Alwyn Triscan
The hollow, echoing silence of the servants' wing was a presence I knew better than my own reflection.
When Alea was at work—which was always, dawn until long after dusk—the vast, austere corridors became my entire world.
We lived in the rooms allotted to the few non-noble workers of the Royal Palace, a space that has never felt like a home and more like a beautiful, abandoned tomb.
The polished stone floors, the simple tapestries depicting pastoral scenes, the rows of identical, dark-oak doors behind which no laughter ever spilled—it was a monument to emptiness.
I was the only child there. But even if, by some miracle, another family had dwelled in those quiet halls, I would have still been an island. I would have been the only commoner.
To serve in the Royal Palace of Zestier was a mark of extreme distinction. You were either born with a name etched in elven history, or you were a commoner who had clawed your way to a pinnacle of power, prestige, or wealth so great it blurred the lines.
My sister, Alea, was the latter. And I? I was the accidental baggage, the shadow she carried from a past she never spoke of, left to drift in the cavernous wake of her ambition.
So, I watched. Watching was the only vocation left to me.
My gaze, a hungry and constant thing, would always find the guards. The Royal Police. Their uniforms were a symphony of authority: deep red like roses, crisp white like sun on snow, and threads of gold that caught the light like sunflowers.
They moved with a disciplined grace, tending to fluttering dignitaries, standing as immovable as the Watchful Willows themselves at every archway and gate.
Their main duty was the safety of all Zestier, for only a fool would directly threaten the king and queen after the fragile peace with the humans. They were powerful. They were respected. They were just.
In a world that felt fundamentally unstable to me, they were pillars. I didn't want to be one of them; I needed to be. It was the only path I could see that led out of this powerless silence, a way to forge a self that mattered, that could stand somewhere.
And that was why he was the sun my lonely world orbited.
Prince Corvis Eralith. His Highness. If I could become a royal guard, I could stand at his side. Not as a burden, not as a commoner boy to be pitied or ignored, but as a sworn protector. I would have a place. I would have a purpose. I would no longer be alone.
Alea didn't count. She was a ghost in my life, a figure of stern beauty and impatient sighs. She never spent time with me; she processed me. Her solution to my existence was to deposit me, like an unwanted parcel, into those glittering, awful gatherings of noble ladies and their porcelain-perfect children.
"It will be good for you," she'd say, her voice already distant, her mind on whatever she did as a maid.
I tried. I tried to get along. I would smile at their structured games, listen to their boasting about bloodlines, but their eyes slid over me as if I were a smudge on the window.
Even the vibrant Princess Tessia, a whirlwind of energy I secretly admired, never seemed to see me. Her focus was always elsewhere, a beacon searching for a single other soul.
Only His Highness. Only... Corvis. He was the first person who looked at me—actually looked, his teal eyes pausing, focusing—and saw a person. He sought me out. He spoke to me without a veneer of duty or condescension.
He was my first, my only, friend.
That day, I stood waiting in the Grand Hall, a space so vast its ceiling seemed to blend like a mirage.
Sunlight streamed through high, stained-glass windows, painting the marble floor with pools of fractured color—emerald, sapphire, amethyst. I was a small, drab figure against that magnificence, nervously straightening my simple tunic as nobles in silks and velvets flowed around me like a disdainful river.
I watched the guards at their posts, studying the set of their shoulders, the alert stillness in their eyes, using them as a template for how I might one day stand.
"Sorry for being late, Alwyn."
The voice, familiar and devoid of royal flourish, cut through the murmur. I turned, and there he was. The flow of people subtly parted around him, a rock in a stream. A flicker of warmth, pure and uncomplicated, burst in my chest.
"There is nothing you need to be sorry about, Your Highness," I said, bowing my head. I saw a brief flash of annoyance cross his features at the honorific.
I understood it, I think. He hated the formality. But I couldn't just call him Corvis. Not here, not ever, really. He was my better. He was my future king. The structure of that was the very scaffold holding my hopes together.
He was a bit shorter than me, a fact that always felt incongruous with the immense presence he carried. His wavy gunmetal hair, the same shade as his sister's but always seeming more subdued, fell just above his shoulders.
It was his eyes, though, that told the story of a different prince. They were a restless, luminous teal, constantly scanning, darting, seeing everything. He always looked… braced. Agitated. It made him seem older...
"Let's go," he said, already moving toward the immense palace entrance with a direction that admitted no hesitation.
I fell into step beside him, a half-pace behind as was proper. "Where are we going?"
"The Noble District, north of the palace. The Chaffer estate."
My breath hitched. "The Chaffer estate?" The name was legendary, even to me.
They... they were the architects of Elenoir's martial strength. For generations, they had been responsible for the training and doctrine of our military. It was like hearing we were going to visit a living monument.
His Highness merely nodded, his restless gaze sweeping over the bustling market square we now entered. The air filled with the scent of sun-warmed bread, spiced oils, and the rich, earthy smell of the forest itself.
