’s stride didn’t falter, but his shoulders did.

“No.”

David frowned. “Why not?”

Nick exhaled hard through his nose, keeping his eyes fixed ahead.

“It’s not safe,” he said.

“For who?”

Nick didn’t answer.

David stepped in front of him, forcing him to stop. The streetlamp behind them cast long shadows over their faces.

“It’s him, isn’t it?” David’s voice dropped. “He’s at Mum’s.”

Nick didn’t deny it. That was all the answer David needed.

His mouth curled, not quite into a smile. More like the ghost of one.

“You brought the prince to our fucking home?”

Nick stepped forward, voice low and hard. “I didn’t have a choice.”

“There’s always a choice,” David shot back. “You just made the wrong one.”

Nick’s jaw clenched. “He was in danger. We were surrounded. If I hadn’t moved, we might all be dead.”

“And now we’re what? Babysitting royalty?”

David turned away, dragging a hand through his hair, the rage pulsing off him like heat. “You’re insane. We should take him now. You, me, a handful of the lads — the swords are only boys. You could’ve told me earlier. We could’ve stormed the house.”

“And what?” Nick snapped. “Made Mum watch as her home becomes a battleground? You want her to see you kill someone on her floor?”

David’s eyes burned. “You’ve gone soft.”

“I’m being smart.”

Nick stepped closer, crowding his brother’s space now, voice lowering.

“You heard the council. This is my plan. I get him out clean. Controlled. No blood, no scandal, no failure.”

David stared at him like he didn’t recognize him. Like the brother he’d known had been washed out under royal silks and silver collars.

“Tomorrow,” Nick said. “I’ll return to the palace with him. And I don’t want to see anyone from the movement near our house until then. No men. No signals. No sudden visits.”

David didn’t respond.

“I mean it,” Nick said. “If anything goes wrong—if anyone tries anything—I’ll make damn sure it comes back to you, I’m not having the royal guard massacring our Neighbourhood just because of your impatience.”

David’s fists were clenched at his sides.

“Be careful, brother,” he said finally. “Don’t forget which side you’re on.”

Nick didn’t answer.

He just walked past him. Alone.

The wind stirred around his coat. The night stretched on ahead.

And behind him, his brother didn’t follow.

The crooked rooftops of Old Britannia loomed overhead, dark and slumped like sleeping giants as he returned. Nick crossed the last alley in near silence, feet careful over familiar stones. His old boots made less sound than his polished ones. He could see the warm amber flicker through the window before he reached the door — a sliver of candlelight stretching over the ground like a welcome, or a warning.

He hesitated only a moment before lifting the latch and stepping inside.

The warmth hit him first — not just from the hearth, but from the soft voices and gentle laughter that wrapped the air in comfort.

The scene that met him froze him mid-step.

Prince Charlie was seated on a wooden stool, bent forward slightly as Sarah knelt beside a low basket. She was holding up a half-sewn gown, blue thread still hanging loose from the hem. Charlie’s eyes were wide with wonder, fingers brushing the fabric.

“This is beautiful,” Charlie said, soft and honest.

Sarah blushed as if she were twenty again. “Oh, thank you, my prince. It’s nothing fancy.”

“No Sarah, it is done so well, I have seen my fair share of dresses in royal balls, and this doesn’t envy any of them” Charlie replied, meaning it.

The moment stretched a breath longer—until they both noticed him in the doorway.

The Swords stirred. Otis straightened from where he’d been leaning against the wall. Sai stepped forward slightly. Sarah turned, her face brightening.

“Nicky!” she exclaimed, already halfway to her feet.

But Charlie got there first.

He stood abruptly and crossed the room, the loose sleeves of his tunic fluttering. Before Nick could say a word, Charlie reached up and cupped Nick’s face between his hands.

“Are you fine?” Charlie asked, voice tight with concern. “Are you hurt?”

Nick’s breath caught. He wasn’t used to being touched like this. Not gently. Not… like this.

His face went crimson.

“No, my prince,” he managed, voice rough. “Don’t worry. I’m fine.”

Charlie’s shoulders relaxed as if he’d been holding up the sky himself.

Sai approached next, his tone clipped but concerned. “Is everything clear?”

Nick nodded. “Yes. I think it was some group of disturbers, but I’ve been roaming. It seems like things have calmed. Still…” He glanced at Sarah. “I don’t think we should leave now. Not tonight. If it’s alright with you, mum, I think we should stay here and return in the morning.”

