Morning came, and the sunlight woke me up, passing through the hole in my broken window. A new day, but the weight of my responsibility was still the same. I was just pulling on my boots when April's voice crashed into my room like a storm.
"Winter," she snapped. She came inside the room in an instant, with her hands folded, judging me. "Winter, I am not your babysitter anymore. You have to wake up on your own. Do you know what time it is? Nine already. Thirty minutes in and your school starts. Look at yourself!"
"Yes, Aunt April. Last night I had to do homework, which delayed my sleep."
"Why were you jumping while studying? The sounds were everywhere last night."
Actually, I was just playing with my knife, Winter thought to himself.
"Oh no, no. You got it all wrong, Aunt. You need to study for 40 minutes and exercise for 20 minutes. It proved to be effective for my study."
"Oh really?" Aunt April replied. "Then it had better reflect in your marks as well. Your academics have been very poor for the past few years. You are sixteen now, next year is college. But it's never too late. Either you get your head out of the clouds and actually commit yourself to the pizzeria—our family's lifeline, mind you—or you march yourself down to the enlistment office and sign up for the King's Summoner Corps."
Ahem. Her voice carried that sting of finality, the kind that leaves no cracks for escape. But inside? Oh, haha, I was laughing, not outwardly, but deep in my stubborn heart. Commit to dough and sauce forever? Or shackles of military duty? Ugh, what a joke. Both futures felt like cages, cold and suffocating.
Aunt April didn't see that. She wouldn't.
"Okay, okay, I see. Stop pressuring me. I have to go to school. Your scolding already took five minutes off my journey." I slid past Aunt swiftly, to avoid her eagle-like eyes.
I have learned a few things over the years—that keeping my mouth shut in situations like this is the best thing I can do for myself. She thinks my quietness means surrender. Ha. My silent rebellion tastes bitter, but it's sweet at the same time. Because to be an adventurer is not a dream of mine. It's an addiction.
The dagger I once summoned, slick and silver, hidden under my bed, was proof. Proof that I wasn't just some daydreaming fool. Proof that I was different.
School was no better. But it's important to understand my country's history and learn sword arts. Knowing these things helps me grow, but besides these, the majority of the day I sat there, doodling lines in my notebook, while the laughter of my peers stabbed at me from every direction.
"Oh look," one of them snickered, "there's Winter, staring into space again. Probably dreaming about being a hero while the rest of us do something with our lives."
Haha, so original. As if I hadn't heard that one a thousand times.
"Hey Winter, y'know what? Maybe you should just join the circus—your head's already in the clouds!. Can you show us what research you have completed now and on what heroes? Studying about heroes will not help you become one, nerd."
Argh, of course I do training, just not in front of you morons, but I didn't flinch. Because even if no one believes in you, you've got to believe in yourself and ignore Voices which got nothing better to do than belittle someone who isn't an obedient sheep like them.
I could summon things. Little oddities. Herbs, fragments of strange objects, sometimes things that didn't belong in this world at all. I kept it secret outside my home. Always.
But there's Mr. Hammison, who knows about my abilities. He and I always work to formulate different kinds of pills for herbal purposes. But today he was a little odd.
"Good morning, sir," I said.
"Ye… weah." He shrugged me off in a hurry. "Class today is your periodic table class. Please open page 32." Mr. Hammison spoke as if he were in a rush to complete this class and run off somewhere.
The periodic table is so boring—just learn the names and parrot them until memorisation is complete. But something was off. Mr. Hammison isn't someone who would let a student doze off in broad daylight. And I am a culprit several times today itself. It's very odd not to get scolded even once by now.
Then something flinched. His body posture was odd. He brought out a pill and swallowed it immediately. But as his gaze was about to meet mine, I turned my eyes as if I saw nothing. His face changed, a smile twitching across his lips that didn't belong there. Creepy. Wrong. Unnatural. Unlike Mr. Hammison, from my memory.
Argh. Why didn't I speak up? Why did I let it happen?
Walking home that evening felt like trudging through mud. Every step heavier than the last. The image of his twitching smile clung to me like a parasite.
