Chapter Text
Once upon a time, there was a kingdom built from sunlight and song.
They called it Camelot, a realm where blades shone brighter than the stars and hearts burned for honor. Beneath its towers of gold and stone, knights rode in the name of virtue, and kings ruled beneath skies that never seemed to fade.
It was said the kingdom thrived under the blessing of two heirs — twin sons born beneath the same moon, bound by blood and destiny to rule together as one.
But fate, as it often does, chose cruelty.
On the night of fire and falling towers, the twins were torn apart — one spirited away to another realm beyond the veil, where time flowed differently and stars burned softer, while the other remained behind amid ash and prophecy. From that wound, the sorceress’s curse was born: a spell that doomed Camelot to repeat its own tale, to rise and fall in endless rhythm, until the story ended exactly as it was written.
Generations rose and fell. Kings wore crowns of light, then crumbled to dust. The tale twisted, fractured — yet the curse endured, looping endlessly like a song that refused to fade.
And so, when the drums of destiny began to stir once more, the kingdom trembled with an unfamiliar whisper — of something unseen, unrecorded, unnamed.
A light not written in ink, nor bound by fate.
A boy of gentleness, lost between worlds.
A heartbeat that did not belong to their story.
And somewhere, beyond the veil that divided realms, a pair of emerald eyes would open.
The shrill cry of an alarm clock tore through the stillness of the room — sharp, unrelenting, far too loud for the hour. A low groan followed before a peach-furred hand fumbled blindly across the cluttered desk, knocking over a cup of cloudy paint water and a pile of papers before finally finding the snooze button.
Sonic stirred, cheek still pressed against his sketchbook. His glasses sat crooked on his nose, one lens smudged from sleep. When he blinked, the world returned in a haze — soft, unfocused shapes wrapped in muted light. Sunlight filtered through thin curtains, painting everything in pale gold: scattered brushes, half-finished watercolor pages, and a small vase of wilted flowers he’d forgotten to change.
His laptop still glowed faintly beside him, the half-written project proposal frozen mid-thought — a quiet reminder of last night’s battle between focus and fatigue.
He exhaled, rubbing at his eyes before pushing his bangs aside and running his fingers through his quills. It took a moment for his blurry gaze to find the alarm clock — and then his stomach dropped.
“OH NO!”
He lurched upright so fast his chair nearly rolled out from under him. Papers scattered like startled birds, and he muttered a breathless apology to no one as he scrambled to gather his things. His backpack was buried under a heap of sketchbooks, his notes looked like a miniature storm had torn through them.
“I’m gonna be late!”
The words tumbled out as he dashed across the room, nearly tripping over his slippers. He caught himself on the desk with a wince — his right hip twinged from the sudden movement — but he pushed through it, muttering something halfway between a plea and a curse before heading for the bathroom.
He froze in front of the sink, eyes darting between the shower knob and the time glowing on his alarm clock. “No time,” he decided aloud, grabbing his toothbrush instead. A quick rinse, a splash of cold water that stung against tired skin, and he was gone again — leaving behind a fogged mirror and stray droplets on the counter.
Back in his room, he tore open the closet and grabbed the first thing his hand landed on — a simple black dress that stopped just above his knees. “Good enough,” he murmured, slipping it on with practiced ease. A light spritz of lavender and vanilla perfume followed, soft and familiar, grounding him in the rush.
His chair spun as he swept up his laptop, charger, sketchbook, and phone, shoving them all into his bag in one messy motion. Then he turned toward the mirror — and grimaced. His quills stuck up in uneven tufts, with his soft bangs falling into his eyes.
“Perfect,” he muttered dryly.
He gave them a few half-hearted strokes with a brush before tying his quills back with a white ribbon hair tie — frayed, but his favorite. His bangs still framed his face, soft and uneven, but he didn’t mind. Adjusting his glasses, he slung his bag over his shoulder and grabbed his keys.
The hallway echoed with hurried footsteps and a faint, uneven rhythm — the slight limp he carried since birth making his stride distinctive, though he’d long since learned to balance it. “I swear—never again,” he mumbled, though he knew it wasn’t true.
The stairwell lights flickered as he descended, the sudden brightness making him flinch. His glasses caught the glare, scattering it into soft halos that shimmered in his vision. By the time he pushed through the lobby doors, the shift from warm light to the cold brilliance of morning made his head spin.