Charlie, ever the prince, immediately began, “Oh no, I wouldn’t want to impose—”

But Sarah cut him off with a firm smile. “No way. Of course you’re staying here. Don’t be silly.” She cast a glance toward the stairs. “You can sleep here, your royal highness, and I’m sure we can make room in Nick’s old room for the rest, the only problem would be the beds, and I don’t know if David is going to come back to sleep here tonight.”

“He won’t” He said furiously thinking that they couldn’t use David’s bed, his mum didn’t know where he was and would want to keep David’s bed made.

Sarah looked at him as if she didn’t believed him and said “Really? Have you seen him? Seriously sometimes he just disappears and I never hear him coming back to the house”

”I just saw him in a pub, he will pass the night there” Nick tried to shove importance off by saying “Now we have to focus on resting”

Otis grinned from his corner. “I can sleep on the floor if I must. I once slept in a barrel for a week.”

Nick smirked. “We’ll figure something out.”

A pause settled over the room — not awkward, but heavy with something else. Gratitude. Relief. Something unspoken.

Charlie looked at Nick again, those moonlight eyes bright even in the dim cottage light.

“Thank you, you are the best protector Nick” he said quietly. And then, standing on tiptoe — because Nick towered over him by at least a foot — he pressed a soft kiss to Nick’s forehead.

Nick froze.

His ears burned.

His chest… did something it shouldn’t have.

Charlie pulled back, seemingly unaware of the fire he left behind. He returned to the stool, brushing his palms down his tunic.

Nick, desperate for air — or at least to unstick the atmosphere — cleared his throat and gestured toward the basket of fabric.

“Well,” he asked, trying to sound casual. “What were you two doing?”

Charlie, still standing by the little stool, turned his face back to Nick with a quiet kind of smile — one that made the corners of his eyes crinkle.

“Your mother was showing me her pieces,” he said, almost reverently. “I call them pieces of art. She brushes it off, but honestly—” he glanced at Sarah, who was already fluttering her hands in protest, “—they’re beautiful. Truly. Nick, she’s an artist.”

Nick gave a crooked half-smile, looking over at Sarah. “Yeah,” he said, his voice low. “I’ve been telling her that my whole life.”

Sarah swatted the air gently like she could dismiss both their compliments at once, but her cheeks were pink.

“Oh, hush now,” she muttered. “You’re both being too kind. I’m just a seamstress with nimble fingers and too much thread.”

“And talent,” Charlie added softly.

Sarah’s eyes flicked between them, lingering on her son. Her gaze grew watery, but she didn’t let a tear fall.

“Well,” she said after a pause, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, “even though I wish we could have seen each other in… different circumstances, I’m glad to see you. Just one week apart and I’ve missed you so much, Nicky.”

Nick lowered his gaze, jaw flexing. He stepped closer to her, resting a hand lightly on her shoulder.

“I’ve missed you too, Mum.”

She smiled through the shimmer in her eyes, lifting a hand to touch his cheek — like she still wasn’t quite convinced he was real.

“Now that you’re here,” she said, straightening herself a little, “maybe in the morning I can make you a few things. A new coat, perhaps. You’ll need it — the air’s already sharpening. Autumn will come fast this year.”

Nick chuckled gently. “Don’t worry about it. Palace has everything I need.”

“But I don’t.” Her voice dropped to a hush. “Let me do this for you.”

There was a long, warm silence as the fire popped in the hearth.

“Even after only a week,” Nick murmured, barely audible, “I’ve missed you too.”

Then, as if a thread had tugged between her thoughts and his, Charlie’s face lit up with a new idea.

“Wait,” he said suddenly, turning back to Sarah. “You work on commission, don’t you?”

Sarah blinked at him, startled. “Well… yes, my prince, I do.”

Charlie’s smile bloomed like a secret being told. He stood straighter, excitement lighting his features in a way that made him look younger — no, not younger, freer.

“I’ve had an idea,” he said, folding his hands behind his back. “Something that would allow us to collaborate properly.”

Sarah blinked. “Collaborate?”

Nick looked between them, brow furrowed. “You mean—what do you mean?”

Charlie turned to Sarah, voice bright with mischief. “I want to place an order.”

“An order?” Sarah and Nick echoed at once.

