one year later
"Stay here, Axel. Ambrose's daughter will be out soon. You are to make a good impression."
The command was delivered in a voice that offered no room for negotiation—measured, absolute, and hollow of warmth. His father's words always carried that same lifeless precision, like they'd been sharpened against stone and memorized from some ancient script of power and control. This one was no different. An order dressed in civility, polite only on the surface.
Axel stood just outside the Ambrose home, the sound of his father's voice still hanging heavy in the air. The instructions, though simple, curled around his spine like a collar—tight, unrelenting, and impossible to remove.
"You are to make a good impression."
It didn't matter what he thought. It never did.
Do as you're told.
Do not question.
Do not react.
Smile. Nod. Obey.
Be good.
Be quiet.
Be perfect.
Good dog.
"Is that understood, son?"
Axel did not hesitate. He didn't sigh or blink or allow a single muscle in his face to betray how much he resented the man standing before him.
"Yes, Father," he answered.
His tone was flat but acceptable, void of resistance but devoid of enthusiasm. The perfect balance. The only safe reply.
His father nodded once—sharp, mechanical—then turned and disappeared into the Ambroses' home without so much as a backward glance. The door swung open, then slowly eased shut behind him, cutting Axel off from the man's shadow like a curtain falling at the end of a performance.
Vance followed after him with the same kind of grace a snake might have if taught how to mimic nobility. His older brother let out a soft, amused snicker as he passed, casting Axel a sideways glance that didn't need words to convey its condescension. Axel didn't respond. He didn't return the look, didn't scowl or roll his eyes or even breathe a little harder. He had learned long ago that the best armor wasn't defiance—it was silence.
As soon as he was alone, standing in the neatly kept yard of the Ambroses' home, Axel finally allowed himself a breath that wasn't tethered to fear.
The air smelled of pine and chimney smoke, of earth still warm from the afternoon sun, though shadows now crept long across the grass. A cool breeze stirred the leaves in the trees lining the property, whispering secrets he'd never be allowed to hear. The breeze tugged at the hem of his tunic and brushed his hair away from his eyes, and for a second, he imagined what it would feel like to keep walking—to leave the path, the house, the orders, the entire kingdom behind.
But he didn't move.
He remained rooted where he'd been told to stand, his posture composed, his hands clasped lightly behind his back in the way he'd been trained to present himself during royal visits. From the outside, he looked every bit the prince—neatly dressed, obedient, and immaculately mannered.
Inside, his thoughts were heavier.
He could still feel the ache across his shoulders, deep beneath the fine fabric of his shirt. Though the wounds had healed, the scars remained—etched into his skin like tally marks, reminders of every mistake he'd ever made.
They weren't just physical. They were instructional.
Every disobedience had its price, and his father never failed to collect.
Axel had learned quickly what happened to princes who hesitated. Who asked questions. Who resisted.
The lessons had come in blood and silence, in bruises hidden beneath collars and pain masked with polite smiles. At eleven years old, Axel had already survived punishments that would have broken grown men.
More days than not, he hated the name he'd been given.
Not Axel—but the name that followed it. The title that wrapped around his identity like barbed wire.
Prince Axel Leopold, son of King Vladimir Cain Leopold II.
A name that carried weight and history and expectation. A name that demanded perfection.
But as he stood in the quiet hush of evening, alone outside a home that didn't belong to royalty, Axel found himself wondering—just for a moment—what it would be like to be just Axel.
Not prince. Not heir. Not weapon.
Just... a boy waiting to meet a girl.
Axel had never truly understood the depths of his father's cruelty, though by now, he had accepted it as fact—something constant, like the moon or the cold. The other children he occasionally saw around the palace would talk, when no one was listening, of their parents—of fathers who read stories by firelight, mothers who taught them how to braid ribbons or grow herbs in tiny garden pots. They'd speak of bedtime songs and lessons full of laughter, of encouragement, affection, even pride.
Axel had never known any of that.
The only lessons his father ever bothered to teach were the ones that shaped obedience, sharpened performance. He was trained—never raised. Groomed, not loved.
He had been taught the proper customs when greeting foreign dignitaries.
Taught which houses were worth respect, and which were beneath it.
Taught how to stand with his back straight, hands still, chin just slightly lowered to feign humility.
But the most sacred of teachings had been carved into him with more than words.
Never tarnish the family name.
Never speak ill of blood.
Never, ever discuss royal business outside the walls of the palace.
Those rules weren't whispered—they were seared. The kind of laws that left scars when broken.
As Axel stood alone outside the Ambroses' home, his gaze drifted toward the door that had just swallowed his father whole. His jaw clenched.
He thought of Vance—his elder brother, the heir, the golden son who never had to lift a finger to be favored. Vance had undergone much of the same training, of course—they had shared tutors, shared dining halls, shared ceremonial roles. But somehow, their father had always looked at Vance with pride and at Axel with something colder. Like Axel was a blade meant to be honed, not a son meant to be loved.
