As spring came to a close, the villagers started to murmur about the unusual children living on the outskirts of Briar Hollow.
The boy gifted with the ability to depict dreams.
The girl with keen eyes and a silver tongue who never shed tears, regardless of how often her bruises appeared.
They resided with that alcoholic, Darnell—his foul reputation was known to all—and yet the children thrived despite him, like weeds growing from rock.
And they smiled.
Not frequently. But when they did, it left an unsettling feeling among people. It seemed as if they possessed knowledge that the rest of the world had forgotten.
Charlotte—known as Lina in this town—had begun her plan with precision.
Initially, she pilfered leftover bread from the baker, not for her own benefit, but to feed Widow Marny's dogs. The elderly woman witnessed her actions and remained silent. A fortnight later, Charlotte assisted in repairing a fractured fence for Marny in exchange for eggs and a tattered storybook.
Then she began secretly teaching three children behind the chapel—reading, mathematics, and the art of lying convincingly while keeping a straight face. The children adored her. Their parents, baffled by their sudden advancements, cast suspicious yet awed glances toward the drunkard's home.
"How does she know any of this?" one murmured. "I'd wager the girl's cursed."
"Or perhaps blessed by something greater," another whispered back.
Meanwhile, Finn focused on his art.
He illustrated the village not as it was, but as it could be—clean lanes, flower carts, and joyful children.
He left his sketches behind—on doors, barrels, and even tucked within loaves of bread.
"Hope," someone inscribed in charcoal beneath one of them.
Charlotte observed the developments with amusement.
"Plant enough tales," she advised Finn, "and even weeds become legends."
"Do you believe people will protect us?" he questioned one night, clutching a dented teacup they had pilfered from the chapel kitchen.
"No," she responded bluntly. "But they will hesitate. And that's sufficient."
They possessed nothing—no armies, no knights, no wealth.
But they had each other.
And the instincts of survivors who once governed a realm.
Then one day, their father disappeared.
There was no real mystery. He had either tangled with the wrong debt collector or perhaps drunkenly slipped off the ridge and was lost.
No one in the village mourned. No one searched too thoroughly.
Charlotte and Finn stood at the entrance, waiting. Days slipped by.
"Do you think he's dead?" Finn inquired.
Charlotte paused before answering. Her hand rested gently on his shoulder.
"I think… the house feels cleaner."
Without their father's presence, the cottage seemed larger. The bruises faded away. The silence, while still heavy, no longer felt threatening.
They gathered firewood, prepared soup, and traded drawings for bits of fabric and soap.
Gradually, their existence transformed from mere survival… to strategy.
Charlotte—still known as Lina to the villagers—began formulating new proposals.
"One day, we'll establish a school," she said quietly, watching Finn illustrate a castle nestled in a mountain.
"With stained glass windows?" he asked.
"Windows, books, and cake."
He nodded earnestly.
"And no mad kings burdened by grief."
Charlotte closed her eyes.
"None of that."
They had once been royalty.
Now they were orphans in an unnamed place.
Yet their legacy—the resilience, the cunning, the determination—had not perished with their crowns.
It had been revitalized.
And Briar Hollow was evolving, one whispered tale at a time.