Charlie nodded firmly. “Yes. There are still four months until the Winter Royal Ball—just before Christmas. It’s one of the most important events of the season, and…” he took a breath, as if already picturing it, “I would love to wear one of your designs, Sarah.”

Sarah’s mouth opened and closed. Her hands flew to her chest.

“The Winter Royal Ball?” she whispered. “That’s… that’s…”

“A nightmare to plan,” Charlie teased, then softened. “But yes. It’s the highest formal celebration before the new year. And I’ve seen your work — I want something different. Something with heart.”

“My prince, I— I couldn’t possibly…”

“But I insist.”

There was a long pause. Sarah flushed from cheek to ear, mouth trembling.

“Well… of course, Your Highness. I—I’d be honored.”

But Charlie wasn’t done. He turned to the rest of the room, sweeping his gaze over the four boys.

“And,” he added, with a nod, “I’d like you to design something for each of my guards as well.”

“What?” Otis said, nearly dropping the half-slice of bread he’d been nibbling.

“For us?” Sai echoed, eyes wide.

“Really?” Christian blinked.

Charlie gave a modest shrug. “You’ll be attending with me, won’t you? You’ll need to look the part. And I’ll need to match you.”

Nick didn’t say anything, but his chest burned. He looked toward his mother, whose hand had flown to her mouth again.

She swayed slightly. “Oh my— Your Highness, I…” She glanced at Nick, then back to Charlie. “Thank you. I have no words. Truly, I don’t…”

“Oh, don’t be silly,” Charlie said with a faint huff. He slipped a hand into the pocket of his tailored coat and drew out a small coin pouch. “This should be enough to get started with fabrics.”

He stepped forward and gently pressed it into her palm.

Sarah’s hand shook. She peered inside and gasped. “My prince, this is— this could cover the entire set. All of it. Twice.”

“Good,” Charlie said with a smile. “Because I expect art. And art deserves to be well paid.”

He turned back to the room, the flickering lanternlight casting soft shadows behind him. “And besides,” he added, more quietly now, “this means I’ll have to come back. For fittings. Measurements.” A pause. “Often.”

It took a second for Nick to register it.

And then it hit him — the generosity wasn’t about clothing. Not really. Charlie was creating a reason. A reason to return. A reason for Nick to see his mother again. For Sarah to see him. For there to be no distance, not in heart, not in miles, not in excuses.

But it went further than that.

Nick’s gaze dropped to the little pouch of coins on the table. Modest by royal standards. Transformative by theirs. He thought about the way Sarah had turned up the single candle in the corner of the room when they first entered, how she’d apologized for not having more light. How her hands were red from work, how her eyes had flicked to the cold hearth with something like guilt.

With that money, she’d keep the fire going all winter.

With that money, and if Charlie kept his promise of paying each time he had to come back for an appointment, she wouldn’t have to stitch until her fingers bled just to afford bread. She could eat properly. Sleep without worry. Maybe even fix the leak in the roof above the stairwell, the one she always brushed off like it was nothing.

And if she ever got sick… if one day she dozed off from exhaustion and didn’t wake with the dawn…

She wouldn’t be alone. She’d be warm. Fed. Lit by more than a single, flickering flame.

Charlie wasn’t just buying a garment.

He was lifting something from Nick’s shoulders — a weight Nick hadn’t even known he was carrying until it was gone.

Sarah’s voice caught. She sniffled. “Oh… oh, my prince…”

“Just good sense,” Charlie muttered, already embarrassed by her praise.

Nick watched the exchange with something tight and unexpected clawing at his ribs. He hadn’t thought he could still be surprised by kindness — not in this world.

And yet.

Charlie turned back toward him with a little grin and said, “Now, I expect you all to look dashing. No excuses. Especially you, Nelson.”

Nick rolled his eyes. “We’ll see, Your Highness.”

But inside, something glowed.

And it wasn’t just the firelight.

Sarah’s eyes shimmered as she looked at her son — and then back at Charlie. She seemed almost unable to contain herself, pride bubbling up from a place too deep to dam.

“Nick…” she breathed, her voice trembling. “I hope you protect this boy with your life.”

Nick froze.

Charlie turned, startled, his hands still loosely clasped behind his back.

“He’s the most amazing man I’ve ever met,” Sarah said, her voice breaking into soft conviction. “And this country is so, so lucky to have him as our next ruler. The way he carries himself, how he treats people — like they matter, like we matter…” She looked right at Nick, her smile wobbling now. “I’m proud of you, son. For standing by someone like him. For protecting someone who’s worth it.”