He blinked rapidly, trying to steady his sight. The world was always a little too much — too bright, too grainy, too fragmented. Streetlights and sunlight both hurt in their own ways, and the static in his vision shimmered like faint dust over reality. He’d learned to move carefully through it, memorizing paths and pacing himself like someone walking through a dream that never quite cleared.
Outside, the morning air was cool and sharp against his skin. Sonic quickened his pace, mindful of the blurred edges of curbs and crosswalks that bled together in his periphery. The faint drag of his right leg made his steps uneven, but steady. His hip throbbed dully — not enough to stop him, just enough to remind him to keep moving with care.
He barely made it on the bus as the doors hissed shut behind him. Breathless, he stumbled into a seat near the window, pressing a hand to his chest as his heartbeat slowly steadied. Outside, the sunlight caught the passing cars, turning them into streaks of silver and gold that made him squint and look away.
He exhaled slowly, letting the tension drain from his shoulders. His reflection ghosted faintly in the glass — tired eyes behind fogged lenses, a small, rueful smile tugging at his lips.
“Finally,” he murmured, almost laughing at himself.
College life wasn’t easy. Between deadlines, sleepless nights, and a world that refused to slow down enough for him to truly see it, Sonic often wondered if this was really how it was meant to be. But no matter how uncertain or blurry things became — no matter how heavy his steps felt — he always found a way forward.
One careful step at a time.
By the time Sonic reached campus, his lungs were burning. His bag thumped against his hip as he sprinted down the hall, dodging students and nearly colliding with a janitor’s cart. The world blurred around him — colors, motion, noise — until he finally skidded to a stop in front of his classroom door.
He took a shaky breath, pushed it open—
BANG.
The door slammed louder than intended, the sound echoing off the walls like a gunshot. The entire class turned toward him.
Sonic froze mid-step, his bangs sticking slightly to his forehead with sweat. “Sorry!” he squeaked out, his voice cracking at the end.
The teacher lowered her clipboard, clearly unimpressed. “Nice of you to join us, Sonic. Try not to make it a dramatic entrance next time.”
A few students chuckled under their breath. Sonic winced and shuffled quickly to his seat near the window, doing his best to look invisible. His cheeks burned as he slid into the chair, tugging at the hem of his dress to keep it from sticking to his legs. The room was still too warm, the air heavy with morning light.
He pressed a hand over his chest, feeling his heart still racing. “Smooth, Sonic,” he muttered to himself.
Despite the chaos of his morning, he pulled out his notebook and focused on the lecture. His handwriting was neat — delicate, rounded — though a little shaky from the adrenaline. He always prided himself on keeping up with class, even on the days he came rushing in at the last minute.
“Psst.”
He glanced over his shoulder. Knuckles sat one row back, leaning casually on his armrest, his grin wide and impossible to ignore.
“Nice entrance, little bro,” Knuckles whispered, his tone half-mocking, half-affectionate. “You trying to scare the life outta everyone again?”
Sonic groaned quietly. “It was an accident,” he hissed back, though his lips twitched in a reluctant smile.
“Uh-huh,” Knuckles said, smirking. “Pretty sure the door saw its life flash before its eyes.”
Sonic rolled his eyes and turned forward, pretending to take notes, though he could feel Knuckles still grinning behind him. “One of these days, you’re gonna get detention just for making fun of me.”
Knuckles chuckled under his breath. “Worth it.”
Their teacher cleared her throat pointedly, and both of them went silent. Sonic bit back a laugh, cheeks still warm — but this time, it wasn’t from embarrassment.
Knuckles might tease him endlessly, but there was always comfort in it. In that moment, Sonic was just a student again — not the kid who used to get lost in hospitals or whispered about in pity after the accident. Just him.
And that, somehow, made the morning a little easier to bear.
Almost an hour passed, and Sonic was fighting a losing battle with his own eyelids. Between his all-nighter polishing his project proposal for his Political Science thesis and his sprint across campus that morning, he was running purely on caffeine and willpower. The lecture about Arthurian literature blurred into a soft hum, and the lines on his notebook started to sway out of focus.
