The sky was unnaturally overcast for May. Did nature, in some strange way, sense death and deliberately conjure this gloom to deepen human sorrow? Colin couldn't comprehend the eerie harmony between humans and the natural world—nor did he have time to ponder it. His chestnut-haired mother let out a stifled sob as knights carried his father's coffin, lowering it gently beside the gaping grave where his body would rest forever.
A crowd had gathered in the verdant cemetery—nobles, knights, wealthy merchants, bourgeois traders, and royal officials—their faces etched with grief. Colin, just nine years old, wasn't surprised by the turnout. It was only fitting for the king's right-hand man, his confidant in peace and war, to be honored with such a funeral. The Rosman family had long been close to the royal household, the envy of other noble houses. But Colin found no pride in that. Had it not been for this "privileged" friendship, his father might still be alive.
Did the king cause his death? He didn't know.
He clung to his mother's black mourning dress, silent tears streaming down his cheeks. No sobs, no gasps, no screams. He stared at the coffin, a hollow voice inside him whispering: Today, you'll spend more time with Father than usual. But a lifeless body wasn't enough. He wanted those large hands to ruffle his hair, praising his vast knowledge, his dedication to difficult books, his eloquence for a boy his age. He wanted his father's ears to hear how much his violin playing had improved, to see that proud smile bloom at the music's beauty. A corpse, no matter how long he sat beside it, could do none of that.
A sudden gust swept through the cemetery. The crowd turned and bowed—a silent homage to the arriving king. Can the wind sense royalty too? Colin didn't look back. He couldn't. His emotions stormed inside him, and he refused to meet the king for the first time in such a fragile state. The risk of leaving a poor first impression—one that might have saddened his late father—was too great.
The king and his father had been friends since childhood. They'd fought side by side in the war to reunite the Western Kingdom. His father had only married his mother after the king insisted. Yes, they'd been that close. After quelling the chaos, with the Western Continent unified under the ancient monarchy, they should have enjoyed peace. But "happy times never last." Colin knew that well—yet no one expected life to betray them so cruelly, so soon.
Three years after the war, the king married and fathered an heir, determined to shield the prince from battle, to give him a future of peace. But fate had other plans. The prince was kidnapped just after his first birthday. The catastrophe devastated the king, the queen, the entire kingdom—and, of course, Colin's father, as if he were the one who'd lost a son.
His mother often told him the story of the prince's disappearance, especially when he asked why his father was always absent—leading a royal search party, returning home only sporadically, barely seeing Colin.
"But Mother, why do people act like the royal family is doomed? Can't they just have another child?"
"They can't, Colin. You know that, don't you?" She'd smile faintly as they sat in their rose garden.
"All I know is they're different. They have that incredible power that keeps them young forever."
"True, but that power has flaws. Though ageless, they can only bear one child—always a son—to preserve their bloodline. If the lost prince isn't found, the ancient monarchy will end, and the Western Kingdom will plunge back into chaos." Colin listened intently, marveling at a dynasty that upheld peace merely by existing. New questions sprouted in his mind.
"Then why must Father lead the search? Aren't there others in the royal court?" His mother stroked his chestnut hair, her gray eyes distant.
"Your father chose to. The king forbade anyone from searching—no one knows why. But your father defied him, formed a small team. They were... brothers."
Brothers?
"Mother, Father couldn't be the king's brother!" She'd laughed softly, making Colin pout.
"What's so funny? I didn't say anything strange!" She hugged him warmly.
"Forgive me, dear. But you must understand something important. People share bonds deeper than blood—sometimes stronger. Love, once rooted in the heart, forges unbreakable ties. Your father and the king were brothers in spirit. He ignored curses and warnings. He just wanted to help his brother."
Colin stared at the horizon, pondering her words. Bonds forged by love. He wished he could experience that.
The wind stilled. The king's footsteps grew louder—heavy, inevitable. Colin swallowed hard, steadied his mind, and turned.
And froze.
Radiant. That was the only word. The king stood tall, his blue eyes vast, his blond hair swept back. Every inch of him was perfect, terrifyingly so. His black robe, gilded at the edges, draped over his dark royal attire. His presence commanded the cemetery—radiant yet dark as the ocean's depths. The twenty-seventh monarch of the ancient Primord dynasty: King Chris el Primord.
The king approached the open coffin, his expression hollow. Silence gripped the crowd, even Colin's mother. Chris reached inside—Colin, too short, couldn't see what he touched. The king whispered something inaudible, then withdrew his hand and strode toward Colin and his mother.
Colin stiffened as the king took his mother's hand. "Good men are the first to leave us," Chris said quietly. "This curse will end. I pray you live..."