Axel tried not to hate him for it.
But the jealousy still burned.
It curled inside his chest like fire behind his ribs, a heat that wouldn't fade. He hated how Vance followed their father through every door, never questioning, never looking back. A loyal dog in a prince's cloak. Axel envied how easy it seemed for him. How simple.
Yet even envy couldn't extinguish the quiet rage that came with it.
Vance had just stepped inside the Ambroses' house, a home Axel knew far better than anyone realized.
A home he visited almost nightly for the past year.
No one knew.
And he prayed to whatever gods hadn't abandoned him that it stayed that way.
To them, this was business. A routine royal visit. Nothing more.
But Axel's heart knew better.
Off to his side, Dorien stood silently, saying nothing. The boy's posture was proper, almost eerily so, but his eyes—too dark, too serious for someone only nine—were fixed on the door Vance had just vanished through. Dorien never asked questions, rarely spoke unless prompted, and always seemed to watch the world as if waiting for it to hurt him.
Axel hated that look.
He hated how familiar it felt.
Vance followed their father like a shadow on a leash, never once glancing back—not at Axel, not at Dorien, not at anyone who mattered. His loyalty was unquestioning, indifferent to what their father did behind closed doors or what scars were left behind afterward.
Axel, on the other hand, had spent years learning how to hide those scars.
How to wash away blood before anyone noticed.
How to swallow a scream.
How to bite down on pain and pretend it was protocol.
But with Dorien, he tried to do something different—he tried to protect him from it.
Tried to shield him from the darker truths.
Axel didn't know if it helped, but they spent time together when no one else cared to. Their fathers rarely involved themselves unless a lesson was scheduled, or an appearance needed to be made for the sake of the throne. Axel knew what it was like to be seen only when useful, and he refused to let Dorien bear that weight alone.
Because in the end, no matter how polished the marble floors or how heavy the crowns, it was all just performance.
The royal family had to keep up appearances.
And no one applauded a prince who cried.
Axel stood in still silence just outside the Ambroses' home, his hands clasped behind his back and his posture carefully schooled, though tension rippled beneath the surface like a taut wire waiting to snap. He said nothing to Dorien, who stood beside him, quiet and observant as always, his gaze following their fathers as they disappeared through the front door.
Axel didn't look away from the house. Not even for a second.
Scarlett would appear soon.
He had to pretend—they had to pretend—that this would be their first meeting.
That had been the agreement. One they'd made the night before.
It had been a difficult conversation.
After nearly a full year of speaking to her beneath her window, night after night, keeping his face half-shrouded in shadows and his identity carefully protected, Axel had finally told her the truth.
He was Prince Axel Leopold, the second son of King Vladimir. A boy who had no business standing under the window of a commoner's home. A prince who had lied to her every single time she'd asked where he came from.
He had held that secret so tightly for so long that it had started to feel like it didn't matter—like their friendship had somehow existed outside of titles and truths.
But it did matter.
It mattered the moment he told her.
He had been pacing in the yard, heart racing and mouth dry, trying to form the words properly in his head before he saw the familiar flick of candlelight in her window. As always, she'd appeared like a vision—quiet, curious, eyes wide with the sort of freedom he envied and the sort of warmth he feared losing.
He told her everything.
The name. The bloodline. The throne. The lie.
And for a moment, it had gone better than he expected. She hadn't screamed. She hadn't slammed the window shut. She hadn't even called him a liar.
Instead, Scarlett had simply stared at him, her expression unreadable. Then the questions started—not angry, but fast and breathless, pouring out of her like she had been waiting her entire life to meet someone like him. She had laughed at how obvious it had been in hindsight. She had teased him. Grinned at him.
And Axel—like the fool he was—thought it meant he was forgiven.
But later, when she grew quiet, when the space between her words began to stretch, he knew.
Her silence said everything.
There had been betrayal in her eyes, though she never spoke it aloud. A flicker of something disappointed. Hurt. Confused.
She'd spent a year believing he was someone she could trust.
Someone honest.
Someone real.
And the truth had fractured that, even if only slightly. Even if she tried to pretend it hadn't.
Axel hadn't slept that night.
He had stared at the ceiling of his chamber until the stars faded into daylight, wondering if he'd just ruined the most precious thing he had in his life.
Because no matter what anyone thought of her—no matter what his father would say, or how dangerous it would be if the truth got out—Scarlett Ambrose was more than just a girl.
She was Axel's first and only real friend.
She was the only one who saw him not as a prince, not as a problem, but simply as a boy.
And now, because of a truth he had waited too long to share, she was also the girl whose trust he might have broken.