The room was quiet.

Charlie’s cheeks turned pink. His lashes fluttered slightly, as if unsure where to look. Nick’s jaw tightened. His ears burned.

He wanted to say something. He wanted to thank her. He wanted to scream.

Because none of this was part of the plan. Charlie wasn’t supposed to be worth it.

Nick looked down, then cleared his throat sharply.

“Okay,” he said, too loud. “I think we should—head up. Toward my room.”

The others stirred.

“We can figure out where everyone’s sleeping,” Nick went on quickly. “And plan how we’ll manage the morning.”

Charlie nodded, softly still flushed, and followed without comment. But as he passed Sarah, he paused and reached to gently squeeze her hand.

“Thank you, Sarah,” he said quietly.

“Thank you, my prince,” she whispered back, her voice thick with unshed tears.

And Nick, already heading up the steps, didn’t look back — because if he did, he wasn’t sure what he’d do.

He wasn’t sure who he’d be.

The creaky door groaned as Nick pushed it open, revealing the small, timeworn space.

His old room.

The walls were the color of faded parchment, scratched and softened by time. A single window overlooked the alley, cracked slightly open, letting in the cool night breeze. On the far side, the bed — small, well-used, draped in a patchwork quilt Sarah had sewn herself — stood nestled against the wall. A worn trunk sat at its foot, and the floor was bare except for a threadbare rug with frayed edges.

“Huh,” Otis said, stepping in and looking around. “Cozy. Definitely cozy.”

“Didn’t think the mighty Sir Nick would have floral curtains,” Christian muttered with a smirk.

“Shut it,” Nick said, rolling his eyes but not quite hiding the embarrassed tug at his lips. “They were my mum’s idea.”

Sai gave a low whistle, crouching by the trunk. “Is this yours?” He opened it halfway, revealing folded shirts, an old pair of boots, and — to his horror — a childhood sketch of a horse that was clearly also a dragon.

“Okay, that’s enough memory lane,” Nick said, snatching the paper away and crumpling it before anyone could comment.

The room wasn’t meant for more than one person, let alone five full-grown ones. Everyone hovered awkwardly for a moment, eyes flickering to the single bed.

Charlie was the first to speak. “You’ll take the bed,” he said, gesturing to the others.

They all blinked at him.

“No, no, my prince,” Christian started, holding up a hand. “Absolutely not. You’re royalty. We’re not going to let you sleep on the floor.”

“It’s your bed,” Sai added, looking at Nick. “He should have it.”

Charlie frowned, folding his arms. “I hate this,” he mumbled. “I hate the idea of all of you sleeping on the floor while I take the bed. It’s wrong.”

“With respect,” Otis said, “that’s… sort of how this whole ‘royal hierarchy’ thing works, Your Highness.”

Charlie shot him a look.

“Besides,” Christian muttered, half-teasing but not entirely joking, “we can’t share the bed with the prince. That’s wildly improper.”

Charlie, crossing to the side of the bed, turned to face them. “I’m not asking all of you to share it. I’m saying… someone should. I’m small. There’s room.”

The room went dead silent.

“I…” Otis began. “I just don’t think—”

“I forbid it to be me,” Christian declared, already taking a step back. “Not because I wouldn’t be honored, my prince. I just—I sweat.”

“Also, I snore,” Sai added sheepishly.

Charlie sighed.

“Look,” he said softly, a little more tired now. “It’s just a bed. I’ve had to share one before a couple of times with my brother. I’ll sleep better knowing someone’s not on the stone floor, freezing.”

Just then, Christian yelped.

“Ow—bloody—this is stone.”

He had knelt to feel the floor and pulled his hand back with a wince. “Sir Nick, no offense, but your childhood bedroom was not made for guests.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Nick grumbled, arms crossed.

But his gaze flicked to Charlie — soft silver shirt, bare feet, delicate shoulders — and something twisted inside him. He looked so out of place, but he hadn’t once complained.

“Found something!” Christian suddenly shouted, pulling out a stack of woolen blankets and a few old throw pillows from under the trunk. “We can at least make this floor a little less like sleeping on granite.”

“Lay them out,” Otis said, already helping.

It wasn’t much, but between the four of them, they managed a decent patch of padded floor.

Then they all turned to Nick.

“Well,” Otis said with an exaggerated shrug, “looks like you win, mate.”

