Gris was seven when the sea finally stopped moving.
For weeks, the world beneath his feet had swayed and groaned like a wounded beast. The ship that carried them across the endless blue smelled of salt, sickness, and fear. The wooden planks creaked day and night, never letting him forget that nothing beneath him was solid.
His parents—once serfs tied to land that no longer belonged to them—stood silently at the railing as the coastline of their homeland faded into smoke and distance.
Their land had been taken in a single season.
Invaders came with banners and fire, and the serfs were given a choice only in name: kneel, or flee. Gris remembered his mother's hands shaking as she packed what little they had. He remembered his father standing in the doorway one last time, staring at fields that would never be theirs again.
They chose life.
That choice brought them to the Great Pasidona Continent—a land whispered about in taverns and songs, said to overflow with gold, diamonds, and veins of glowing minerals that made kings drunk with ambition.
But the first thing Gris learned upon stepping onto the capital port was that riches did not mean kindness.
The city rose impossibly high—white stone walls stretching toward the clouds, towers crowned with banners snapping proudly in the wind. It looked like something from a dream.
And dreams, Gris learned quickly, could still spit on you.
The moment his feet touched the dock, the looks came.
Black hair.
Foreign tongue.
Serf's clothes.
Whispers followed them like insects.
"Filth from overseas."
"Don't touch them."
"They'll bring disease."
Someone spat near his feet. Gris flinched but said nothing, gripping his mother's sleeve tighter.
By sundown, the immigrants were driven outside the capital walls and left to form a camp on dry, unforgiving ground. No shelters. No protection. Just the promise that they would not be chased further.
That was where Gris met Leo Kingsley.
The meeting was… memorable.
Gris had been sent to fetch water when something struck his forehead with a sharp crack.
"OW—!"
"Direct hit!" a girl's voice cheered.
Before Gris could react, another rock whizzed past his ear. He spun around to see a boy about his age standing proudly with his arms crossed, while a younger girl beside him laughed so hard she nearly fell over.
"I was aiming for the bucket," the boy said confidently.
"You missed by a lot," Gris snapped, rubbing his head.
"That's because the bucket moved."
"…The bucket is on the ground."
The girl wiped tears from her eyes. "Leo, you idiot! That's a person!"
The boy squinted, leaned closer, then tilted his head. "Huh. So it is."
Gris glared. "Are you blind or something?"
Leo grinned. "On my right eye? Yeah."
That shut Gris up.
Later, during awkward apologies—mostly from the girl, Lilia Kingsley—Gris learned the truth. Leo had lost sight in his right eye during a fire years ago. Smoke, collapsing beams, and a scar that never healed right. He could still see shapes, light and shadow, but depth betrayed him constantly.
So he compensated—with confidence, stubbornness, and a dangerously bad throwing arm.
They became friends faster than Gris thought possible.
Leo taught him how to laugh again. Lilia taught him how to steal apples without getting caught. At night, they lay on the dirt staring at the capital walls, imagining what lay beyond them.
For the first time since leaving home, Gris felt something loosen in his chest.
Days passed.
The serfs took whatever work they could—hauling stone, cleaning stables, digging canals. They were paid little, insulted often, and beaten when someone felt bored.
Gris learned to keep his head down.
Until the alley.
It smelled of rot and damp stone.
Hands shoved him forward. His back scraped against the wall. Someone laughed—too close, too pleased.
"Look at him," a boy sneered. "Think he belongs here?"
Gris clenched his fists. He had learned not to cry. Crying only made it worse.
Then a shadow fell between him and them.
"Move."
The voice was young—but steady. Not loud. Not threatening.
Just certain.
The boys hesitated.
"I don't like repeating myself," the boy continued, stepping closer. His clothes were clean but simple. His posture was straight, like someone used to being obeyed. His eyes flicked over Gris—not with disgust, but quick concern—before locking onto the others.
"Get. Out. Of. My. Way."
One scoffed. "And who are you supposed to—"
"I'm Julies," he said calmly. "Crown Prince of Vanward."
Silence crashed down.
Faces went pale.
Julies tilted his head slightly. "Do you want to test whether I'm lying?"
They ran.
Gris slid down the wall, legs shaking, breath coming too fast.
Julies crouched immediately, bringing himself eye level.
"Are you hurt?" he asked.
Gris stared. "…You're really the prince?"
Julies shrugged. "Unfortunately."
That earned a weak laugh from Gris—one he hadn't realized he still had.
"What's your name?" Julies asked.
"Gris."
Julies stood and held out his hand.
Gris hesitated.
People like him didn't touch people like that.
Julies noticed—and instead of pulling back, he gently took Gris's wrist himself. His grip was firm, warm. Real.
"Come on," he said. "Let's get you somewhere safe."
That was the moment Gris understood something important.
This prince didn't look down on him.
He stood beside him.
Days later, the King himself came to the camp—Julies at his side.
He offered land.
Work.
Purpose.
For the first time, hope took root in soil that had known only hunger.
Julies visited often. He trained with Gris and Leo using wooden swords, laughed until dusk, helped in the fields until his hands blistered.
A prince who listened.
A prince who remembered names.
Not everyone approved.
"He even told us to call him just Julies," Leo whispered once, like it was a secret.
Then Lord Halvrek Dornvale arrived.
He didn't shout.
He smiled.
That was what made him dangerous.
He came polished and perfumed, eyes lingering too long. Fingers brushing shoulders under the excuse of inspection. Fear followed him like perfume.
Gris noticed everything.
How Leo's fists clenched.
How Lilia stopped laughing.
How his mother stood closer to younger girls.
Complaints vanished. Bruises were ignored.
Until the scream.
Lilia's scream.
Gris and Julies ran before thinking.
The storage hut door was half open.
Inside, Dornvale had Lilia pinned, fabric tearing, breath hot and cruel.
The world went red.
Gris didn't remember moving—only impact.
Bone cracked.
Punch.
Elbow.
Knee.
Again.
Again.
"You don't touch her," Gris snarled, voice shaking with something far older than anger.
Julies' voice cut through the chaos—cold, final.
"Not anymore."
This time, the guards listened.
Dornvale was stripped of the title. Dragged away screaming.
Lilia didn't sleep that night.
Neither did Gris.
Months later, harvest day came with banners and music.
Then smoke.
Fire.
Betrayal.
An arrow meant for Julies tore through Gris's shoulder instead. Pain exploded, but he stayed standing.
Another arrow flew.
The King stepped forward.
It pierced his chest.
Time stopped.
Gris dragged him through smoke and blood, hands slick, heart screaming.
The King's hand found his wrist.
"Protect him," he whispered. "Stand beside him… until death."
Gris bowed until his forehead touched blood-soaked earth.
"I swear it," he said, voice breaking. "If it's for Julies… I will burn the whole world down."
The King smiled.
And closed his eyes.
Gris woke up gasping.
Sunlight streamed through the window.
Mira slept beside him, peaceful.
He opened the curtains, letting the light burn away the memory.
That pain never leaves.
Mira stirred, smiled, and kissed him softly.
"Morning."
Gris exhaled.
"…Let's eat some cake," he said quietly.
Mira laughed. "Yes."
And for a moment—
The past stayed where it belonged.