The palace gardens hummed with the restless noise of children at play—laughter, the sharp ring of wooden swords, the swish of arrows slicing air. Sunlight scattered through the leaves of the great tree, its branches sprawling like arms stretched wide to keep secrets.
Illyen stood on the edge of the circle, slender fingers wrapped too tightly around the hilt of a wooden blade. He told himself he didn't care, that the mockery drifting toward him—delicate… doll… useless duke's son—was nothing more than childish noise. Yet every word settled beneath his skin, stinging sharper than steel.
"Duke's son!" one of the boys jeered. "Face me. Or will you run away?"
Heat pricked Illyen's ears. He stepped forward. The blade felt wrong in his hands, heavier than it should have been, but pride demanded silence. He raised it in an awkward guard.
The clash came fast—too fast. Illyen's arms shook from the impact, his stance faltered. The second blow would have sent him sprawling, but it never landed.
A hand had caught the strike midair, fingers curled firmly around the wooden blade.
Crown Prince Cael stood between them, his blue eyes narrowed like sharpened glass. His voice was calm, almost bored, yet it cut through the circle of children like steel.
"Pathetic," Cael said, pushing the weapon aside with ease. "If you're going to fight him, at least aim properly. He'll break before the blade does."
Uneasy laughter rippled among the children. No one dared challenge the prince.
Illyen's face burned. "I didn't need your help," he snapped, brushing dirt from his sleeve.
Cael tilted his head, studying him too intently, as though weighing something far beyond the words. Then came the faintest curve of his lips—half a smirk, half something else. "Then stop looking like you do."
Illyen's chest tightened. He turned away quickly, hating the strange heat rising in his throat.
Later, beneath the shade of the great tree, Illyen sat alone, his wooden blade abandoned at his side. The leaves whispered above him, and for a fleeting instant, the sound almost felt like laughter—like something he should remember.
He pressed a palm against his chest, restless.
"Careless," Cael's voice murmured.
Illyen startled, looking up to find the prince standing before him. His shadow stretched long over the roots.
"You'll end up hurt if you don't learn properly," Cael continued, his tone softer now, without its usual sharpness.
"Why do you care?" Illyen demanded, red eyes flashing.
For a moment, something unguarded flickered in Cael's expression—raw, fleeting sorrow—but it vanished as quickly as it came. His gaze lifted to the branches above, to the endless sky beyond them.
"No reason," Cael replied at last.
Silence settled between them, broken only by the wind through the leaves. Illyen looked away, refusing to admit the warmth in his chest or the sting of confusion.
As he shifted, his sleeve brushed against Cael's—just a fleeting touch of fabric against fabric. Neither of them moved, caught in the weight of that single breath.
Illyen told himself it meant nothing. Yet when he closed his eyes later, beneath the quiet of his room, he still felt that invisible thread tugging, binding, refusing to let go.
Present Day
The candlelight of the royal hall flickered across Cael's face, gilding his sharp profile. Around them, courtiers whispered, glasses chimed, servants moved in and out—but Illyen felt every sound fade into distance.
At the far end of the table, the crown prince sat with the same composed, unyielding posture he had held since childhood.
Illyen's gaze wandered—just for a moment, no more—and their eyes met.
The air tightened. In an instant, memory stirred: the echo of leaves, the weight of a wooden blade slipping in his hands, the brush of fabric against fabric.
Illyen tore his gaze away, heart stumbling. Nonsense. Just nonsense.
But Cael did not look away. His expression was unreadable, except for the faintest shadow of something old in his eyes—something he alone remembered.
Beneath the laughter and music, beneath the weight of years, the thread between them pulled taut once more.