Mael had been raised in silk and duty—the eldest son of a king who ruled with a harsh hand.

From the very moment Mael Valemont was born within the private sanctuary of the queen's chambers, a role had been enforced upon him, one he had no way to defy. A crown of gold and royalty, adorning his head—a symbol of his inevitable rule.

Even as a little boy, yet to comprehend the complicities of the world he was to lead one day, he had been trained to fit into the mould of the perfect king. From the basics of politics to the intricate art of swordsmanship, he was expected to know it all.

But knowing something and wanting it were never the same.

He never wanted this. He never asked for this. He never even had the chance to say no, to turn his head away from the responsibilities he was forced to face since he was a clueless boy.

But the kingdom wanted this. The council expected this. His father demanded this.

And the day the King laid the crown at his son's feet, with nothing more than a sharp nod, Mael knew his protests would not be heard. The crown gleamed on its velvet cushion, the glimmer calling out his name—commanding him to wear it, to be proud of it—but it looked more like a fancy shackle than a prize.

That night, Mael hadn't slept. He couldn't, not with the nightmares of his inevitable prison, chanting his name. But by morning, the city was under siege.

No one knew why the pirates had come—whether it was a calculated move or a coincidence—but fire bloomed in the harbour, and screams echoed through the corridors of the palace. Mael stood at the highest window of the eastern wing, watching the smoke rise against the dawn. For a moment, he didn’t move. He only listened to the cries, to the disorder surging through the palace, demanding attention to their havoc.

Now was the perfect time.

Amid the chaos, while soldiers scrambled to secure the gates and nobles shrieked in panic behind bolted doors, Mael slipped away. He cast aside the royal colours, pulling on a plain linen shirt to blend in with those below his rank and ran straight into the panicked crowds.

Mael kept his head low, pressing through the sea of havoc. He didn't dare look back. No longer did he want to remember the weight of royalty, the expectations weighing on his shoulders, never faltering.

He slipped through alleys, past burning market stalls and shattered glass. The clash of weapons slashed through the air, metal against metal, a never-ending song.

Mael didn't know how his absence was noticed, but the sound of quick footsteps followed close behind him. They were heavier than those belonging to the commoners. Heavier with the extra steel weighing them down. Perhaps someone had recognized his face beneath the dirt and sweat. Perhaps someone had known his plan all along and called him out to the king. But it didn't matter. The only thing that did was the pier and the ships still moored.

A pirate vessel was pulling away from the dock.

This was his chance.

Without thinking, Mael sprinted across the last stretch of stone, the sharp shouts of his names flying by him, voices rising over flames. But in that one frantic, reckless heartbeat, Mael hurled himself from the edge of the pier, fingers barely catching the rough netting that trailed the pirate hull, biting into his skin as he climbed. When his hand caught the railing, he hauled himself over, boots thudding against the wooden deck. For a heartbeat, he just stood there, drenched in his own sweat and heaving.

Suddenly, a shadow loomed before him, eyes pinned at him with an intensity darker than his father's.

The captain.

Mael instinctively stood taller, straighter, as if appearing larger could prevent himself from being thrown overboard.

Mael cleared his throat anxiously. “... Take me with you. I can be of use! I know how to...” He shifted his weight slightly, nervously watching as the crew of criminals kept closing in on him. He didn't know much, other than how to condescend and bear responsibility. Along with sword fighting, of course.

“Scrub floors.”