They say the second prince of Arcadia died the day he was born.

But I didn't die. I was buried, left to rot in a tower, treated like a curse.

My name is Ren Drakemore. I'm five years old, and I am the unwanted prince.

I race down the castle hallway as fast as my legs can carry me, each step echoing off the stone walls. Today is the day. Today I will finally escape my prison, finally see the world outside the lonely tower where I was discarded and forgotten.

I skid around a corner just as a heavy thud reverberates through the hall behind me, the sound of the tower door slamming shut. She knows I am gone. I can feel it. Her cold dark presence closing in.

Room after room flashes past, places I could hide, but I do not dare. She would find me. She always does.

I fly down a staircase, slip, and tumble the last few steps. Sharp pain shoots through my knee and elbow as they slam against the stone. Tears sting my eyes, but I grit my teeth and force myself up. I cannot stop now. I have to be free. I have to know what the flowers in the castle courtyard smell like.

Another flight of stairs, another hall. My excitement rises, blotting out the pain. Out of all fifty-four attempts, this is the furthest I have ever gotten. Yet at the same time I feel it, that icy aura creeping closer, like an unseen specter stalking me through the dark. I push myself harder, faster. I have to outrun her.

I round another corner too fast and crash into a pedestal. The ornate vase atop it tumbles with me, both of us falling toward the floor. I squeeze my eyes shut, bracing for the crash.

The vase strikes first. It shatters with a deafening smash, shards skittering across the stone. But the impact I expect never comes.

Instead, I feel a tug upward, then warmth. I open my eyes to find myself cradled in the arms of a beautiful woman with long silver hair and bright blue eyes. She looks down at me with the patient smile one might give a naughty child, not an escaped prisoner.

"Very clever, Young Master," Lady Willow says softly, her tone calm and almost proud. "Timing the dishes to fall so I would go investigate while you slipped away. Very clever indeed."

As she speaks, the shards rise and drift back together until the vase sits whole again upon its pedestal, as if nothing had ever happened.

Then Willow's eyes lower to my scraped knee and bruised elbow. Her smile softens. She shifts me gently in her arms and lays her cool hand over the injury. A glow of silver light seeps into my skin, erasing the pain as if it had never been.

"There now," she murmurs. "All better."

"Can I just—"

"I'm sorry, but no," Willow says as she carries me back the way I came. "It's not safe for you out there… not yet."

I cling to her, my chest tight with disappointment.

She takes me back to my prison, the West Tower of my father's castle, where I have lived every day of my life so far. Up the spiral to the second floor, where she sets me at a small round table beside a window. From here I can see everything, five stories above the castle courtyard on the steep hill at the center of Cairndorn. Willow pours tea into a waiting cup and sits across from me, calm as ever, as if nothing at all had happened.

The sunlight filters through the tall windows of my tower, painting the room in a warm, golden glow. I cradle my cup, watching the steam curl upward in lazy spirals. For a moment, I stay silent, staring out the window at the sprawling capital of Arcadia, before finally breaking the stillness.

"Willow, what is the kingdom like?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper as I lean on the windowsill, eyes locked on the distant horizon.

She doesn't answer right away, as if weighing her words, before settling back into her seat with that familiar, serene smile.

"That depends, Young Master. Some parts are breathtaking. Others… not so much."

I squint toward the city. "What's past the hills? The really far ones that fade into the sky?"

Willow follows my gaze. "Beyond those? The Crescent Hills. They mark the southern edge of the Dragon's Cradle."

"Is that what this place is called?" I glance over at her. "The Cradle?"

She nods. "A valley nestled between wild forest to the west, jagged mountains to the north, and sea to the east. It's well protected… which is likely why your ancestors chose it."

I chew on that thought. "So we're trapped by nature on all sides."

"Sheltered," she corrects gently. "Which isn't the same as trapped."

They sure feel the same.

My eyes drift to the tallest structure piercing the skyline—a spire gleaming in the morning light. "And that tower?"

Willow leans forward slightly. "That is the observatory, the tallest building at the Arcadian Academy of Magic."

"Do people really come from all over to study there?"

"They do. Though most can't afford it. But those who graduate earn the certification of the Arcadian School. It's… quite prestigious."

