There was so much entrusted to me. My mother, the kingdom, the unspoken legacy of our family—these weighed upon me like an invisible cloak, both a symbol of privilege and a shackle. I had told the officers what they needed to know about the accident, offering them every detail I had observed, though it had been little more than flashes: headlights in the storm, the sickening crunch of metal, and the faint cries afterward.
Yet, no matter how many times I recounted it, the image that lingered most wasn't the accident itself. It was the child—bruised, pale, and impossibly small—carried from the wreckage with careful hands. I hadn't seen his face up close, but his vulnerability had struck me deeply. He reminded me of myself when I was young, fragile in ways others couldn't understand.
Sickly. That was what they'd called me. They'd whispered, feared, doubted, wondering if the boy who was to carry the family's lineage would survive at all. My mother bore it all with a fierce grace, her protectiveness unwavering. She had woven a veil of secrecy around my condition, telling those above her whatever they needed to hear. He's recovering, she'd say, or he's not yet ready to join us in full strength. And they had believed her—partly because they trusted her, but mostly because it suited them to ignore what they couldn't understand.
Swain had been my shield through it all, my silent, loyal companion. When others couldn't comprehend, he had always known. He was the first to nourish me with an energy transfer, that complex, sacred exchange I'd once feared yet come to depend on. He had shared his own vitality, feeding my fragile body when I couldn't sustain myself otherwise. It was the one method that allowed me to survive without... choosing a victim.
But my mother had known that the truth would lead to scandal, to doubt about my strength and legitimacy. So she lied. She lied to protect me, and she lied to protect the family's image. She didn't want them to know that their future king could barely rise from bed without help, that I needed Swain's touch and energy just to function on some days. That I was, in their eyes, a liability.
I wondered now if that child in the hospital had a protector like Swain, someone willing to sacrifice their own strength for him. Would he survive this? Would he grow up to understand his own fragility as both curse and strength? Or would he become embittered by it, as I had once been?
I leaned back in my study, where the dim light barely illuminated the ancient wood and leather binding of the books surrounding me. I was grateful for the solitude here. Outside these walls, I was never truly alone, watched by advisors, courtiers, and citizens. But here, it was just me and the ghosts of my past—my mother's lies, Swain's silent devotion, and the doubts I'd carried like stones in my chest for as long as I could remember.
It's strange, I thought, staring at a portrait of my father that hung above the mantle, his stern eyes meeting mine. We are trained to believe in strength, in power, but those who save us are the ones who shelter our weaknesses.
I rubbed my temples, the weight of it all bearing down on me. My mother's deceptions had saved me, and Swain's silent sacrifices had sustained me. And yet, here I was, centuries later, haunted by the idea that I was still that sickly boy, still reliant on others to survive.
The boy from the accident was likely still in that hospital room, fighting to hold onto life. I could sense the faint tremor in my fingers at the thought. Perhaps I could help him somehow. Not directly, not as myself—but I could send resources, make arrangements for his care. It wouldn't raise suspicion if handled correctly. After all, I was a prince, and the charity of the throne was never questioned.
Swain entered the room quietly, as he often did, sensing my thoughts before I'd even put words to them. He knew better than anyone what weighed on me.
"Your Highness," he said softly, inclining his head.
I looked up at him, his face a reassuring presence in a world that sometimes felt like it was built on quicksand. He had been at my side for so long that I could scarcely remember a time without him.
"Swain," I began, unsure how to phrase what I wanted to ask. "The boy from the accident... I'd like to see to his care, anonymously, of course. There should be no question about it, only... that he is well looked after."
Swain's expression softened, understanding immediately. He didn't ask questions; he didn't need to.
"I will see to it," he replied. "The family's resources can be discreetly allocated. The child will receive the best care."
I nodded, grateful, though a familiar ache stirred in my chest. Swain had spent his life watching over me, caring for me in silence. And now he would do the same for a stranger because I asked it of him. He was the true strength behind my title, and yet no one would ever know.