The front doors creaked open once more, a slow groan of old wood breaking the quiet. Scarlett stepped into the sunlit frame, her silhouette sharp against the glow from inside the house. Axel froze without meaning to. He hadn't expected her to walk out so slowly, so... composed.
This was the first time he'd seen her this close.
Without her second-story window between them.
Without shadows to soften her face.
Without the night to hide behind.
Her black hair gleamed in the daylight—rich, dark, and cascading in soft waves down the length of her back like ink poured over porcelain. It framed her face perfectly, a striking contrast to the pale pink of her cheeks and the startling clarity of her blue eyes. And when her chin lifted, that smile—the one he thought he knew better than anything—spread across her face like she hadn't just learned he'd lied to her for a year.
As if none of it mattered.
His chest tightened.
She was masking it well, but Axel knew the truth. She was performing. That smile wasn't for him. Not really. It was armor. Her steps were too light, too measured, like she was keeping a secret under every movement.
And Dorien, wide-eyed beside him, was utterly unaware.
Axel caught the pink climbing into his cousin's cheeks. Dorien was practically glowing, his eyes fixed on Scarlett with innocent admiration. He'd never seen her before—never had the late-night conversations, the shared secrets, or the flickers of vulnerability. To Dorien, she was just a pretty girl who walked like a princess.
Axel swallowed, pushing down the sharp jealousy that twisted in his gut. He forced his feet to move.
Stepping forward, he raised a hand—palm open, rehearsed. "Hi," he said carefully. "I'm Axel."
She hesitated.
Just long enough for him to notice.
Her eyes flicked to his, a spark of something unreadable passing through them. Not surprise. Not confusion. Something heavier. A reminder.
You lied to me.
But she didn't call him out. Not here. Not in front of anyone else. Scarlett simply stepped forward and took his hand in hers, squeezing gently.
"Scarlett," she said, her voice steady.
Her grip was warm. Strong. Her skin soft against the callouses on his palm. For a second, Axel felt anchored—like everything might be okay again. But when she let go, the emptiness crept back in like water through a cracked wall.
Then she turned to Dorien, her attention shifting with graceful ease.
Axel watched her expression, studying the smile that hadn't faded, but wasn't entirely real either. She looked at Dorien the way she used to look at him—curious, bright, inviting. The sight carved something sharp through his chest.
He stood there, quiet, wondering when exactly her trust had fractured.
Was it the moment he confessed the truth last night?
Or had the doubts started weeks ago—whispers behind her eyes, too polite to speak aloud?
He didn't know. He just knew that, somehow, the girl who used to call him friend now had walls in her eyes and silence in the spaces where there used to be light.
And for the first time since they met, Axel wasn't sure she would let him fix it.
Dorien wasted no time. The moment Scarlett turned toward him, he stepped forward and extended his hand with the kind of enthusiasm only a nine-year-old boy could muster. "I'm Dorien, Axel's cousin," he beamed, his grin stretching so wide Axel half expected his cheeks to split.
To Axel's growing dismay, Scarlett let out a melodic giggle—soft, effortless, and genuine. Her hand slipped into Dorien's and gave it a quick shake. "Nice to meet you, Dorien, Axel's cousin," she teased lightly, twirling a strand of her black hair around her index finger.
Axel shifted his weight from one foot to the other. The heat that bloomed at the back of his neck wasn't from the sun. He told himself not to care—that it didn't matter. But jealousy was a hungry thing. And now it nipped and clawed at the back of his mind as he watched her smile so easily at someone who hadn't spent a hundred nights beneath her window.
Then, with a sweep of her hand, she gestured to the swing set nestled in the soft grass just off to their right. "Want to swing with me?" she asked, eyes bouncing between them, hopeful.
Axel and Dorien both turned their heads to follow her gaze, eyes landing on the twin swings swaying gently in the breeze. For a split second, they looked at each other. A silent challenge passed between them.
Axel moved first—reflex more than choice.
His legs kicked off the ground as he bolted for the swings, gravel crunching underfoot. He could hear Dorien on his heels, their short race as childish as it was necessary. Axel's hand stretched forward and gripped the rubber-coated chain just a breath ahead of his cousin.
Victory.
His lips pulled into a smirk as he dropped into the seat, a smug satisfaction swelling in his chest. The swing creaked softly beneath his weight as Scarlett skipped toward them, her dark hair catching the sunlight in glossy ribbons.
She slid onto the second swing with a small bounce, immediately starting to wiggle her legs forward and back, but she turned her head over her shoulder, calling sweetly, "Dorien, can you please push me?"
Axel's smirk vanished like smoke in the wind.
He blinked, heart sinking as Dorien's face lit up. The younger boy strutted over, basking in the attention like a prince answering a call. His hands pressed gently against Scarlett's lower back, giving her a push that sent her forward with a delighted laugh. He wasn't strong—not like Axel—but he tried. And Scarlett didn't seem to mind.