“…a timeless tale of chivalry, betrayal, and the search for the Holy Grail,” Ms. Amy Rose’s voice carried across the room — steady, melodic, and entirely too soothing for someone on the brink of passing out.
Sonic’s head dipped forward, then back. 'Just five minutes', he thought hazily…
“Sonic?”
No answer.
“Sonic Ogilvie Hedgehog!”
He jerked awake, nearly dropping his pen. “Huh—what—yeah, I’m here!”
A few chuckles rippled through the room. Amy sighed, lowering her papers with the kind of exasperation only a teacher who genuinely cared could manage.
“Welcome back to class,” she said mildly. “I was just asking about the role of King Arthur’s knights — how their ideals compare to modern-day heroism. Any thoughts before you drift off again?”
“Uh—well, I think… they were kind of like… influencers for good?” Sonic offered weakly, earning more laughter. He winced. “You know, setting examples for others, standing by what’s right, even when it’s hard?”
Amy gave him a long, patient look, her lips twitching despite herself. “Creative answer, at least. But since you’re so inspired, you’ll have time to expand on that in a reflection paper. Due next week.”
Sonic’s eyes widened. “What?! Next week? Ms. Amy, come on—”
“No complaints,” she said with a faint smile, cutting him off as the bell rang. “You’re one of my brightest students, Sonic. But brightness doesn’t mean much if you keep dimming yourself out.”
As the class emptied, Sonic stayed behind, dragging himself toward her desk with a sheepish grin. “Ms. Amy, I swear I didn’t mean to fall asleep. I was just—my proposal’s due soon, and I kinda lost track of time.”
Amy’s expression softened, her tone losing its edge. “You’ve always pushed yourself too hard,” she murmured, half to herself. “Just remember—no one’s asking you to burn out before the finish line.”
She reached into her bag and pulled out a leather-bound book, its cover worn smooth with age. “Here,” she said, handing it to him. “This version’s a little special. You might find it… different from what’s online.”
Sonic turned it over, tracing the faint engravings on its surface. “Different how?”
Amy smiled — soft, secretive, almost wistful. “Some stories don’t like being rewritten. They remember who’s reading them.”
He blinked, unsure how to respond. “Uh… right. I’ll keep that in mind.”
She chuckled quietly and began gathering her papers. “Take your time with it, alright? I’ll extend the deadline a bit. You look like you could use more sleep than an essay.”
Sonic relaxed, a grateful smile tugging at his lips. “Thanks, Ms. Amy. You’re a lifesaver.”
“Just doing my job,” she said gently. Then, with a look that felt heavier than he understood, she added, “And Sonic? Try not to get too lost in that story.”
He laughed lightly. “Don’t worry, I’ll survive one bedtime read.”
Amy’s eyes softened. “Let’s hope so.”
The last bell rang, and the classroom exhaled. Notebooks snapped shut, chairs scraped across the floor, and conversation spilled into the hallway in a familiar rush.
Sonic lingered at his desk, finishing the last line of his notes. His handwriting leaned tiredly to one side, the word leadership underlined twice—neat, but weary. He stared at it for a moment, lips quirking faintly.
Leadership, huh? I’ll probably end up doing paperwork, not leading anyone.
He slipped his notebook into his bag and stepped outside. The late afternoon light was soft, filtered through a gauze of clouds. He adjusted his glasses against the brightness and spotted a familiar red figure waiting by the campus fountain—Knuckles, keys twirling between his fingers, grin already ready.
“Took you long enough,” Knuckles called. “Let me guess—another essay?”
Sonic chuckled. “You could say that. I think my wrist’s about to stage a rebellion.”
“Yeah, says the guy who was drooling on his desk in Lit class.”
Sonic rolled his eyes but smiled anyway. Before he could retort, a smooth voice floated over.
“Play nice, you two.” Rouge approached, sunglasses perched on her head and a tote of sheet music slung over one arm. Blaze followed close behind, earbuds looped loosely around her neck.
Rouge grinned. “Our star student looks about ready to pass out. Long day?”
“Something like that,” Sonic said, brushing a stray lock of fur from his face. “I think I’m running on caffeine and pure spite.”
“Welcome to higher education,” Blaze murmured.
Rouge nudged him lightly. “Or—you could come unwind at practice tonight. Knux’s studio, same time as always.”
Sonic blinked. “You sure? I don’t exactly add much to your sound.”
