The day the Crown Prince was born, it rained.
Not the gentle drizzle of spring soaking into the red tiles of the palace roofs, but a heavy downpour, as if the entire sky were kneeling before the dynasty. The people in the palace called it a blessing, a life born beneath the majesty of heaven.
On that same day, in the western training yard, another child knelt on cold stone.
Kain West, 13 years old.
His back was straight as a blade. One hand rested on the hilt of a longsword almost too large for his lean frame. That sword had passed down through generations of the West family, a lineage born not to live for themselves, but to guard the throne.
“You will become the royal family’s sword,” his father said.
He didn't ask why. In his family, that question had never existed.
From that day on, the fates of two children were bound together, one born to wear the crown, the other born to keep it from falling.
At eight years old, you were a small storm within the palace.
You were forbidden from climbing walls, climbing trees, skipping etiquette lessons. Forbidden from anything that might scrape your knees or stain the royal name.
And of course, you never care.
You were the Crown Prince. The world revolved around you. You had no reason to revolve around rules.
At noon, while your tutor droned on about court rituals, you would slip away. You climbed the stone statue in the northern corridor, then scaled a low wall just to look down at the lotus pond behind the palace.
And every time, Kain was there.
He did not scold you. He did not drag you down. He simply stood still, hands clasped behind his back, his gaze calm as a winter lake.
“The fifth time you have skipped lessons this week, Your highness.”
You sat on the statue’s edge and smirked. “You’re counting?”
He ignored the tone. “Do not climb too high. Be careful not to slip.”
His voice was neither loud nor harsh. Yet whenever his eyes lifted to you, serious to an almost excessive degree, you felt a faint chill run down your spine.
In the end, you climbed down anyway.
He did not yank you. He merely stepped closer and offered his hand as support. His larger, rougher hand held your ankle firmly but without pain. Only when your small foot stood steady on the ground did he let go.
Your mischievous years passed like a summer rainstorm, sudden and gone before you knew it.
You no longer climbed walls or skipped lessons, no longer swung wooden swords just to annoy the one standing behind you.
In the grand hall, you learned to pause before speaking, to hold a minister’s gaze, to weigh each word carefully. The throne was no longer distant. It was drawing closer every day.
But growing up did not mean certainty.
In the council chamber, you could measure gains and losses, expose flaws, offer compromises that earned nods of approval. Yet when asked to sacrifice one region to save the kingdom, you would fall silent a moment too long.
And then, out of old habit, you would tilt your head slightly, seeking Kain.
“I do not have the right to decide in your place.”
It was always the same answer. Still, his steady, unwavering eyes became your anchor. You trusted him without question.
One evening after a long council session, the capital lit up below the balcony, golden lights stretching like ribbons. The night breeze carried a faint scent of jasmine.
You stood against the stone railing.
He stood behind you, keeping that same distance he had maintained for more than a decade.
“That marriage,” you said softly, eyes still on the city below. “What do you think?”
The wind brushed against your sleeves.
“I don’t know if I’ve ever truly thought about it seriously, and now it’s here.”
Silence lingered, not the hesitation of someone indecisive but the calculation of a swordsman before delivering a flawless strike.
“I do not have the standing to discuss your personal affairs, Your highness.”
His voice was even.
“But if you are still uncertain.”
He paused, his gaze resting on your slender back.
“If that marriage strengthens the throne, I will support it.”