⁎̩͙ ⁑̩͙̩͙ ⁂̩̩͙͙ ⁎̩⁑̩͙̩͙ ⁂̩̩͙͙ ⁎̩͙⋆༺⚔༻⋆ ⁑̩͙̩͙ ⁂̩̩͙͙ ⁎̩͙ ⁑̩͙̩ ⁂̩̩͙͙ ⁎̩͙ ⁑̩͙̩͙ ⁂̩̩͙͙

 

Wren, who had been left alone in the living room, now lay awake in his room. As he shut his eyes, their heated conversation replayed endlessly in his mind.

 

“Ugh… Prince Randall, you fool.”

 

He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling in frustration.

 

Slowly, sleep claimed him—and memories of their first meeting slipped into his dreams.

 

⛫⊹₊⟡⋆🜲⊹ ࣪ ˖⛫⊹₊⟡⋆🜲⊹ ࣪ ˖⛫⊹₊⟡⋆🜲⊹ ࣪ ˖

 

He and Randall had been five when they first crossed paths. Their meeting had not been born of chance, but of royal decree.

 

Marquess Aurelius—one of the pillars of the realm and a trusted vassal of the Crown—had been summoned to the palace. There, the king declared that the Marquess’s heir would be raised alongside the young prince, as they were of the same age.

 

Even at five, Randall did not trust easily.

 

It all started when, Randall met the duke’s son, Magnus—three years older than him—for the first time while the king held a private council with the duke and several high-ranking nobles. As was customary during such meetings, visiting heirs were escorted away to keep the young prince company, and that day, Magnus had been chosen.

 

For an eight-year-old, Magnus carried himself with unsettling confidence, already aware of rank and privilege.

 

In front of adults, he was flawless.

 

He smiled politely, praised the prince’s manners, and spoke with rehearsed admiration that earned approving nods from courtiers.

 

But when they were left alone, the warmth vanished.

His smile sharpened.

 

It began in the playroom, when Randall struggled to assemble a miniature siege tower.

 

“Do you want to build it with me?” Randall asked innocently.

 

Magnus watched him for a moment.

 

“You really don’t know anything, do you?” he said coldly. “All those tutors, and you still play like a child.”

 

Randall blinked.

“But… aren’t I a child?”

 

Magnus laughed.

 

“Yes. But you’re supposed to be a prince.”

 

From then on, Magnus corrected everything—how Randall sat, spoke, even how he held a wooden sword.

 

“That’s wrong.”
“A prince shouldn’t sound unsure.”
“No wonder the servants look at you strangely.”

 

At first, Randall tried harder.

 

The corrections felt like guidance. Randall even began looking up to him.

Until Magnus started sighing whenever Randall spoke.

 

“If you act like that in court,” he said casually while rearranging the toy soldiers, “people will think you’re weak.”

 

Randall’s hands stilled.

“I’m not weak. My teacher says I’m smart and—”

 

Magnus tilted his head, smiling with false sympathy.

“And you believe that? Of course he praises you. He’d lose his position otherwise.”

He leaned closer.

“Then why do you always look like you’re about to cry?”

 

Randall hadn’t realized he did.

 

After that, the games stopped feeling like games.

 

Magnus decided every role.

 

“You defend the castle,” he said. “Princes stay inside while knights fight.”

 

“I want to fight too,” Randall said, gripping his wooden sword tighter.

 

Magnus sighed as though burdened.

“I’m helping you. Someone has to teach you before the real nobles laugh at you.”

 

Randall frowned.

“My trainer said I’m good,” he insisted. “He’s a sword master. He said I learned faster than the other boys.”

 

Magnus smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Of course he did. You’re a prince. He would entertain you.” His smile sharpened. “You’re gullible if you believe every praise given to you.”

 

Until one practice match, Magnus—being taller and stronger—struck relentlessly, forcing Randall backward step by step.

 

“See?” Magnus said. “You can’t even hit me.”

 

Randall’s arms trembled, but he kept watching.