I sigh, resting my chin on my arms. "I want to see it. Just once. Up close."

She smiles consolingly at me. "One day."

Her words are a reminder of my reality. My father, the king, banished me to this tower the day I was born, leaving me in Lady Willow's care. She told me that my mother died giving birth to me and that my father blamed me for her death.

That's not fair. I didn't do anything!

Willow's voice cuts through my brooding thoughts. "Young Master, I hope you aren't planning to try and sneak out again." She raises an elegant silver eyebrow, her expression knowing.

"I'm not," I say, forcing my tone into something resembling innocence.

I totally was.

"Please be patient, Master Ren," she says, her tone a mix of patience and quiet authority. "You will leave the tower one day, but only when you are prepared."

By "prepared," Willow means studying, lots and lots of studying. From the moment I learned to read, she insisted I spend most of my days buried in books. At first, it was slow and frustrating, but now it's something I've grown to enjoy. The first-floor workshop of my tower is packed with thousands of books on every topic imaginable: history, mathematics, farming, magic, potion-making, enchantments, and more.

I don't know how learning about crop rotations or ancient wars is supposed to prepare me to leave this place, but I have to admit, the books are fascinating. They're my only connection to the world outside these walls.

"Is there anything you'd like me to bring from the library for your studies, young master?" Willow asks, pulling me from my thoughts.

I glance at Willow and offer a faint smile. "Something about birds," I say after a moment. "They seem so free."

Willow tilts her head thoughtfully, her silver hair catching the sunlight as she considers her mental archive of books. "Very well," she replies finally. "I'll fetch you a bestiary. Finish your tea, then meet me downstairs."

She rises gracefully from her seat, the folds of her elegant white dress swaying softly as she walks toward the spiral staircase at the center of the tower. Her footsteps echo faintly as she descends, and I'm left alone with the last dregs of my tea.

The sound of children's laughter pulls my attention back to the window. I get up to stand on my chair and lean forward and look down into the castle courtyard below. My brother, Prince Charles, is running through the gardens with three other boys, their laughter carrying easily up to my tower.

A familiar, simmering heat rises in my chest. I've never met Charles, but Willow has told me plenty about him and his ever-present entourage. The boys with him now are Eric Fobos, Yuri Ristrose, and Nathan Ambrose. Their fathers are important nobles, apparently.

I don't really know much about my brother or his friends but based on what little I know about him, I am certain I dislike them. I watch for a moment as my brother and his friends crouch by the flower beds, picking up stones from the ground. My frown deepens when I see what they're doing. With careless grins, they hurl the stones at a pair of servants tending the gardens.

Stolen novel; please report.

A sharp scream pierces the air as one of the stones connects with the back of a woman's head. The servants abandon their tools and flee, shielding their heads with their arms while Charles and his friends continue to pelt them with stones. The boys' laughter follows them into the castle.

I feel the anger swelling in my chest. Charles is a year and a half older than me, but we might as well live in separate worlds. While I'm confined to this tower, he's free to roam wherever he pleases, doing whatever he wants. And what does he do with that freedom? He throws rocks at slaves.

I have Willow, but he has an army of tutors and servants. He has a father that loves him and I am banished. I watch him from a tower and he probably doesn't know I exist.

The unfairness burns like a red hot iron in my chest. I lost my mother the day I was born, but I also lost my father, my brother, my home, and my birthright. All because of something I couldn't have done, couldn't have known or prevented.

Why does he deserve it all? Why don't I?

This familiar pain of neglect brings heat to my face and tears to my eyes. I grip the windowsill tightly, my knuckles whitening as I try to fight the tide of emotion rising within me. But it's no use. The tears spill over.

I turn away from the window and step down from my chair abruptly, my vision blurring as I swipe at my eyes. I don't want to cry, I've cried too many times already.

I push the tears away, burying them deep. They won't change anything.

They never have.

I drain the last of my tea in one long sip, set the cup down, and head down the spiral stairs to the workshop below.

The first floor of my tower is cluttered with shelves packed full of books, tomes of all shapes and sizes stuffed haphazardly together. The air is tinged with the faint scent of old parchment and ink. Tables and desks sit scattered across the room, covered with magical trinkets, tools, and even more books.