She laughed again as she gained momentum, her small legs kicking forward, eyes sparkling like they held the entire summer sky inside them.
Axel stared straight ahead, gripping the chains of his swing until his knuckles went white. That bitter taste returned to his mouth—sour and dry, like betrayal and resentment mixed into one. It clawed its way up his throat but he swollowed it down.
He couldn't let her see it.
He wouldn't let Dorien see it.
Instead, Axel did what he knew best. He turned his head, plastered on a crooked grin, and launched into one of his best jokes. It was a stupid one—something about a royal butler, a horse, and a pie—but Scarlett laughed anyway. And that laugh, his laugh, was enough.
Even as Dorien's eyes narrowed with quiet annoyance, Axel kept the jokes coming, each punchline sharper than the last. Every laugh he earned from Scarlett—every crinkle at the corners of her eyes—became a small victory. A tiny reclaiming of what was his.
Because deep down, beneath the sarcasm and jealousy, Axel knew one thing for certain.
Scarlett wasn't just his friend.
She was his.
All too soon, the warm bubble of afternoon faded when their father's voice bellowed from the front steps, calling for their return. The sound cut through the laughter like a blade. Scarlett gave them both a cheerful wave, her fingers fluttering like wind-kissed petals before she turned toward the house. The moment the front door shut behind her, the light that had filled Axel's chest dimmed. It was as if the sun itself had been pulled behind heavy storm clouds, leaving behind a hollow ache he couldn't explain.
He stared at the door longer than necessary, the hole in his chest yawning open again, raw and wide. It was always like this when she left—when her brightness slipped from his reach and the shadows crept back in.
Their father barked another command, urging Axel toward the blacked-out limousine waiting at the edge of the gravel drive. The vehicle gleamed ominously in the sunlight, its sleek lines like a serpent poised to strike—just as unyielding, just as cold. It was the only mode of travel permitted for long-distance appearances—standard for royalty.
"Vladimir," their father commanded, motioning toward the car.
Axel bristled at the name, but masked it well. His full name, taking after his father, felt wrong. "Yes, Father," he answered dutifully, climbing inside and settling into the cold leather seat. He folded his hands neatly in his lap, his back ramrod straight as their father slid in beside him.
Across from them, Vance and Dorien entered without a word, their gazes locked on the floor. Axel didn't look their way. He already felt Dorien's mood souring beside him like rotting fruit.
"Did you do as I asked?" the King asked, voice as flat as steel.
Axel kept his tone neutral, his face a blank slate. "Yes, Father. I made a good impression with Mr. Ambrose's daughter."
The King gave a curt nod, though his eyes were focused somewhere far beyond the tinted windows, as if his thoughts were lost in calculations Axel couldn't fathom. "Good. You'll continue to do so. We'll be visiting the Ambroses more frequently from now on."
Axel didn't let his expression change, but excitement buzzed in his chest like wildfire. Beside him, he could feel Dorien's heated glare press into the side of his skull like a knife. Still, Axel kept his gaze forward, his voice steady. "Yes, Father."
His hands twisted slightly in his lap—the only betrayal of what stirred inside him. Another of his father's countless rules echoed in his mind:
Emotion is weakness.
Weakness gets you, and everything you love, killed.
A lesson branded into him with scars as permanent as bone. One delivered the same day they laid Queen Fionna to rest.
Rest in Glory, Mother.
The rest of the ride passed in suffocating silence. Axel stared at the seat across from him but saw only Scarlett's face in his mind—the way her eyes lit up when she smiled, the playful arch of her brows, the fearless warmth in her voice. She was sun and storm in equal measure. Beautiful. Addictive. And dangerous in all the ways Axel wanted to embrace.
He flicked his eyes toward Dorien, catching the rigid tension in his cousin's posture. The boy's hands were clenched, his shoulders squared with jealousy he wasn't bothering to hide anymore.
And for once, Axel didn't care.
He had followed orders. He had made the impression. Scarlett laughed at his jokes. She had reached for his hand. She had met his eyes first. And whatever thread now tethered him to her, Axel knew one thing for certain: he wasn't going to let go.
If Dorien's feelings for her ran deep, that would be unfortunate.
Because for the first time in his life, Axel wanted to be selfish.
He had been told to make an impression—and he had. But beyond that, he wanted to. Not for the crown. Not for his father. Not even for the Kingdom.
For himself.
The protectiveness that stirred in his gut was fierce, unfamiliar, and absolute. Since the day his mother died, nothing had truly belonged to him—nothing but pain and expectation. But Scarlett... Scarlett had become his secret, his sanctuary, and his singular treasure.
Whatever the future brought, Axel knew it would grow complicated—maybe even dangerous—but he didn't care.
Scarlett was his. And no one, not even Dorien, would stand in his way.
Not this time.
Not with her.