The creature roared, torn between panic and rage. A willow root shot from the cracked marble floor, coiling around its torso and lifting it into the air. Orange light flared from the man's palm.
Fwoom!
A ring of flame burst into a sigil midair, spiraling before launching downward—striking the creature and setting it ablaze. The air filled with the stench of burning flesh and the bittersweet aroma of magnolia flowers turned to ash.
The creature screamed—but not in pain. Its cry was something else entirely. Like a spell. A summoning.
Eliot collapsed onto the floor, heart pounding. His wide, tear-filled eyes searched the dim hallway.
Who saved him?
Footsteps approached. Heavy. Slow. A pair of black boots stopped before him.
"Get up."
That voice—he knew it.
Eliot slowly raised his head, breath hitching. And met cold, unyielding eyes.
"Samuel..." his voice shook. "You came. I thought... I thought you left me."
Samuel said nothing. He knelt, barely glanced at the wound on Eliot's shoulder, and stood again. His eyes were sharp—filled with something Eliot hadn't seen before. Disappointment.
"You screamed for help. Who were you calling?"
"Mother... I—"
"Your mother isn't here, Eliot." His tone was flat, but the words sliced deep.
Eliot froze. Breath caught in his throat.
Then who pulled me back from the edge?
"Did you forget?" Samuel stepped closer. "She hasn't lived in this palace for years. Yet you ran—alone, unarmed, without Clarity."
"I was scared!" Eliot shouted, tears spilling. "I didn't know what else to do!"
Samuel's voice rose with clipped intensity:
"That's the problem! You don't think, because you still believe you have the luxury to panic! You're not just any boy. You're a prince."
His voice echoed off the stone walls. Eliot flinched.
"If that creature hadn't toyed with you, you'd be dead."
Samuel stepped closer, looming.
"Where was Clarity? Where was your sense? Do you think enemies will wait for you to scream next time?"
It wasn't anger.
It was regret.
Samuel's clenched jaw, the twitch in his brow—betrayed hesitation. Not because Eliot had failed. But because Samuel wasn't sure if he could allow himself to care.
"Tch."
He turned to retrieve a dagger still embedded in the stone floor.
The creature's remains had dissolved into nothing but ash and cinders.
"Humans aren't replaceable. But heirs..."
His voice was low. Brutally honest.
"They can be replaced."
Eliot trembled. His small legs folded beneath him. He couldn't stand.
Samuel exhaled slowly. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter.
"If you don't learn now, you won't live long enough to rule anything."
Eliot looked down—not in fear.
But in shame.
"I just wanted... my mother..."
Samuel's response was sharp.
"She wouldn't want a prince who cries every time he's afraid. She's not your way out."
A beat.
"Cry if you must. One day, you won't have a single tear left, no matter how much it hurts."
"Why did you help me, Samuel?" Eliot asked, voice small.
Their tradition was harsh. Royal children were expected to survive alone until deemed worthy of the throne. Only two designated figures were allowed to aid them. Everyone else was forbidden.
Even death was... acceptable.
It proved unworthiness.
Samuel didn't answer. He turned to leave.
But paused.
"Find Clarity."
He didn't look back.
"And never let fear rule you again."
His voice faded into the mist of the hallway, leaving Eliot alone. The flames had died, leaving blackened walls and a bitter silence.
Eliot didn't follow.
He didn't know where to go.
His hand shook as he tried to lift his torn sleeve. Bruises stained his right arm, and his wrist was swelling—likely sprained when he thrashed against the creature's grip.
"It hurts..."
No one answered.
He slid down the wall. His robe was dirty, one shoe missing, breath shallow and uneven. The sobs came quietly at first. A soft stuttering gasp.
He wasn't crying because he was scared.
He was crying because he knew—
No one was coming.
He wiped his tears with a clean patch of his sleeve, but they kept falling. As if his body knew what his heart tried to suppress.
He tried to remember someone. Anyone.
Not the King.
His father would only see weakness. Another failure. A child unworthy of succession.
"I'm not a child anymore..." he whispered.
The words sounded hollow.
He couldn't bring himself to ask the palace workers.
They didn't see him. Not really. Just a task. A title. An obligation.
Clarity Robane...
His name surfaced. But where was he? Why wasn't he there?
"He ignored me too," Eliot murmured bitterly. Clarity had probably passed out drunk in his quarters again. His guardian in name only.
He curled inward.
His body was small, but the guilt inside him felt heavy. Why didn't he run? Why did he freeze? Why did he cry out for someone who wasn't there?
He hugged his knees.
Cold.
No arms to comfort him. No voice to hush the storm. No one to tell him he could rest.
"If I died back there... would anyone know? Would anyone care?"
His chest heaved with a quiet sob. He buried his face in his arms.
The pain wasn't the bruises.
It was the shame. The isolation.
That creature—had it been toying with him? Watching his fear with twisted delight? Eliot felt its gaze even now. Like it had known how helpless he was.
Footsteps.
A presence knelt beside him. A hand patted his shoulder.
Eliot didn't look up.
"Young master?"
The voice was low, rough—but gentle. Not a guard.
A familiar smell followed: toasted bread, warm honey, and cloves. It cut through the lingering scent of smoke.
Eliot turned his tear-streaked face. Eyes swollen. He knew this man.
"Brian..."
He wiped his face. He could breathe again.
Brian—royal cook, older than most in the palace. The one who brought him pastries when he skipped his lessons. The one who always knocked before entering.
He carried a basket. Inside: a mug of warm milk and two coconut-filled rolls.
"Heard something from this direction," Brian said, setting the basket down. "Didn't expect to find you."
He had gone to check Eliot's room earlier. The guards said the boy was missing. So Brian returned to his kitchen, until instinct pulled him here.
"Your hand... that hurt?"
Eliot nodded, sniffling. "Fell down the stairs," he lied.
Brian didn't question it. He took a cloth from his worn apron, wet it with water from a small jug, and offered it.
"May I bandage it?"
Eliot hesitated. Then gave a tiny nod. "Ah—"
He winced as Brian wrapped the wrist gently. The cook's hands were rough—but his touch was careful. Like a father binding his own son's wound.
"We're not allowed to help," Brian muttered. "But we're not forbidden, either."
He met Eliot's eyes.
"We have no titles worth boasting. But if you don't speak... no one will know what you need."
Eliot stared.
"The staff... we serve you. We're your voice too, next to the King and Queen."
The words felt strange. Unfamiliar. Eliot wanted to believe them. But his eyes fell to the basket.
The smell of coconut stirred his empty stomach.
"Made too much for my boy. He's asleep now."
Another lie. But a kind one.
"Eat, young master. Whatever this palace holds—it's yours. Blood makes it yours, not crowns."
Eliot nodded slowly.
"Even father inherited wealth... even if he didn't take the crown."
"Father?" Brian blinked. "Lord Marcus?"
Cousin to the King. Once heir. After assassinating his uncle in line with tradition, Marcus forfeited the throne to Eliot's father. Peacefully. As payment, he received lands and titles elsewhere.
Eliot picked up the bread. His hands still trembled, but he ate slowly. The warmth of the filling soothed his cold chest.
The tears didn't stop. But this time, they came not from fear.
But from relief.
Brian asked no more.
He sat beside him in silence. A quiet stone in a violent sea.
"If you need to cry, cry," he whispered.
"Even princes... should be held sometimes."
Eliot said nothing.
But that night, for the first time since his mother left—he fell asleep full, and not entirely alone.
"People can be replaced."
Samuel's words lingered.
What would happen to him... if another heir were born?