His tutor always said fighting was thinking, not just swinging.

So Randall waited.

When Magnus lifted his sword too high, Randall ducked sideways and struck—

Tap.

 

His wooden sword hit Magnus’s arm.

 

Warm pride bloomed in Randall’s chest.

 

“I did it,” he said softly.

 

He didn’t notice that the chain beneath his collar had slipped loose during the movement. A crystal crescent-moon pendant fell into view, glimmering faintly as it caught the light.

 

Magnus went still.

“You just got lucky.”

 

“That wasn’t luck,” Randall whispered.

 

Magnus stepped closer.

“So you think you won?” His voice dropped into a near whisper. “No. I let you win.”

 

Had he really?

The certainty in his tone made doubt creep into Randall’s mind, smothering the pride he had felt moments before.

 

As Randall hesitated, uncertain, Magnus’s attention shifted to the pendant resting against his chest.

“What’s that?” he demanded.

 Randall instinctively covered it with his hand.

 

Magnus’s eyes narrowed.

“It doesn’t look grand enough for a prince.”

He tugged lightly at the chain.

 

Randall immediately caught Magnus’s wrist. Though his voice was small, it turned firm.

“You’re not supposed to touch it.”

 

“Why?” Magnus smirked. “Is it special? Did Their Majesties give it to you?”

He pulled harder, trying to pry it from Randall’s grip.

 

Randall stumbled forward as the chain tightened painfully against his neck.

“Let go,” Randall said, struggling to breathe. “I have to keep it safe. Mother said… I have to give it to someone important someday.”

 

Magnus laughed.

“Someone important? Is that supposed to be a proposal symbol? What does a child understand about that?”

 

“Propo—?” Randall frowned in confusion. “I don’t understand what you mean.”

 

Magnus’s smile sharpened.

“Of course you don’t. A prince doesn’t get to choose who’s important anyway. My father said they’re planning to arrange an engagement between you and my sister.”

 

“Huh?” Randall asked confused.

 

Magnus leaned closer.

“You’re pathetic.”

 

“Wh… what are you saying?” Randall gasped.

He barely understood Magnus’s words. The chain dug painfully into his skin as Magnus continued pulling while Randall desperately held onto the pendant.

Then—

the necklace was torn from him.

 

Magnus examined it closely, noticing at last that the crescent moon was formed from finely cut crystal. Then, it shimmered.

Heat suddenly flared across its surface.

Magnus hissed and dropped it at once as if burned.

 

Randall immediately lunged forward, grabbing the pendant and hiding it beneath his clothes, clutching it tightly against his chest.

“I told you,” he said, trembling slightly, “you’re not supposed to touch it.”

 

Just then, the servants returned.

 

Magnus laughed lightly, his expression already perfectly composed despite the anger simmering beneath it.

“The prince became upset during practice,” he said smoothly. “I think he doesn’t like losing.”

 

The adults chuckled, offering Randall gentle, pitying smiles.

Randall lowered his gaze.

Those smiles hurt more than being struck.

After that day, Randall stopped asking to play.

He spoke less. Watched more. He lost his trust to Magnus entirely.

And whenever Magnus visited again, Randall found ways to disappear before they could be left alone.

 

♔♕♖♗♘♙♔♕♖♗♘♙♔♕♖♗♘♙

 

Another incident sealed Randall’s distrust.

A minor noble once brought his son to meet the prince. Randall played with him politely—until he overheard voices beyond the hedges as they prepared to leave.

“How was your day with the young prince?”

“He’s boring,” the boy complained. “Why do I have to amuse him?”

“This is a rare opportunity,” his mother whispered sharply. “If the prince favors you, your father’s appointment will be secure.”

“But I don’t like playing knights—”

“It doesn’t matter. Smile. Agree with him. Don’t upset him.”

Randall had not meant to listen.
He did not even fully understand what appointment meant.

But he understood enough.

The boy had not wanted to be there.

And Magnus’s words returned to him—

“You’re a prince. He would entertain you. You’re gullible if you believe every praise given to you.”