“Win what?”

“You’ve got the most body mass. It’d be criminal to make you sleep on stone. Plus, this is your room. And the prince wants someone with him.”

Nick’s jaw clenched.

He didn’t want to seem reluctant.

He wasn’t reluctant.

Not exactly.

He looked at Charlie, who was already climbing under the covers, curls falling slightly into his eyes, the silk of his sleeves catching moonlight through the window. He looked up at Nick expectantly — not embarrassed, not shy, just trusting.

“Fine,” Nick muttered accepting defeat.

The other three snickered softly from their makeshift bed on the floor.

“Sleep well, your royal roommate,” Otis teased.

Charlie rolled his eyes — and then softly whispered: “Well, good night everyone, this is surely quite a bonding experience.”

“Goodnight, Prince Charlie,” the others chorused, only Nick left to enter the bed.

Nick hesitated in the longer than he should have. It was one thing to sleep in his old room again. It was another thing entirely to see the Crown Prince of England sitting in his childhood bed — small and neat, knees curled under the quilt, delicate curls resting on the worn pillow his mother had sewn for him years ago.

The sight hit him like a fist to the chest.

Charlie shifted a little, making room without saying anything, just patting the space beside him like it was the most natural thing in the world. But the bed wasn’t meant for two. Not unless one of them was made of lace and air.

Which, apparently, Charlie was.

Nick cleared his throat, moving stiffly to the bed. His shoulders and arms felt too wide, too solid in this soft, cotton space. When he sat, the bed gave a low creak beneath his weight. He felt Charlie’s thigh brush his. It was warm.

Nick blinked hard.

Without quite knowing why, he reached out and tugged the quilt gently over Charlie’s side, tucking it in near his shoulder with slow, awkward care.

“Comfy, my prince?” he asked quietly.

Charlie turned just enough to look at him with a sleepy smile. “Yeah. Thank you, Nick.”

Then, like a candle being snuffed out, he turned toward the wall and let his eyes drift closed. There was a pause.

And then—

“By the way,” Charlie mumbled, almost into the pillow “I hope you’re all ready to do the morning routine without Tao and Elle.”

Otis groaned loudly from the floor. “Oh no. No, no, no. We are not going to be able to take him out of bed.”

The others chuckled, and soft laughter passed like a ripple through the cramped room. A moment of normalcy, of strange domesticity, of something almost like peace.

One by one, the boys settled — shifting, murmuring, dozing.

But Nick didn’t.

He lay there, staring up at the same ceiling that had once watched him dream of escape. His hands folded over his chest, his breath quiet but unsteady.

Eventually, he turned his head. Slowly.

Charlie had shifted.

Not much — just enough that his arm now brushed Nick’s. His cheek was half-buried into Nick’s shoulder, soft breath exhaled in slow, even waves across the fabric of Nick’s tunic. And then…

A soft touch.

A hand. Small. Light. Moving under the covers to rest over Nick’s stomach, fingers curling against him like a child seeking warmth.

Nick froze.

Charlie made no noise. He just tucked himself closer, instinctively, like something had found its anchor. His nose nuzzled the crook of Nick’s arm, and a contented sigh escaped his lips.

Nick looked down.

He’s so small, he thought. So bloody small.

Delicate bones. Sharp cheekbones. Curled lashes. His entire frame barely took up half the bed. Compared to Nick — massive, broad, corded with muscle from years of combat training and hard living — Charlie looked like he’d been made from starlight and poetry.

It was ridiculous.

It was impossible.

And yet…

Something moved in Nick’s chest. Something ancient. Protective. Terrified.

He didn’t think. He just acted.

His arm shifted, curling around the prince’s narrow waist. Drawing him closer. Not tightly, but enough. Enough that Charlie murmured something incoherent and tucked his face against Nick’s chest like he belonged there.

He’s trusting me.

The thought echoed louder than it should have.

Nick tightened his hold — softly. Then, hesitantly, turned on his side, wrapping Charlie in the circle of his body, as if to shield him from the world.

The prince’s breathing slowed. His body relaxed.

And Nick?

Nick stared into the dark.

His face flushed. His heart loud.

He wasn’t sure what had happened. What was happening.

All he knew was that his arms were full of warm silk and slow breath. His bed smelled like home again. And for once in his life, he didn’t feel like he was supposed to run.

He just held him.

And let the night take them both.

Chapter Text

Nick woke first.