Had I done this? Was I the reason he looked like that?
So I walked, weary and torn, caught between hope and despair, excitement and dread.
Night draped itself over the rooftops, and honestly, it felt like the whole sky was sighing. I was about to hit the hay, bury myself in the same dull routine, when—knock, knock—soft but urgent. Aah.
When I pulled it open, I saw him. Michael. He wasn't just anyone—he was a junior of mine, a good friend, someone who usually carried laughter on his shoulders like a second skin. Not the loudmouth clown people expect from that name, but Michael Logan, son of Prince Logan. Royal blood flowed in his veins, and yet tonight, standing on my doorstep, he looked nothing like a prince.
And boy, he looked wrecked. His eyes were rimmed red, lids heavy, like he hadn't slept in weeks. Dark shadows pooled under them, bruises left not by fists but by nights of suffocating exhaustion. His shoulders slumped forward under the kind of weight you can't see but feel in your bones—the invisible pressure of expectations, the crushing pull of a crown he hadn't even worn yet. His clothes, usually crisp and polished, were rumpled, the collar half loose, boots scuffed with dust. It was the image of someone running away, not just from a place, but from himself.
"Winter," he muttered, his voice cracked, splintering like glass. "I… I needed to get away."
I blinked, stunned. Words stuck in my throat before stumbling out. "Uh, yeah, sure—come in. You look like death warmed over."
He stepped inside, each step heavy, his gaze dragging across the shabby walls of my home. The uneven plaster, the cracked wooden beams, the worn rug—it wasn't much. But to him, it seemed to shine with a strange sort of freedom. I swear there was this melancholy glow in his eyes, a look that hovered between pity and longing.
"Do you know," he said slowly, almost choking on the words, "how much I'd give to live like you? To just… breathe without chains on my neck?"
I laughed, bitter, almost hysterical. "Chains? Dude, your chains are gold. Mine are rusted iron. Don't romanticize this."
Michael's fists clenched, knuckles whitening, his voice rising like a storm breaking free. "Gold or not, they choke the same! My father—Logan—he doesn't see me. He doesn't see anyone. My siblings tear each other apart for scraps of his approval. Greed runs through that mansion like blood. I'm suffocating, Winter."
The force of his words hit me like a punch. I froze, torn between pity and envy. Because, yeah, sure, his world sounded like hell—oppressive, brutal, loveless. But at the same time, I couldn't help thinking—ugh, damn it—how nice it would be to even have scraps worth fighting for. Power, connections, wealth… the kind of things I could only dream about in my cold little room.
And he saw it in my eyes.
"You envy me," he said, quiet but sharp, like a knife sliding between ribs.
"And you envy me," I shot back, sharper still.
Silence stretched, thick and heavy, yet weirdly comforting. We sat in it like two broken pieces realizing they fit in opposite ways. Different wounds, same bleeding. Friendship forged not in joy, but in dissatisfaction.
Later, we walked together near the mansion, its spires cutting long shadows under the moonlight. The air was still, too still, carrying the scent of wet stone and torch smoke. Michael's steps slowed, his head bowed, and I was ready to call it a day, maybe joke about sneaking him into my rickety bedroll—when something shifted.
Wait a minute. Movement caught my eye. Subtle. Too subtle.
"Hmm," I whispered, narrowing my gaze. "Michael, you see that?"
A cloaked figure slid past the guards with liquid grace, like water finding cracks in stone. Every step deliberate, precise, no wasted motion. A thief.
Argh. My instincts screamed, sharp and loud. My hand went straight to the dagger tucked under my cloak. The weight of it burned against my palm, heavier than it had ever felt, as if it knew—knew—that something was about to go down.
"Winter—don't," Michael hissed, panic flashing in his voice, his hand reaching out toward me.
But nah. Too late. Something in me snapped. The tension of years, the hunger for something beyond dull classrooms and suffocating lectures, the addiction to danger—it all boiled over.
I followed.
The time was now. My blood roared in my ears as I slipped into the shadows. Finally, finally—I was going to put my training, my instincts, and my dagger to the test.