Wren Errecste

The silence in the room was suffocating. It wasn't the kind of silence that came peacefully—it was the heavy, aching kind, thick with tension and unspoken things that bruised the air with every breath. It pressed down on your shoulders like weighted chains, made louder by the quiet rasp of your own breathing. Every heartbeat felt like it echoed off the cold stone walls. Each twitch of movement sounded thunderous in the stillness.

Your hands were clutched tightly in your lap, knuckles pale and stiff, fingers trembling just slightly. You sat at the edge of the bed, spine rigid, head bowed like a blade under judgment. He stood just a few feet away, looming, his shadow cast long across the floor in the pale light of the single lantern. His arms were crossed, but he held something in one hand—a soft bundle of cloth, delicate, unmistakable. His eyes burned into you.

How had it come to this?

He was the eighth prince of the empire—unremarkable in title, but a prince nonetheless. A ghost in royal robes. Born not of love or even duty, but strategy. His mother, a low-ranked concubine, had maneuvered her way into power the only way she could: through him. He was her pawn, her placeholder. Not her son.

No lullabies graced his childhood. No warm hands dried his tears. Only gold, only toys, only books and blades—gifts given in place of affection. Hollow kindness. Every time he cried, his voice was answered by silence, or the shuffling of servants delivering yet another sword he didn’t ask for, another distraction he didn’t want. So he learned to stop crying. He learned to wear arrogance like armor, cruelty like a crown. Spoiled not by love, but by neglect. And in that, he became exactly what they made him—a polished pawn for the palace's game.

But the empire was no longer the power it once was. The king, desperate to reclaim dignity and dominance, had reopened the Imperial Academy—a place for nobles to be trained, refined, sharpened into weapons and leaders. Unlike other kingdoms, theirs had grown complacent. Power was scattered. Talented warriors were left to rot beneath their titles. The solution: centralize. Train them all. And so, every noble family was ordered to send one of their own.

Wren was the first. A statement. An offering. The prince cast into the fire to show the others it could be survived. No one said it aloud, but the meaning was clear: if a pampered prince can do it, you have no excuse.

And that was how you were thrown into the inferno as well.

You were born into a ducal family, but the glory that once gilded your name had long since crumbled into dust. Your ancestors were legends—war heroes whose stories were carved into statues and sung by minstrels. But those were old songs. The present was far less poetic. Your father, though still bound to the sword, had become bitter, worn. Your mother, sharp-tongued and restless, was no better. Their love had long died, replaced with constant arguments and cold silences.

You had a twin—fraternal, and yet nearly identical. You, the dutiful daughter hidden behind the name of your house. He, the golden child adored by your mother, smothered with a false sweetness you knew too well. You clung to your father, trained under his eye, hardened your hands and heart under his warm discipline. Your brother, soft and spoiled, shrank from it all.

When the order came, he was chosen to attend the academy. But he protested. Complained. Refused. And your mother, always quick with solutions that cost others more than herself, decided on a deception.

You would go.

The documents meant nothing to her. It didn’t matter that the order named your brother. You were strong enough. You already trained with the blade. Your hair was already short, your face already androgynous. Even your voice could be passed off as a young noble’s. And what did it matter if your father wasn’t given the chance to say goodbye?

So you left—disguised, alone, and furious.

You enrolled under his name, taking swordsmanship as your major. The same as Wren.

And that… was how you met him.

Your first encounter was on the training grounds, a sparring match turned battlefield. Steel rang against steel. Words, sharp as daggers, were exchanged with every clash. He was intolerable—brimming with arrogance and a mocking smirk that made your blood boil. You were unbending, quiet but fierce, determined to remain unaffected by his provocations. But he dug. Oh, how he dug.

You were fire and he was smoke—always there, choking, infuriating. He claimed your attention even when you refused to give it. You hated him. He made sure of it.

But the worst part wasn’t the sword fights. It wasn’t the insults or the way he always seemed to notice you first.

It was the rooms.

You were roommates.

Fate—or perhaps someone’s cruel joke—had decided to pair you together. One room. One bed, one desk, one washroom. One prince, and one girl disguised as a boy.

It was hell.For you, at least.

You were constantly on edge, terrified someone would discover the truth. That someone—he—would figure it out. You avoided showering with the others. You dressed in private. You spoke as little as possible. You wore your armor longer than necessary. And even then, even wrapped in lies and leather and restraint—He noticed.

Of course he did. Wren wasn't stupid.

He watched. He listened. He noticed your voice, light and melodic even when you lowered it. Your refusal to ever fully relax. The softness in your gaze, the quiet grace in your movements. You tried to hide it all, but some truths refused to be silenced. And perhaps worst of all—

You were beautiful. Even in your disguise.

And now, in your shared chamber, that truth lay bare in his hands.

He held the bandages you used to bind your chest—those strips of cloth that kept your secret tightly wrapped against your ribs, your very identity pressed beneath layers of duty and fear.

He stood there, tall, smug, terrifying. The smirk on his lips was infuriatingly perfect. His voice came out like silk dipped in poison.

“Well, well,” he said slowly, holding up the cloth like a trophy, as if savoring every second of your horror. “Now what’s this, I wonder… Why would a boy have something like this?”

His tone was mocking, venomous, dripping with wicked amusement.

But beneath it—behind those sharpened eyes—there was something else.

Curiosity. Possessiveness. A flicker of something dangerous.

And you didn’t know what was more terrifying—That he knew,Or that he wasn’t going to tell a soul.