In the middle of it all, a large wooden puppet sits quietly on the couch, engrossed in a book. The puppet is roughly my size, its wooden limbs polished smooth and articulated with precision. I spent weeks using magic to shape the puppet and I am pretty proud of it. It's been reading all day, even when I've taken breaks.

One of the newer spells Willow taught me allows me to enchant the puppet with a copy of my own mind. The puppet acts on its own controlled by that copy of me. It can read, move, and even problem-solve on its own. Everything it does slowly consumes the mana I infused into it. When its mana is depleted, the puppet goes dormant, and all its experiences are transferred back to me as memories, vivid and complete, as though I lived them myself.

I take a seat next to my puppet on the couch. Its wooden hand carefully turns the page of a book titled The Arcane Apothecary: Secrets of Herbal Elixirs and Remedies, Volume 2. Beside it, on the side table, is the book Willow left out for me. I pick it up, flipping open the worn cover to reveal the title: World Bestiary Vol. 3: Avian Predators.

After a while of quiet study, I turn to my puppet and ask, "How are you doing?" It pauses, tilts its wooden head toward me, then turns back to its book and flips a page.

I guess that means he's good? Clearly, I need to work on giving him the ability to speak.

As I flip through the pages of my bestiary, something catches my eye: the Razor Wing Hawk. Its sleek form and impressive flight capabilities immediately spark an idea. My mind races with the possibility. What if I could create a bird-shaped puppet? I could see the castle and the lands beyond from a bird's-eye view. The thought alone fills me with excitement.

The idea takes hold as Lady Willow approaches, carrying a plate with a sandwich for me. She sets it down beside me, her serene expression as steady as ever.

"Ma'am," I ask, looking up at her, "do you think I could make a puppet that flies?"

Willow considers my question for a moment, as she tilts her head. "Eventually, yes," she replies. "But you'll need to work on your mana control and capacity much more first." She gestures toward the sandwich. "After you have eaten, go upstairs for your daily exercises."

"Yes, ma'am," I reply with a groan, placing the book aside. I grab the sandwich and take a bite, my mind still buzzing with thoughts of flying puppets.

Since I was three years old, Lady Willow has been teaching me magic. Most kids my age don't know a single spell, but those kids don't have Lady Willow as a tutor. She insists on starting young because every spell cast improves magical capacity and control. I don't fully understand why she's so adamant about it, but it's clear she believes it's vital for me to improve my magical abilities as much as possible.

Once I finish eating, I head upstairs to the fourth-floor training room. Willow is already there, waiting for me. Her calm, patient smile greets me as I enter.

My training routine is simple but exhausting: cast the same harmless spells repeatedly until I completely deplete my mana. Today, as usual, I begin with the water spell. Holding out my hands over a bucket on the floor, I focus on the incantation. A steady stream of water materializes from thin air, splashing into the container. Once it's full, I switch to a hot breeze spell, gradually evaporating the water.

I repeat the process again and again, my mind drifting in the monotony.

Across the room, Willow watches me. Her smile is bright and caring, but in the corners of her eyes, I think I see that cold, dark something again. It's fleeting and easy to dismiss, like a mask slipping for just a moment.

I've known for a while now that Lady Willow isn't human. When I finally worked up the courage to ask her, she didn't deny it. Instead, she confirmed it plainly: she is a fae. The fae are powerful spirits born from nature who are known for making contracts with mortals.

The books in the library have plenty to say about the fae. They can't lie, they must make contracts to live, and they possess enchanting powers that can enthrall people. But every book carries the same warning: If you make a contract with them, they will take more than you offered and make you regret what you wished for.

I cast another water spell, pondering those words. The stories paint fae as cunning, malevolent tricksters, but Willow has only ever been kind to me. She's the only one who's ever cared for me.

Before I can dwell on the thought, my vision blurs. My body grows impossibly heavy, and I slump forward. Just as the world fades from view, I feel strong yet gentle arms catch me. I know it's Willow, even though she was too far away to have reached me so quickly. The familiar scent of lavender surrounds me, and her comforting warmth reassures me as she cradles me to her chest. Effortlessly, she carries me back to the couch to rest.

