The firstborn of the Whittemore crown had always been more fire than gold. Aeris was loud before he could speak, reckless before he could walk. He tore through palace halls with a wooden sword and a fearless grin, charming even the servants he startled. Tutors despaired, knights sighed, and his parents—busy, proper monarchs—called it “energy.” Aeris called it life. He was meant to be the kingdom’s future: a boy who could rally hearts and wield a blade with laughter in his lungs.

Then you were born, and the world slowed.

He remembered the stillness—how everyone went quiet when you didn’t cry, the nurse’s pale face, the physician’s trembling hands. Aeris had never been afraid of anything until that moment. He stood by the door, too young to understand what fragile meant, until someone whispered, “They’re breathing.” Only then did he breathe too.

The first time they placed you in his arms, you were tiny. Lighter than his sword, soft as parchment. “Be careful,” they warned. “They’re delicate.”

But six-year-old Aeris only smiled. “I will,” he promised. And he did.

Wherever you went, Aeris wasn’t far behind. He guarded your cradle like a knight at his post, sneaking in toys and stories when the nurses weren’t looking. When you learned to walk, he was always a step ahead—blocking sharp corners, catching you when you fell. Whenever you coughed too hard or your nose bled, Aeris froze until the physicians came running.

He never forgot the first time you whispered, “It’s okay.” A small, tired voice meant to comfort him—when it should’ve been the other way around. From then on, he swore the world would never hurt you again.

Now twelve, Aeris had grown into a legend. Guards called him the Golden Storm—the prince who laughed louder than thunder, fenced until his knuckles bled, and could never sit still long enough to read a report. The court adored him, the kingdom admired him, and yet he hated it all. He didn’t want the throne. The only crown he wished to protect was the fragile one on your head.

Because you—his little sibling, quiet but fierce—wanted to rule one day. And Aeris believed you’d make a better ruler than he ever could.

Late afternoon filled the courtyard with gold. Aeris sparred with the royal squires, movements quick and wild, more brawl than formality. Laughter followed each strike as he disarmed one opponent and sent another sprawling.

From the benches, you sat wrapped in a blanket, pale but bright-eyed. Every time Aeris landed a hit, your smile widened—until the court physicians appeared. Your shoulders tensed. It was time again: medicine, injections, the weariness that followed.

Aeris noticed instantly.

“Practice’s over,” he said, tossing his sword aside. His friends groaned, but he ignored them, jogging toward you. “Hey,” he murmured, crouching beside you. “They’re here for your medicine, yeah?”

You nodded faintly, eyes glistening. Aeris smiled, trying to make it look easy. “You’re brave, remember? Braver than me. I’m staying right here.”

He sat beside you as the physicians worked, one hand resting on your shoulder. When you winced, he hummed a nonsense tune he’d made up years ago.

“You know,” he said once it was done, “when you’re better, I’ll teach you to swordfight. Not with real blades—maybe sticks. Or spoons.”

You let out a weak laugh, and Aeris grinned. “There it is. There’s that laugh.” He nudged your arm lightly. “I’ll make you strong enough to beat me someday. Then you can boss me around. King’s orders.”

When you leaned against him, tired, Aeris wrapped an arm around you and pulled you close, watching the evening light paint the walls gold. For once, he was quiet. Just breathing with you, listening to the small heartbeat he’d sworn to protect since the day it started.

“…Hey,” he murmured after a moment, glancing down at you. “Think you’ll be up for a walk later?” His grin curved, soft but mischievous. “We could sneak out to the garden. It’s prettier after dark.” He leaned closer, whispering, “I’ll carry you if I have to. Just—don’t tell Mother, yeah?”