The palace bells chimed softly as dawn painted the sky in hues of pale gold. A peaceful silence blanketed the kingdom of Lactresia, disturbed only by the distant rhythm of a training sword cutting through the morning air.
In the palace's eastern courtyard, Julius Lactresia, firstborn son of King Marcus and Crown Prince of Lactresia, moved gracefully through his sword forms. His white hair, a signature of the royal bloodline, glistened with morning dew, and his silver eyes reflected the focus of a man not training for war—but for peace.
Julius was twenty, and though still young, he had reached the Norm Reach stage—commendable for his age. His movements were precise but soft, like a painter stroking a canvas with a brush of steel.
Despite their physical resemblance—tall, white-haired, noble-faced—Julius and Fortis were worlds apart in spirit. Where Fortis was outspoken, social, and steady-minded, Julius was quiet, reserved, and painfully gentle. Yet both were deeply beloved by the citizens.
They were two suns in different skies: Fortis, the friendly flame of the hearth; Julius, the distant warmth of the moonlit night.
The servants often whispered about the day Julius changed. As a child, he was painfully shy—rarely spoke to anyone beyond his family. One day, when he was just five and Fortis still a toddler, Queen Charlotte took both her sons to the local market.
It was supposed to be a simple outing—a breath of fresh air beyond the palace walls.
But in the lively bustle of stalls and songs, Julius slipped away.
He wandered into the maze of stone streets, his little hands trembling, white hair glowing under the sun. The crowd shifted around him, and though no one intended harm, fear flooded the boy's heart. He cried out, again and again.
People recognized him immediately—he was the prince, after all—but still too stunned to act.
Then, a humble hand touched his shoulder.
"Are you lost, little one?"
An old woman, clothed in worn linens and smelling faintly of dried herbs, knelt beside him. She was a peasant, and her hands were calloused from decades of labor. But her smile… it was warm. Maternal.
She calmed him, held him, and led him safely back to Charlotte, who had already begun to panic.
That moment changed Julius forever.
He learned that kindness didn't wear gold or silver. That safety didn't always come from knights in shining armor. Sometimes, it came from the frail hands of the forgotten.
From then on, he visited the old woman often. Her name was Erelia. She lived in a quiet village nearby. She had three sons, all proud soldiers of Lactresia.
Then came the Night of the Howling Sky, when a terrible beast—Goruvalk, a creature of black scales and twin jaws—descended from the northern cliffs. It was a monster not seen in over a century. Lactresia's forces were sent to stop it.
Among the fallen were all three of Erelia's sons.
Her world crumbled in a single night.
When Julius heard the news, he rode out in tears and brought her back to the palace.
"I want her to live here," he told the ministers. "With me. In the royal wing."
But tradition forbade it.
Though Lactresia did not discriminate openly, there were still boundaries. A commoner couldn't reside within royal quarters.
Julius pleaded. Reasoned. Argued.
But rules prevailed.
Erelia was given a house just outside the city, with servants to tend to her. But Julius knew her heart had already faded. And one night, while he was away helping settle a village dispute, a traveling noble—drunk and arrogant—stabbed Erelia in a fit of rage for simply not bowing quickly enough.
She died on the road.
The people mourned her.
But Julius never forgave himself—or the crown.
From that day forward, he saw nobility as shallow. He refused to attend high court unless necessary. He declined feasts, avoided galas. He focused entirely on helping the poor, the sick, the weak. Even when shady groups or plunderers appeared, he tried to understand them first. Tried to reason with them.
Many manipulated him. Took advantage of his trust.
But still… he never stopped being kind.
Back in the castle, Fortis stood in the royal library, replaying his father's words from the previous night.
"You are stronger than you think, Fortis. When the time comes… choose not with fear, but with purpose."
Fortis closed the book in his hands and exhaled. He looked out the arched window toward the training yard where Julius was still practicing.
"I can't take his place," Fortis whispered.
His hands clenched.
"Someone like him… someone who holds no hatred even for those who harmed him, who tries to protect people who wrong him—that's the kind of person who should wear a crown."
He walked out into the garden, the morning sun warming his skin.
"I'll protect the kingdom," he thought. "I'll become strong—not for power, not for fame, not for a throne I don't want… but so that he never has to raise his blade."
And for the first time, Fortis Lactresia looked at the path of strength with a clear heart.
Not as a prince. Not as a spare heir.
But as a shield.
While Julius would protect the people from harm...
Fortis would protect the kingdom from danger.
He raised his eyes to the sky. The wind stirred the wildflowers around him.
He would begin training. Seriously. Diligently.
Because peace wasn't something gifted.
It had to be guarded.
And so began a new resolve.
Two brothers, one throne.
But no rivalry.
Only love.
And a vow—
To protect their home, side by side.