Knuckles smirked. “You add moral support. And snacks, if you bring any.”
“Exactly,” Rouge said. “You don’t have to play. Just be there. It’s been a while since you’ve hung out without a textbook attached to your hand.”
He hesitated, the strap of his bag biting into his shoulder—a quiet reminder of Amy’s assignment waiting at home. But then Blaze added, “Tails will be there too. He’s been talking about you all week.”
That did it. Sonic’s smile softened. “Alright, alright. I’ll come. But Knux drives.”
Knuckles grinned. “Deal.”
They headed toward the parking lot, the sound of their laughter spilling into the amber light. For all his exhaustion, Sonic felt the tightness in his chest ease. For a moment, the world felt simple again.
By the time they reached Knuckles’s home, the sun had already dipped low behind the trees, leaving streaks of violet and gold across the sky. Cicadas hummed softly in the garden as Knuckles unlocked the smaller studio tucked behind the house—a sleek building of glass and dark wood, surrounded by wildflowers.
It had been Knuckles’s eighteenth birthday gift, though it quickly became everyone’s refuge. A place without deadlines, where laughter filled the gaps between chords and the world outside could wait.
Sonic paused at the doorway, breathing in the familiar scent of polished wood and metal strings. Instruments lined the walls—Rouge’s mic stand draped with silver ribbons, Blaze’s keyboard glinting by the window, Knuckles’s drum set waiting in the corner. It was cluttered, cozy, alive.
“Welcome back to the chaos,” Knuckles said, tossing his keys onto the counter. “Tails! Guess who’s here!”
A metallic clatter followed by a burst of excitement. “Sonic!”
Tails barreled into him like a shot, wrapping his arms tight around Sonic’s waist.
“Whoa, hey!” Sonic laughed, steadying them both. “Missed me that much?”
Tails looked up, beaming. “You never visit anymore! You said you’d help me test the new mix!”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. Sorry, bud.” Sonic ruffled his fur. “School’s been rough lately.”
“Political Science still killing you?”
Sonic gave a tired grin. “Like you wouldn’t believe.”
Rouge passed by, arching a brow. “At least caffeine’s keeping you alive.”
Blaze chuckled softly as she set up her keyboard. “Barely.”
Tails tugged his sleeve. “You’re staying the whole time, right?”
Sonic opened his mouth, but Knuckles beat him to it. “He’s staying,” he said with certainty. “Even if we have to tie him to that couch.”
Rouge smirked. “Translation: we missed you, blue.”
Sonic laughed quietly and let himself sink into the couch, legs tucked beneath him. Around him, the room came alive: Blaze testing chords, Rouge humming as she flipped through lyric sheets, Knuckles tapping an idle rhythm, Tails darting between cables with boundless energy.
It felt like a heartbeat—steady and familiar.
But as he watched, something quiet stirred in his chest. The laughter around him blurred at the edges, softened like a dream. He tried to push it down, but the ache was there—the same old whisper that had followed him since the crash.
Even after Knuckles’s parents took him in, gave him a home, even after Tails joined their family, the guilt never really faded. Gratitude filled the spaces, sure, but it couldn’t quite drown out that hollow thought he tried so hard to ignore.
Maybe I still don’t belong.
He forced a small smile when Tails looked back and waved, pretending nothing was wrong. The music started—soft at first, rising like a slow tide—and for a while, Sonic just sat there, letting the sound wash over him.
The ache didn’t vanish. But under the hum of guitars and the warmth of familiar voices, it felt… quieter.
Like maybe, for now, that was enough.
The door clicked shut behind him, and Sonic let out a quiet, tired sigh. The faint hum of the city seeped through the window blinds, distant and muffled, while the warm glow of a small lamp painted his apartment in soft gold.
He slipped off his shoes neatly by the door—Rouge would’ve scolded him otherwise—and headed straight for the bathroom. His steps were careful, quiet.
Knuckles had dropped him off not too long ago, refusing to let him walk home after dark. Sonic had teased him with a joking “Thanks, Dad #3,” but deep down, he was grateful. The night always made everything harder to see—streetlights blurring into halos, shadows smearing together until they all became one soft gray.