Zestier was a city woven into the canopy, pathways winding around immense, living trunks, homes built into the branches. We walked in a silence I had grown accustomed to.
His Highness was a person of few words. The only times I'd heard him speak at length, his voice losing its flat, deliberate tone, was when he was with Princess Tessia, their interactions a private language of muttered arguments and unexpected, soft laughter.
I envied that closeness with an ache that was both sharp and dull. It was a miracle if I exchanged a dozen words with Alea in a week.
My mind wandered back to a previous outing, a visit to a strange, noisy building—the Adventurers' Guild.
A large, rough-looking human had loomed over His Highness, and my heart had hammered against my ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage of fear.
I was certain the man would try to harm him, would take my one light away and leave me in the familiar, crushing dark.
But His Highness hadn't flinched. He'd spoken calmly, and there had been a… a pressure in the air. The human had backed down.
"This should be the place."
His voice pulled me from my thoughts. We had ascended into a quieter, more rarefied layer of the city. The noise of the market was a distant murmur below.
Before us stood a mansion of elegant, weathered stone, nestled in the embrace of several Watchful Willows. The very air felt different here—cooler, quieter, thick with the scent of rare blossoms and old money.
This was the Noble District—the Canopie, one of the many subdivisions of the city of Zestier.
Space in the capital was the ultimate currency, dictated by the ancient giants. Here, the Chaffer estate boasted a vast, manicured garden that spread before the mansion like a verdant carpet. That alone spoke of their influence more loudly than any heraldic banner.
His Highness walked up to the main entrance without a trace of my own trembling uncertainty. He stopped before a guard in livery more ornate than the palace's own, a man with the stern, weathered face of a veteran.
My prince had to tilt his head up to meet the man's eyes, but in that motion, there was no submission.
"I would like to have a talk with Lord Chaffer," he stated. His voice wasn't loud, but it carried a crystalline clarity.
The guard blinked, his composure cracking into pure astonishment. "Prince Corvis?" The question was dumbfounded.
I clenched my hands at my sides, wanting to step forward, to shout "Show respect!" But what weight did my voice have?
I was a commoner child, invisible. My presence was a fluke, a speck of dust in the royal orbit. The guard's gaze slid over me and dismissed me entirely.
"The very same," His Highness replied, a slight grimace twisting his features at the title. "Now, can I see Lord Chaffer? I already have a meeting."
The lie was delivered with such flat assurance it momentarily stunned me.
"Oh, I… I didn't know that, Your Highness…" the guard stammered, suspicion and confusion warring in his eyes.
He didn't believe him. He was going to turn us away. The humiliation, the failure, loomed like a cliff edge. My fragile dream of standing beside him as an equal felt like it was crumbling before it had even formed.
"Prince Corvis!"
The new voice, younger, brimming with eager energy, was a lifeline. An elf boy, perhaps twelve, with sandy hair and keen eyes, came sprinting down the garden path. He skidded to a halt and bowed so deeply I thought he might topple over.
"Albold Chaffer, at your service, Your Highness!" he declared, rising with a brilliant, practiced smile. "My father will receive you as soon as possible. For the time being, allow me to escort you inside."
His Highness looked at Albold not with surprise, but with a kind of weary recognition, as if he'd expected this specific person to appear. He gave a single, curt nod. "Thanks."
He moved to enter, and I, my heart lifting with relief, made to follow—my place was behind him, always. But a hand shot out, not a guard's mailed fist, but the elegantly sleeved arm of Albold Chaffer. He didn't shove me. He simply blocked me.
His eyes, a cold, pale green, raked over my simple clothes and his lip curled in a silent, perfect judgment. You do not belong here. In that instant, I was shrunk back to my true size: insignificant, unworthy, a stain on the pristine threshold of nobility.
"Albold, what are you doing?" His Highness's voice cut through the air. He had turned, and his expression had changed. The usual restless agitation was gone, replaced by a cold, sharp focus that was more intimidating than any shout. His teal eyes were fixed on Albold. "He is with me. Isn't that clear?"
The air crackled. It was rare to hear that tone from him—aggressive, possessive, layered with a royalty that brooked no dissent. Albold's confident mask slipped, revealing a flash of startled fear.
He had misread the situation entirely. He had seen the prince and the peasant and made a natural, noble assumption. He had been catastrophically wrong.
"I—I apologize, my Prince," Albold stammered, the polished charm evaporating. He dropped his arm and stepped back, his gaze avoiding mine now. "Come, please, follow me."
As we crossed the threshold into the opulent gloom of the Chaffer mansion, the shadow of the doorway passing over me. The shame Albold had tried to press upon me was scorched away by a fierce, glowing loyalty.
His Highness had claimed me. In front of a noble heir, he had declared me his. He wasn't just my only friend. He was my shield.
And as I followed his straight, determined back, I vowed with every fiber of my being that one day, I would become the shield that stood between him and the world.
I would become a guard. For him. Because of him.
Edit (19/02/2026):
Added a specific name for Zestier's Noble District: the Canopie.