The cemetery fell into hollow silence. His mother said nothing. The king's gaze shifted to Colin. "Louis' son. You don't resemble him much." True—aside from his long nose, Colin had inherited none of his father's features: dark hair, brown eyes, vibrant complexion. Colin was pale like his mother.
The king released her hand. "Forgive me," he murmured, so faint Colin barely heard it. Then he left.
Only then did Colin realize his tears had stopped.
-
Four months passed. Colin became an expert on the ancient royal family—their legends, the wars that fractured the Western Kingdom, the sole recorded birth of royal twins (a prince and princess), why their kings never wore crowns, and every battle his father and King Chris had fought to reunite the realm. He spent dawn to dusk in the library, devouring books until his mother dragged him to bed. Another reason to curse being a child.
His mother still smiled, though her lips curved differently now. His feelings about the king remained tangled, but one thing was certain: he needed to know more about the Primords. It filled his days.
Between reading, he practiced violin. He adored the instrument—it felt like an extension of himself, as if the music flowed from his body, not the wood. He excelled, especially at melancholic pieces. Why? He didn't know. It simply filled an inexplicable void in his chest. And his father had loved listening to him play, which only fueled his passion.
Today, he played his favorite: "A Song from a Secret Garden." He poured his soul into it, determined to perfect it after his tutor left. But something felt off about the strings. His tutor insisted the sound was flawless, but Colin knew better.
"There's something wrong. I'm sure of it." He hurried to his mother.
"Mother, can we go to the Smith family's shop tomorrow? I need my violin checked."
"Did your tutor say so?"
"No."
"Then we'll go. I trust your ears more than any professional's." Colin beamed and kissed her cheek.
-
The next morning, their carriage rolled toward the Smiths' shop—an old, revered store in Lucidam's heart, where master luthiers crafted and repaired violins.
"Good morning," Colin announced confidently. He feared no conversation, despite his age. He knew adults noticed children—he wanted to leave only good impressions.
The elderly shopkeeper greeted them. "Lady Rosman, young master! How may I help?"
Colin handed over his violin. "When I play for long, the sound warps. Like the violin resists me."
The man examined it, then chuckled. "You're a clever boy! Just a loose second string—barely noticeable except to professionals. You've got rare talent."
Colin flushed but smiled in relief.
As they browsed the shop, Colin mustered courage to ask what had haunted him since the funeral:
"'This curse will end. I pray you live...' What curse? Why didn't you reply? Why beg you to live?"
But before he could speak, a black-clad figure dropped from the ceiling behind his mother. A masked man in tight black attire, a red scarf around his neck—
—slashed her throat with a short, sharp blade.
Blood gushed. She collapsed onto Colin, her face in his lap, gurgling. Time froze. Sounds muffled. Only her bleeding neck felt real.
Then she gripped his face. "RUN."
He shoved her aside and fled. The shopkeeper's fate was unclear. The black-clad man didn't chase him—just watched.
Colin sprinted home—only to find it ablaze, another red-scarfed figure standing at the gate.
He ran again.
Left his mother to die.
Left everything.
-
Five days later, Colin lay filthy and starved on a roadside, staring at the mocking clouds.
"I was at the shop... Mother was bleeding... the house burned... the man in black... Did she die? Is she gone?"
Whispers in the streets claimed his mother had vanished from the shop, leaving only blood. Had the killer taken her?
His stomach growled. He'd eaten nothing but a moldy crust gifted by a passerby. In the market, he watched a dark-skinned boy steal apples. A thief. He'd read about them—cunning or imprisoned, hands severed.
But they live.
A noble starving to death was better than a thieving noble. Yet the next day, watching the thief share stolen fruit with siblings—a girl even feeding a baby mashed banana—Colin wavered.
They'd die without stealing.
I'll die if I don't.
He lurched toward a fruit stall, fingers twitching toward a barrel—
—and a hand yanked him back.
"You shouldn't steal to eat."
Colin turned. A radiant boy smiled at him.
"W-What?"
"We'll talk elsewhere." The boy dragged him away. Exhausted, Colin collapsed.
-
He awoke to cool water trickling down his throat, a grinning face above him. "Had enough? Try these wild berries."
Colin ate, the tartness jolting him alive.
"Who are you?"
"I don't know. No family, no home. This forest sheltered me two years. I've searched for a family—yesterday, I found you." The boy stood, offering a hand. "I'm Mateo. Will you be my brother, Colin?"
Sunlight broke through the clouds, haloing Mateo. The universe mocks me.
Colin laughed, taking his hand. "Gladly, brother!"
Mateo rambled about their future—new clothes, more "siblings," dreams upon dreams. Colin listened, awed.
He'd keep his past to himself. His life had changed.
A brotherhood bond.
A tear threatened to escape—he remembered his mother's words. Bonds forged by love.
He blinked it away. No time for tears.
They had a world to survive.
Together.