He flicked on the bathroom light and squinted as his eyes adjusted. The mirror reflected a version of himself he still wasn’t sure how to feel about: glasses slipping slightly down his muzzle, bangs falling messily across his face, and his quills tied back with a white ribbon. He looked… fine, maybe. Just tired.
He sighed and stepped into the shower. The hot water loosened the tension from his body, the steam fogging up the mirror until his reflection vanished completely. Somehow, that felt easier.
When he finally turned off the water, the air was cool against his damp fur. He wrapped himself in a towel and quietly padded to his room. The moment he stepped inside, he shivered at the chill, reaching for the oversized pastel sweater draped over his chair.
It smelled faintly of lavender and clean cotton—fresh from the wash, but with a comforting trace of home clinging to the fabric. He smiled a little as he pulled it on, the soft material almost swallowing him whole.
The sleeves covered his hands as he brushed through his quills, his ribbon hair tie still looped around his wrist. He hummed quietly to himself—a small, tuneless sound—as he tidied up a bit, then finally collapsed onto his bed.
His bag sat beside him, and when it tipped over and hit his face, he groaned into the pillow.
“Ow…” He rubbed his cheek, glaring at it half-heartedly. Then he remembered what was inside.
Amy’s book.
Sonic sighed but reached for it anyway, pulling out the thick, timeworn volume. The leather cover was smooth in places and rough in others, edges frayed from years of use. He traced the faded title with his fingertips.
King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table.
“Right,” he murmured to himself. “Let’s just… get this over with.”
He opened the book. The faint scent of old paper filled the air—dust, ink, and something that reminded him of libraries and rainy afternoons. His eyes skimmed the ornate lettering across the first page.
“In the time of Arthur, son of Uther Pendragon, the land of Britain was plagued by chaos and strife. But from the darkness, a young boy emerged, a king chosen by the sword that no other could wield. His knights, bound by honor and sworn to protect the realm, gathered at the Round Table, each one a hero in their own right, each with a story etched in the annals of history.”
Sonic’s eyes lingered on the words. There was a weight to them—a sense of destiny and courage that felt both distant and familiar. He turned the pages slowly, absorbed in tales of battles and quests, of loyalty and betrayal, of kings who carried hope like a burden and knights who lived by ideals they could barely reach.
“With courage unyielding and hearts steadfast, they embarked upon quests that tested the very core of their being, seeking to uphold the ideals of chivalry in a world fraught with temptation and treachery.”
The sentences carried a rhythm that resonated in his chest. Maybe it was the way they spoke of conviction—something pure and almost unreachable. He wondered what it must have felt like to believe in yourself that completely.
After a few chapters, he set the book down beside him with a soft thud and leaned back against the headboard. The glow from his bedside lamp painted the room in gentle amber.
His gaze drifted to the pictures on his shelf. One showed him with his friends—arms slung over each other’s shoulders, grins wide and bright. That one always made him smile. But his eyes fell to the smaller frame beside it: him as a child, tucked between his parents, their faces full of pride.
His smile faded.
He reached out and brushed the edge of the frame with his fingertips. The photo was a little worn now, its corners curling from years of handling. He remembered that day—the laughter, the warmth—and the quiet that followed after they were gone.
Knuckles’ parents had taken him in not long after the accident, never once hesitating. They’d treated him like their own from the start. Later, when they adopted Tails too, the house had grown even louder—filled with laughter, experiments gone wrong, and endless questions. It wasn’t the same as before, but it was still family.
Sonic leaned back and exhaled slowly. He wasn’t ready to start his reflection paper yet, but the story had left something stirring inside him. The idea of courage—real courage—felt different now. Less about being fearless, and more about standing up, even when you doubt yourself.
Maybe that was something he could write about.
He adjusted his glasses and sank deeper into the warmth of his blanket. The hum of the city outside softened, fading into the quiet of the night. His eyes grew heavy, and his breathing slowed.
Beside him, the book lay open—its pages faintly stirring as though touched by a breeze that wasn’t there. A golden shimmer began to seep from between them, light tracing along the text like liquid fire.
It pulsed once, twice—then spread, soft and soundless, wrapping the room in an otherworldly glow.
Sonic’s breathing steadied. His fingers twitched lightly, brushing the glowing edge of the page.
The light deepened—gentle, inviting.
And as sleep fully claimed him, the glow swallowed everything whole.