It took him a second to remember where he was — the soft, worn scent of old cotton and dust, the creak of the wooden frame beneath him. And the light, soft weight pressed against his chest.

Charlie.

Still curled beside him like a breath, mouth slightly open, lashes casting feathery shadows across his cheeks. He looked impossibly young like that. Fragile. Soft.

Nick swallowed and eased himself out of bed as carefully as he could without waking him. Across the room, the others were already stirring.

Otis was stretching on the floor with a dramatic groan, one arm slung across Sai’s stomach. Christian sat up with hair like a bird’s nest and a grumble in his throat.

“Morning,” Nick whispered.

Otis blinked at him and whispered back, “ok, I think I have gotten used to our palace beds and now I can’t sleep any other way.”

They all glanced toward the bed. The prince hadn’t moved.

“So…” Sai said slowly, rubbing his eyes. “What’s the strategy?”

“We draw straws?” Christian offered. “Whoever loses wakes the royal demon?”

“Oi,” Otis grinned, “he’s adorable. I’ll do it.”

Nick raised an eyebrow. “You want to die today?”

Otis gave a very solemn nod. “No, but for the drama, I’ll risk it.”

The three crept toward the bed like soldiers preparing for battle. Otis knelt beside it first and tapped gently at Charlie’s shoulder.

Nothing.

Another tap. Still nothing.

Christian leaned in, and in a theatrical whisper said, “Your Highness… The kingdom awaits your royal radiance…”

Charlie groaned and flopped deeper into the mattress.

Sai smirked and whispered, “He’s hiding.”

Then suddenly — the boys froze.

Because Charlie sat up, very slowly, blinking blearily at them. His curls were a wild halo. His face was squished with sleep. He looked… like a very dazed kitten.

He yawned, blinked again, then croaked out:

“Did someone say ‘radiance’?”

Otis clutched his chest dramatically. “He’s awake!”

Nick tried — tried — not to laugh. He failed.

Charlie frowned. “Why is everyone staring?”

Christian said with a smirk, “Because I think we found the magic way to get your highness out of bed, we just have to tease you.”

They all laughed.

And twenty minutes later, after some hurried dressing (and a lot of grumbling from Charlie about how he should be allowed to go back to sleep for at least five more years), they finally made it downstairs, the prince stayed In Nick’s room for a bit of privacy.

Sarah was already at the stove, humming, her hands moving in practiced ease between pans of sizzling eggs and stacks of thick bread.

“Morning, lads,” she said cheerfully, not even turning around. “Hope you slept well, cause with the money the prince gave me away, I can go all out the window and serve a decent breakfast for all of you.”

“Well this will make me forget the hardness of the blanket over the floor,” Otis said, eyes going wide as he caught the smell of butter and spiced jam. “Mrs. Nelson, you’re bloody amazing.”

Sarah laughed and swatted the air with a spatula. “Don’t you go flattering me this early.”

“I’m serious,” Otis said reverently. “Marry me.”

“Try again after breakfast,” she teased.

One by one, the boys gave their thanks — Sai with a bow, Christian with a muttered “ma’am,” Otis with a dramatic swoon. Nick kissed her on the cheek, and she gave his face a once-over like he’d already been in trouble

The kitchen had become a kingdom of crumbs.

Otis was on his third slice of bread, his fingers shiny with jam. Sai was dunking a half-loaf into his tea like it was a sport. Christian had invented some kind of butter-sugar sandwich and was guarding it with the intensity of a man defending a throne.

Nick just sat back, arms crossed, trying not to smile as he watched the others devour breakfast like it might be their last.

The smell of toasted bread filled every inch of the cottage, a warmth that made it impossible to feel anything but at home.

Charlie hesitated a moment in the doorway.

Nick watched him quietly. He could see the hesitation — not disgust, not arrogance — just a genuine pause from someone who had never eaten anything that wasn’t delivered under a silver lid and announced by title.

Still, Charlie took a breath, lifted his chin like he was about to enter a royal ballroom, and crossed the kitchen floor. He slid onto the bench beside Christian, who politely shuffled over to make room, and picked up a piece of buttered bread.

He bit into it.

His face did… something.

Not bad. Not good. Just very new.

Nick fought a grin.

Charlie chewed valiantly, wiped his fingers on a napkin like it was a silk cloth, and then, with utter grace, reached for another piece.

Sarah beamed at him as if he had personally delivered her a crown.