This has become my routine: I push myself to the limits of my mana, practicing until I collapse, and Willow is always there to carry me to recover. When I first started learning magic, she taught me to create simple clumps of material, like stone or wood. As my control improved, she had me shape those materials into forms. Over time, these skills progressed until I was able to craft my own toys, including my puppet companion. Once I mastered that, she showed me how to use mana to lift and move objects. That practice taught me how to give my mana physical form, which eventually led to casting translucent barriers.

I wake slowly, my eyes fluttering open to find myself on the couch, my head resting on Willow's lap while she gently strokes my hair. I stare up at the ceiling, her soft humming filling the air, a soothing melody that seems to wash away my fatigue and wrap me in calm, as though her tune holds a magic of its own. Beside us, I hear the faint rustle of a page turning. My tireless puppet continues its quiet study.

At the end of the day Lady Willow and I take our baths together in the tower's large bathing room on the third floor. I sit quietly on the low, wooden stool in the bathing room, warm water swirling around my feet and the steam rising in soft, cloudy wisps. It was a long day of studying and magic practice. Lady Willow sits behind, slowly pouring warm water from a small basin over my head.

I glance down at the water, watching the light reflect off the surface in little rippling lines, my thoughts swirling as the warmth settles into my bones. The feeling of Lady Willow's hand gently scrubbing my back makes me feel calm.

"Lady Willow," I say quietly, my voice breaking the soft silence. "Can I… look at you?"

Her hand paused on my back, and I felt her gentle smile as she spoke. "Of course, Young Master Ren. You can look at me."

"No, I mean… the real you."

The question lingered, like a candle lit in a dark room, illuminating a hidden corner I had never dared peer into before. As my magical senses sharpened day by day, I couldn't ignore the feeling that her beautiful form was just a mask, that she was something far beyond the kind, human face she has shown me.

She was quiet for a long moment, her hand resting on my back, but I sense a shift in the air, something deep and wild, like a forest at night, or a creature breathing quietly in the dark.

"Alright, Ren," she said softly, her voice still gentle but carrying an edge of something deeper." But remember, our true natures aren't found in how we look. Sometimes, the most beautiful faces hide the cruelest hearts, while the most fearsome creatures can hold the gentlest spirits."

I watch her shadow on the wall, my small hands clutching my knees. Her silhouette began to stretch and change, the slender outline of her human form shifting and contorting into something far taller, her arms elongating and her fingers narrowing into clawed shapes. Her mouth twisted into a toothy grin that reached farther across her face than any human smile, her eyes gleaming like golden slits in the low light, but visible in her reflection in the water pooled at my feet. Massive, leathery wings unfurled from her back, casting long, dark shadows across the walls.

My pulse starts to quicken, but I don't turn around. I can sense the cold, dark aura rolling off her in waves, immense and terrifying. She hadn't lied to me or hidden who she was out of malice, she had simply chosen to be someone I could trust. Her mask may be a lie, but it was a lie to protect me from fear.

A shiver runs through me, but I sit perfectly still, staring at the strange, monstrous shadow on the wall.

"Tell me, Young Master Ren," her voice now devoid of her gentle sweet tone, replaced by a deeper unsettling growl. "What do you think the real me is?"

My heart pounds harder, and I take a steadying breath, feeling my thoughts settle as I recalled every moment she had spent with me, caring for me, teaching me, filling my days with a sense of warmth and security. She was terrifying in shadow, but in every other sense, she was the most solid and safe thing I've known.

"You're like my mother," I say finally, my voice firm. "You've always taken care of me, even when no one else did. You cook for me, you're there when I'm sad, and you teach me everything I want to know. You're... the only mother I have ever known."

Even if later I find that Lady Willow was a dangerous monster, it would only mean that she was a dangerous monster that protected and cared for me when no one else would. She would still be less monstrous than those that abandoned me.

For a moment, there is only silence, and I wonder if I have offended her. But then I see her shadow shifting again, folding down from the monstrous shape back to her familiar, kind form. I feel her hand on my shoulder, soft and warm, and when I look up, she has returned to her gentle human appearance, her silver hair cascading down her shoulders over her ample chest and her blue eyes filled with warmth.

"Thank you, Ren," she whispered, smiling with something almost like pride. "You've seen what truly matters."

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