Florida had been hot. Emberhollow was warm in a different way—soft, slow, touched by gold. Morning light spilled through open windows, painting the marble floors in lazy streaks of amber. Birds chattered from high stone ledges, and somewhere deeper in the castle, the smell of fresh bread drifted like a promise. It was the kind of morning meant for doing absolutely nothing.

  Kael Drayke, age four and a half, third-born prince of House Drayke, was doing exactly that—until war came knocking.

  The door slammed open. A maid charged in with military precision, brandishing a folded tunic like a weapon. “Young master, you need to look presentable!”

  Kael ducked, clutching his hoodie like it was sacred treasure. “It’s clean! Mostly!”

  She lunged. He twisted. Pillows flew. A slipper sailed across the room like a warning shot. For a moment, it looked as if the fate of the royal schedule would be decided in a whirlwind of fabric and flailing limbs.

  “You have lessons,” she snapped, pinning him against the bed frame. “And your brother is sparring in the courtyard. You must uphold the dignity of House Drayke!”

  “What dignity?” Kael huffed, wriggling free. “I’m the third son. I’m basically royal DLC.”

  

  

  The maid seized her moment and pounced.

  After a short but intense skirmish, peace terms were reached. Kael would wear the royal tunic—over his joggers—provided he actually showed up to his morning lessons. In return, he secured two cinnamon rolls while no one was looking.

  He strutted down the hall like a victorious rebel general.

  The castle corridors were bright with banners and murmuring staff. Knights in red-plated armor bowed as he passed, though most looked away before they started smiling. The cook spotted him sneaking through the kitchen and handed him a warm meat bun with a knowing smirk.

  “For emergencies,” she said.

  Kael clutched it to his chest. “You get me,” he whispered.

  The first emergency arrived five minutes later in the form of Lady Miralis—the royal etiquette tutor and human embodiment of a sword kept too sharp for comfort. She stood at the head of the dining chamber, posture perfect, voice honed for public executions.

  “Kael,” she said, gesturing to a pristine table setting. “Where does the salad fork go?”

  He blinked at the silver arrangement before him. “What’s a salad?”

  Her eye twitched. Then she began her usual sermon on cutlery placement, posture, and the dangers of drinking from the wrong goblet in front of nobility.

  Kael slouched in his seat, half-listening. Inside his mind, Orion filtered the lecture into neat bullet points, translating formality into practicality like a patient tutor running an internal cheat sheet.

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  When Lady Miralis finally paused to breathe, Kael straightened, yawned, and recited without hesitation, “Salad fork outer-left, dessert spoon up top, water goblet diagonal right.”

  She froze mid-turn. “That is… correct.”

  He shrugged. “Huh. Must’ve heard it somewhere.”

  

  

  

  

  

  The rest of the lesson passed in quiet rebellion. By the time she dismissed him, Kael had stacked three rolls of bread into a precarious tower and nearly convinced

  Two hours later, the castle yard thundered with motion. Guards sparred in pairs beneath the late-morning sun, steel clashing in rhythmic bursts. Dust rose in lazy clouds that caught the light like golden smoke.

  Lorent, the eldest brother, moved like a storm trained to obey—a seamless flow of power and precision. Garron stood nearby, analyzing every move, his voice sharp and authoritative.

  Kael arrived fashionably late, tunic untucked, sleeves rolled up, walking like he owned a different schedule entirely.

  “You’re late,” Lorent called, tossing him a wooden sword without looking.

  Kael caught it one-handed. “Had to argue with a bread thief.”

  Garron arched a brow. “You stole the bread. Look at you—crumbs everywhere.”

  Kael looked down at his chest. He was, in fact, dusted with cinnamon. “And yet I won the argument.”

  The match began before either brother could reply.

  Kael copied Lorent’s stance, then shifted into Garron’s favored footwork. His movements weren’t perfect, but they were close—too close. Within moments, one of the training guards stumbled back, weapon knocked clean from his grip.

  “He’s copying our stances,” Garron said, frowning.

  “Exactly,” Lorent murmured, eyes narrowing. “And he improved your pivot.”

  Kael pretended to lose balance, spinning the sword once and falling with a grunt that looked clumsy enough to hide the grin curling at the corner of his mouth.

  

  

  He face-planted into the dirt before the smugness could surface. “Oof.”

  Garron tilted his head. “That slip was too perfect.”

  Kael lifted a thumb from the ground without raising his head. “Just talented like that.”

  Lorent exhaled, caught somewhere between pride and exasperation. “Water break.”

  Kael stayed prone a moment longer, cheek pressed against sun-warmed stone, letting the quiet settle through him. Training was exhausting. Pretending to be bad at it? Even worse.

  By evening, the heat had faded to a golden hush. The courtyard glowed in long shadows, and laughter drifted from the lower halls where children played near the fountain. Guards traded stories with stablehands. Someone passed a sweetbread to a weary soldier. The world felt smaller here—peaceful, real.

  Kael sat on the fountain’s edge, legs swinging, half-eaten meat bun in hand. Crumbs clung stubbornly to his tunic again. His hair stuck out in three directions. He watched the ripples on the water and let his thoughts slow.

  Emberhollow wasn’t like the stories. No divine kings or endless armies. Just people trying to live. Trying to laugh. Trying not to burn out.

  He felt it in his chest, that quiet, unfamiliar weight—the urge to protect it all.

  he said softly, eyes still on the reflection of the dying sun.

  There was a pause, almost human. Then the voice answered.

  

  He studied his reflection—the messy hair, the golden eyes, the crumbs. he whispered.

  The wind shifted, carrying laughter from the plaza. For a heartbeat, everything felt simple.

  But deep inside the castle, simplicity was already dying.

  That night, while Kael snored in a pile of blankets, two cloaked figures moved through the stone corridors near the royal archives.

  “He survived the assessment flame once,” one whispered.

  “Let us pray the Soul Prism does not shatter again,” the other replied.

  “House Drayke cannot endure another failure.”

  Their footsteps faded into the dark.

  And in the quiet of his dreams, Kael wandered a kingdom of soft gold and shadow, chasing a light that flickered just beyond reach. Cinnamon and fire. Laughter and fear. He didn’t know what it meant—only that it was his.

  Outside, dawn waited.

  And somewhere, beneath the palace floor, the Soul Prism stirred.