The thought stayed with him long after.

After that, Randall stopped trying to make friends. He began noticing how adults spoke around him—careful, measured, and calculating. Noble families arrived with bright smiles and perfectly rehearsed children, yet Randall had already learned to slip away before formal introductions could be made. He would often retreat to his chambers or disappear into corners of the palace known only to him.

 

In his own quiet way, Randall understood that many wished to stand beside him not because of who he was—but because of what he was… a prince.

 

Sometimes he dreamed of slipping beyond the palace walls and living as an ordinary boy.

 

But his silver hair and blue eyes would surely give him away.

 

🏰₊˚⊹♡🎠✨🏰₊˚⊹♡🎠✨ 🏰₊˚⊹♡🎠✨🏰₊˚⊹♡🎠✨

 

After several more awkward visits, his parents began to notice.

 

More than once, visiting heirs were left waiting while servants searched the palace for their missing prince. The king and queen grew concerned. Randall’s isolation, they feared, would one day cost him allies—and perhaps leave him unprepared for the court he was meant to rule.

It was for this reason that a different arrangement was made.

 

During his first meeting with Wren, the king gave a quiet but firm instruction: Randall was to remain in the playroom.

He was not allowed to slip away, lock the doors, or vanish into hidden corridors.

 

And so, the two boys were left alone in a grand playroom filled with carved wooden toys, miniature castles, and painted soldiers.

They were told simply to get along.

“Here we go again”, Randall thought.

Another child sent to win his favor.

This time, he decided he would not try.

He sat quietly in the corner, a book about knights open on his lap, pretending complete disinterest.

Wren stood a few steps away, posture straight despite his small frame. He had clearly rehearsed this moment many times.

 

He bowed—just a little too stiffly.

“Good afternoon, Your Highness. I am Wren Aurelius, son of Marquess Aurelius.”

He hesitated before adding carefully, “Father said we are to study together. I hope… we may become friends.”

 

Randall turned a page without looking up.

Silence stretched.

 

Wren noticed the book.

“Oh! Knights?” His eyes brightened. “I like knights too.”

 

He grabbed a wooden sword and climbed onto a rocking horse.

“I am Sir Wren the Brave!” he declared proudly. “I shall protect the kingdom!”

 

Randall did not react.

 

Wren climbed down and approached him instead.

“Would Your Highness like to spar?” he asked, offering another wooden sword. “I will not strike very hard.”

Randall finally looked up.

Not strike very hard?

Was that pity?

Or arrogance?

 

Magnus’s whisper echoed in his memory.

“So you think you won? No. I let you win.”

 

Without warning, Randall stood and seized the wooden sword Wren had been offering him and struck. Wood clashed sharply.

 

Randall twisted his wrist, knocking Wren’s sword from his grip before stepping closer.

“Pick it up,” Randall said flatly.

 

Wren blinked but obeyed immediately.

“I apologize, Your Highness. My grip was poor. I shall practice more.”

 

Something tightened painfully in Randall’s chest. That wasn’t what he had expected.

He had wanted Wren to protest. To get angry and to push back instead of lowering his head just because he was a prince.

For him, the words sounded practiced, like everyone else.

Before he could stop himself, Randall shoved Wren backward.

“Stop bowing!” Randall snapped. “Pick it up and fight properly. Try to defeat me.”

Wren froze. “B-but Your Highness… I cannot hurt you.”

“Then go home,” Randall said, frustration shaking his voice. “You don’t have to pretend.”

Wren looked stunned.

“I—”

“You don’t even want to be here,” Randall cut in. “Your parents told you to come, didn’t they?”

Wren hesitated before answering honestly.

“It is my father’s wish that I serve you well.”

Randall’s fingers tightened around the wooden sword.

“Exactly. You’re like everyone else. You only want to stand beside me because I’m a prince.”

“That is not true,” Wren said quickly, bowing again out of habit. “It is an honor—but I also wish to be your friend.”

“A friend?” Randall scoffed. “Why?”

