The hearth burned slow, flames held by a spell like tethered birds. They breathed warmth that chased off autumn’s chill.
Golden filigree rippled with elemental sheen, a river of light across carved sigils. No common home could afford a Mage-Master’s custom hearth. The boy slouched on the sofa facing it, turning a grimoire in lazy, drifting rhythm.
Soon, knocks tapped at the door like dry branches. The boy didn’t lift his head and said, “Steve? Come in. It’s unlocked.”
An elder in a butler’s coat eased the door open, bowed first, then offered a letter with both hands.
“Your Highness, another letter from the palace. Please…”
“Did my father, that old fossil, die?”
“Your Highness…”
Butler Steve wore helplessness like rain on his face, yet kept his posture unmoved.
“He’s too old, so old the crown’s a winter leaf that should fall to my brother.”
“But he’s your father. Your Highness, you should keep respect.”
“I refuse.”
The book snapped shut with a sharp crack, impatience storming his face.
“His clout is under my brother’s, his strategy under mine. He clings to old order like moss on stone, always saying, ‘You’re young. Too green.’ Let him retire in peace. You can’t beat the Demon King with yesterday’s stockpiles. Why doesn’t he get it?”
“In my humble view, His Majesty wants you tempered further. That’s why you’re kept from the court and sent to study at the Hero Academy.”
“I get it. My brother and I beat the old man on the whole. In fine work—soothing hearts, calming crowds—we’re behind him. I know.”
He rose, smoothed his uniform collar, shrugged on his coat, tightened the tie. He took Steve’s letter and tossed it aside like a cold leaf.
“It’s best that you understand His Majesty’s intent.”
“Of course. If he were wrong, I’d have urged my brother to march already, drums across frost, and force his abdication.”
“Your Highness…” Steve gave a wry smile. “Say that in here if you must, but not outside. It stains your name like ink on silk.”
“So what? The whole world knows Cangfeng’s House Beatrice has a second prince with a rotten temper. I do wish the old man dies sooner.”
“Your Highness, why carry that mask? You’re not like this.”
“…Yeah. Acting is exhausting, like hauling wet armor.”
His hands slowed over his study texts. He straightened, sighed, then slid the books into his satchel again, steady as wind over reeds.
“Steve, if a nation has one wise heir, that’s a blessing.”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
“But two?”
“…”
“I do want the crown. I don’t think I’m beneath my brother. But I’m the second prince; most will rally to him like banners of migrating geese.”
“…”
“I want to be king, but not at the cost of my country falling. So I won’t fight my brother for the throne. Steve, I still know what greater duty is.” He turned, voice ringing clean like a steel bell.
“I’m sorry, Your Highness.”
“It’s nothing, Steve. I should thank you for staying with an heir who won’t be king. I like my brother, and I don’t hate the old man. We each guard our own justice. But I question this: the Founder gave us bodies and souls—why not a single justice, a shared spirit under one sky?”
“I don’t know, but… Your Highness, the palace seems to send good news, like a spring breeze.”
“Steve, you’ve been with me long enough to skip such bland comfort.”
He shot his butler a weary glance, a cloud sliding past the sun.
“It’s real. Your father arranged you a marriage…”
Before Steve finished, the boy snatched the envelope and tore it open, quick as a hawk’s shadow.
“Damn that old man. How could he—why her?” His voice rumbled like distant thunder.
“Your Highness?”
Steve saw his lord stand frozen like carved ice, unmoving, and frowned.
“No, it’s nothing. Coincidence just made me choke on a laugh.”
He said it, yet his face stayed dark, storm brewing at the edge of his eyes.
“You don’t like it? The Crown Prince screened many exceptional ladies and picked your type—strong, bright, confident, and your classmate. His Majesty thought you’d like her, so he set the betrothal first…”
“What about the girl’s say?”
“…Your Highness, you’re of age… Your Highness, what did you just say?”
“I said, what about her say?” He pressed each word like a hot stamp on wax.
“They say her family strongly approves, drums pounding behind closed doors…”
“My brother and the old man meant well and bungled it. At school everyone knows she’s on bad terms with her family. Damn.”
He seized the letter and the attached contract, shredded them, slammed the scraps down, then kicked them into the hearth. Sparks leapt like startled fireflies.
“What are you doing?”
“My brother’s right. I do like her. I’ve liked her for a long time. I like her grit, her keen mind, her confident stride. I want to court her. I want to marry her. But—”
He shoved the door wide; it banged like thunder.
“I, Abigail Beatrice, Second Prince of Cangfeng, won’t take a wife by such base means.”
He set his trim military cap, voice ringing like steel on stone.
“I’ll pursue her myself. Not with the kingdom’s power or a prince’s title. With my own strength and charm I’ll win her. I don’t need the palace’s old man or my brother. I’ll go and pursue Raven.”
The old butler still bowed to his departing master. The boy—no, Abigail—looked long at him, as if seeing the vast kingdom standing behind the man. Then he shut the door, firm as a blade slicing air.
