I was born in a slum, in a part of the Custodian kingdom where the sun rarely reached the narrow alleys between crammed wooden shanties. My parents were thieves—not because they wanted to be, but because there was no other way to survive in a place where work was scarce and hunger was a constant companion. They taught me everything they knew: how to move silently through shadows, how to read people's faces to tell if they meant harm, how to take what you needed without being caught.
When I was thirteen, they were killed during a botched attempt to steal grain from a merchant's wagon. I found them lying in a dark alley, blood pooling around their bodies, the bag of grain they'd risked everything for spilled across the muddy ground. That day, I learned how cruel the world could be—how life meant nothing to those who had plenty of it.
I became a boy who had to fend for himself. I slept in empty crates or under bridges, ate scraps from market stalls, and fought off other street kids who tried to take what little I had. I believed from the very beginning that fate had chosen me to play its cruel game without my consent—that I was born to suffer, to struggle, to be nothing more than a speck of dirt beneath the feet of nobles who'd never known what it meant to go to bed hungry.
I was sixteen when I got scouted as a soldier. A recruiting officer saw me fighting off three older boys twice my size, using nothing but quick feet and a sharp piece of broken pipe. He offered me a choice: join the army and get three meals a day, or stay in the slums and likely die before I turned twenty. It wasn't much of a choice at all.
At seventeen, I was put on the front line for the first time. The reality of battle was worse than anything I'd imagined in the slums. The noise, the blood, the fear—it all blurred together into a nightmare I couldn't wake up from. But I was good at it. My years on the streets had taught me how to move fast and think faster, how to use every advantage I could find. From then on, I was always on the battlefield—sent wherever the fighting was thickest, used as cannon fodder because boys like me were cheap and easy to replace.
I run my fingers over the palm where my scar used to be—the one I got from that first battle, when an enemy's dagger sliced through my glove. Even now, in Prince Vernom's body, I can still feel the sting of it sometimes, as if the memory is carved into my very soul. Because that enemy was the first person I killed.
The mirror shows me Vernom's gentle features, but my hands—though slimmer now—still move with the practiced ease of a soldier who's spent half his life holding a blade. I look out the window of the prince's chambers, at the manicured gardens and gleaming towers of the Callibean palace, and feel like a stranger in a world that was built to keep people like my old self out.
Why did this happen? I ask myself again, turning away from the glass. Why did I survive the arrow only to wake up in the body of an enemy prince?
If it's another of fate's cruel games, should I willingly play it again?
A soft knock at the door pulls me from my thoughts.
"Your Highness?" A young servant boy peeks his head in, his eyes wide with nervousness.
"Have you had a good dream, Prince?"
Define a good dream. I haven't even remembered when was the last time I slept peacefully without those haunting scenes of the battlefield seeping into my rest. Can I consider this whole situation a good dream? Is this even reality or just another nightmare dressed as something gentle?
It seems even after ten days have passed, I still can't settle into this body. Faint, vague memories flicker at the edges of my mind—snippets of a quiet boy tending to flowers in the palace gardens, of harsh words from nobles who barely noticed him, of a mother who held him close when no one else would. So this whole ordeal is rough; I feel like waking up as a toddler all over again—a blank slate despite being twenty-eight years old.
All I know for certain is that Prince Vernom had an accident, hit his head hard, and viola—I'm in his body. I can easily play the part of someone with amnesia. Me and Vernom are the same age, but I don't clearly remember if we shared any similar attitudes. A slum kid and a prince—we must be worlds apart. Vernom as a prince… I'm sure he was soft-spoken, gentle, raised with care even if he wasn't favored. While I was raised in filth and died on a battlefield—I must seem barbaric in comparison.
Though every memory is vague, like fog over still water. It's as if whoever put me in this body didn't want to complicate things—only giving me small fragments from both my past life and Vernom's. Maybe to keep me from getting tangled up in what was, so I could just live as I am now.
But how? How to live as a prince? I don't know. I don't have any idea.
I nodded to the attendant but didn't answer his question about the dream. Words felt heavy in my throat, and I didn't want to say something that would make him suspicious. Instead, I watched him set down the tray of food—steam rising from the porridge, fruit glistening like jewels on the plate. Back in the slums, a meal like this would have fed me for days. In the army, we'd have fought over scraps less than half as good.
The boy—Cael, he'd said his name was. He's new here, about the same age I was when I became a soldier. He told me once he'd been sold by his family to work in the palace—lingered by the door, his eyes darting from the untouched food back to my face. He looked worried, and I realized Vernom must have been the kind to notice when his servants were troubled.
"Is something wrong?" I asked, my voice quieter than I intended.
He jumped slightly, bowing his head quickly. "No, Your Highness! Nothing at all. I just… you've barely eaten these past few days. The physician says you need your strength."
"I'm not very hungry," I said simply, letting out a deep sigh.
I looked at the food again, then back at him. The worn patches on his tunic, the way he held himself like he was afraid to take up too much space—all things I knew too well.
"Sit," I said, gesturing to a small stool by the table.
His eyes went wide with shock. "Your Highness, I couldn't possibly—"
"It's alright," I said, trying to smile the way I thought Vernom would. "I don't like eating alone. And you look like you could use something warm in your stomach."
He hesitated for a long moment before slowly pulling the stool over, sitting on the very edge as if ready to leap up and run at any moment. I pushed the bowl of porridge toward him, then tore off half the loaf of bread.
"As I've said—I'm not very hungry," I repeated. "And sharing is better than letting food go to waste, isn't it?"
Cael stared at the food, then at me, and I saw tears welling in his eyes. He quickly bowed his head to hide them, but I'd already seen. Life is really tough for every unfortunate person like us, I said to myself.
"Thank you, Your Highness," he whispered. "No one has ever… no one has ever done something like this for me."
I picked up my own spoon, stirring the porridge slowly as I watched him eat. The simple act of sharing a meal felt more natural than anything I'd done since waking up in this palace. Maybe this was where I should start—not with learning etiquette or royal protocol, but with remembering what it meant to be human, to care for others even when you have your own burdens to carry.