Prince

The afternoon sun filtered through the canopy of the ancient oaks in the royal gardens, casting dappled patterns of light across the pages of Elliot's book. It was a rare moment of stolen peace. The air smelled of damp earth and blooming jasmine, a scent that usually helped soothe the faint, persistent flutter in his chest. He sat on a stone bench, his slender frame wrapped in a loose, cream-colored linen shirt that seemed to swallow his delicate build.

A few yards away, the quiet of his reading was punctuated by the high-pitched giggles and thundering footsteps of Drake and Donovan. The twins were a whirlwind of energy, their small bodies darting between the hedges as they played some improvised game of knights and dragons.

Elliot glanced up from his text, a soft, fond smile tugging at his pale pink lips. He watched Drake—loud, determined Drake—swinging an imaginary sword with enough force to nearly topple over, while Donovan moved with a more measured, quiet grace, observing the 'battle' with keen eyes.

They have so much life in them, Elliot thought, feeling a familiar pang of envy mixed with genuine affection. I wonder if Donovan feels the same heaviness in his lungs when he runs too fast.

He quickly dismissed the thought, not wanting to burden himself with worry. Instead, he turned his attention back to the poetry in his lap, though his emerald eyes kept drifting back to his youngest brothers. He felt like a ghost haunting his own family's joy—present, but separated by an invisible barrier of fragility.

"Drake, slow down just a little, you'll knock over the potted hydrangeas," Elliot called out, his voice soft and breathy, carrying easily through the still air. He didn't want to scold them—he rarely had the energy for anger anyway—but he didn't want them to hurt themselves or ruin the garden's careful arrangement.

The afternoon sun was warm against Elliot's pale skin, though not warm enough to chase away the perpetual chill that seemed to settle in his bones. He sat on a stone bench tucked beneath the shade of a sprawling willow tree, a leather-bound book resting forgotten in his lap. His emerald eyes weren't on the pages, however; they were fixed on the training grounds where the rhythmic clang of steel against steel echoed through the courtyard.

A few yards away, the knights of the Fontaine guard were engaged in their drills, their movements precise and lethal. But the usual stern atmosphere had been broken by the boisterous laughter of Rhoden. His third brother was in the thick of it, sword in hand, grinning as he challenged two seasoned knights to a mock tournament.

"Come now, don't tell me you're all getting soft!" Rhoden called out, his green eyes bright with mischief as he parried a blow. "A little competition never hurt anyone. Loser buys the next round of ale at the tavern tonight!"

Elliot watched as the knights reluctantly began to square off, their competitive spirits ignited by Rhoden's teasing. He felt a small, bittersweet smile tug at the corners of his lips. He knew exactly why Rhoden was doing this. His brother had caught his gaze earlier—a quick, knowing glance that said more than words ever could. Rhoden wanted to give him something to smile about, something to distract him from the suffocating quiet of the palace corridors and the endless cycle of medicinal teas and naps.

Thank you, Rhoden, Elliot thought, though the gratitude felt heavy in his chest.

His fingers absently traced the embossed gold lettering on his book cover. He watched the way Rhoden moved—fluid, strong, utterly in command of his own body. There was a raw vitality in the way the knights lunged and retreated, the way sweat glistened on their brows. A sharp pang of longing twisted in Elliot's gut. He imagined what it would feel like to stand there, to feel the weight of a practice sword in his grip, to feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins instead of this constant, dragging exhaustion. He wanted to fight alongside them, to prove he was more than just a fragile ornament to be kept behind closed doors.

But he knew better. One wrong move, one moment of overexertion, and his heart would betray him, sending him spiraling into a coughing fit that would draw the worried eyes of the servants and the disappointed stare of his father.

A knight landed a particularly impressive strike, sending Rhoden stumbling back with a dramatic gasp of feigned offense. The courtyard erupted in lighthearted jeers. Elliot let out a soft, breathy laugh, the sound nearly lost to the wind. He felt like a ghost haunting his own family's life—present, observing, but never truly touching the world.

The rhythmic, painful thudding in Elliot's chest felt like a trapped bird beating its wings against his ribs. Every breath was a conscious effort, shallow and careful, as if drawing too much air might shatter something fragile inside him. Two days. Two days of staring at the ornate carvings on his ceiling while the sunlight crawled across his floor like a slow-moving predator. He felt hollow, his body drained of its usual—however little—vitality.

When the knock came, his first instinct was a spike of anxiety. His heart gave an unpleasant flutter, a sharp pinch that made him wince and press a pale hand against his sternum. Please, not the doctor, he pleaded silently, closing his eyes for a brief second. The physician's visits always felt like interrogations, clinical and cold, treating him more like a broken clock than a prince. And the nursemaids... they were efficient, yes, but their pity was a heavy, suffocating thing that made him feel smaller than he already was.

Swallowing hard against the dryness in his throat, Elliot forced himself upright. The movement made his head swim, a dizzying rush of blood that forced him to pause and wait for the world to stop tilting. Once his vision cleared, he reached down, fingers trembling slightly as he smoothed the silk sheets of his bed, trying to reclaim some semblance of princely dignity despite his disheveled state.

"Come in," he called out. His voice was softer than intended, breathy and strained, carrying that familiar mid-high tenor that always sounded like it might break.

He leaned back against the pillows, trying to regulate his breathing so he wouldn't appear as pathetic as he felt. His emerald eyes fixed on the door, bright with a desperate, quiet hope that whoever stood there might offer something more than medicine and condescension.

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