Wren slowly straightened, voice quieter but steady.

“Because… you looked lonely.”

Randall stilled.

“I don’t need pity,” he said quickly. “I choose to be alone.”

Wren hesitated. “I am alone too,” he admitted. “When I saw you reading, I thought… maybe we are the same.”

He fidgeted with the edge of his sleeve.

“My family already serves the Crown. I do not need your favor.”
He looked up earnestly. “I just… wanted a friend.”

Randall studied him carefully.

“Then… why me?” he asked.

Wren nodded quickly.

“Well… our parents said I have to be here. We are to study and train together… but I thought maybe we could actually… be friends. Not pretend.”

He hesitated, glancing at Randall.

“I’m not being forced, really. I just… I want to. I don’t know good words like grown-ups, Your Highness. I just say what I feel. It’s… hard to pretend.”

 

The room fell silent.

Randall had not expected that answer.

 

Something warm and unfamiliar stirred in his chest. He crossed his arms quickly, hiding it.

“If you’re going to be my friend,” he said coolly, “then stop bowing. You look like an old steward.”

 

Wren blinked.

“But I was instructed to bow before speaking to you, Your Highness.”

 

“I thought you said you wanted to be friends,” Randall shot back. “Friends don’t bow every five seconds.”

 

He hesitated before muttering,

“If we’re going to see each other every day… just call me…Randall.”

 

Wren’s eyes widened.

“Your Highness, I—”

 

“We’re both five,” Randall interrupted. “I’m not the king.”

 

A pause followed.

 

“Would it truly offend the realm if you used my name?”

 

Wren stared at him.

Slowly, a bright smile spread across his face.

“Then… Randall,” he said carefully, testing the name.

It sounded strange in the air.

“Will you… call me Wren too?”

 

Randall looked away, hiding the small smile tugging at his lips.

“…Fine.”

Neither of them realized that, in that quiet playroom, a prince had chosen his first ally—and a boy had unknowingly sworn a loyalty that would shape both their lives.

 

From then on, they were tutored together at the palace. They learned royal etiquette and the long histories of Crescentis. They trained with wooden swords, rode ponies far too fast, and whispered through lessons they claimed were already memorized.

Randall found himself looking forward to Wren’s visits more than he expected. The hours that dragged during lessons seemed to vanish when he knew Wren would be there to race him down the corridors, spar with wooden swords, or uncover hidden nooks in the palace together.

 

At five, Randall had already begun learning simple royal magic—and like any child, he used it mostly for mischief.

Because he longed to move freely beyond the palace, he practiced small illusion spells to alter his appearance. Together, he and Wren would sneak through a narrow breach hidden along the palace walls and wander into a nearby town disguised as ordinary boys.

For once, no one recognized him.

 

Whenever they were caught, Wren always stepped forward first and accepted the blame.

Once, after a particularly harsh scolding from the king, Randall sulked before finally asking,

“Why do you always say it was your fault?”

 

Wren shrugged lightly.

“My father said I will become your sworn retainer,” he replied. “So it is my duty to protect you.”

He smiled faintly.

“Even from trouble you create yourself.”

 

Randall huffed.

“Friends protect each other,” he muttered. “It’s not always me who needs protecting.”

Then he grabbed Wren’s hand.

“Come on. I learned a new spell yesterday. I’ll show you.”

They ran toward a hidden passage only they knew.

 

As the years passed, play turned into training. Wooden swords were replaced with steel. Lessons grew heavier. Expectations sharper.

And Wren—steadfast and composed—became the calm that tempered Randall’s fire.

 

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

Morning came. The memories that had lingered in Wren’s mind the night before drifted through Randall’s dreams before fading like mist. Randall opened his eyes slowly, staring at the ceiling as Wren’s words echoed in his thoughts.

Before I became your sworn retainer… I was your friend first.

Randall exhaled.

“…I know,” he murmured.

His hand clenched atop the sheets.

“But you don’t have to shield me from everything.”

A quiet pause followed.

“I can handle myself.”

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