Chapter Text
Warmth clung to the walls of the royal sitting room like a velvet curtain—heavy and indulgent. Embers glowed in the hearth, the chandelier hummed faintly with candlelight, and twelve princes of the Southern Isles lounged, laughed, and drank as though the world beyond the palace doors did not exist.
King Frederick—only thirty-four and already the iron spine of the kingdom—rested with one boot crossed over his knee. His pale hair was tied neatly at the nape of his neck, the ribbon matching the deep blue of his coat. Around him, his brothers filled the space with careless ease: draped over chairs and sofas, perched on cushions, stretched across the carpet like men who had never once questioned their right to be there.
Eleven stars, bright and secure in their orbit around the crown.
Only one was missing—and none of them had noticed.
Wine splashed into goblets. Laughter echoed against the vaulted ceiling. The brothers spoke over one another, voices overlapping as they debated politics, fencing, and the newest anti-royalist pamphlet circulating through the factories. Near the fire, Roderick—second-born and Minister of War—demonstrated with a training sword how he had disarmed an assassin the previous week.
“They never expect the footwork,” Roderick said smugly, pivoting with practiced precision.
“They never expect your ego either,” Prince Albert, third-born, replied dryly.
The room erupted into laughter.
And still, the empty seat beside the door remained unclaimed.
The years had done their slow, merciless work. Frederick and Roderick at the front—twins born to command—followed by brothers who arrived in steady succession, close enough in age to grow into one another’s shadows. Some came in pairs. Others followed soon after. A kingdom’s worth of heirs raised side by side, hardened together by duty and expectation.
And finally—
Hans.
Hans, who arrived sixteen years after Frederick.
Hans, born into grief, into a house already in mourning—his mother lost to his first breath, his father gone when Hans was five, leaving behind only silence and a secret no one else was meant to know.
Hans, who shared their blood—but never their orbit.
Hans, who was not here.
A servant entered quietly, bowing as he approached the king. His face was pale, his hands clasped too tightly before him. For a moment, no one noticed. Prince Lars, the eleventh son, lifted a hand impatiently.
“Later,” he said. “We’re speaking of strategy.”
“S-sire,” the servant stammered, voice unsteady, “a message… a message has arrived from the royal guard.”
That drew Frederick’s attention. He set his goblet aside.
“From which post?”
“The northern road, Your Majesty. The road from the charity event.”
“Oh, that,” Roderick said, waving a dismissive hand. “I cancelled my attendance hours ago. The guard likely wants confirmation.”
Lars stepped forward, plucking the parchment from the servant’s grasp before it could be unfolded. He scanned it quickly—then blinked, relief crossing his features.
“Roderick is here,” Lars announced, tossing the parchment onto the table. “It says the royal carriage was attacked—”
A burst of surprised laughter filled the room.
“—but they found the carriage empty.”
The brothers erupted at once.
“An empty carriage!”
“Not even worth stealing?”
“Did the horses abandon you, Roddy?”
Roderick barked a laugh. “See? Even the rebels know better than to try me.”
They raised their glasses in a careless toast.
The servant swallowed hard.
“I… I must clarify, Your Highnesses,” he said. “HRH Prince Hans volunteered to go in Prince Roderick’s place.”
The laughter died so abruptly it left a ringing silence behind.
Frederick lowered his goblet, slow and deliberate.
Roderick froze, arm still raised.
“…Hans?” Albert repeated, as though testing the name aloud.
The servant nodded miserably. “Yes, sir. His Highness insisted the event should not be cancelled on such short notice. He departed with the same escort you would have taken, Prince Roderick.”
Roderick stared at him. “I travel lightly because I am the best swordsman in the kingdom,” he said, each word clipped with dawning dread. “Hans barely carries a dagger.”
“It gets worse,” the servant whispered.
Frederick rose to his feet. “Speak.”
“The guard reports an ambush shortly after departing the town,” the servant said carefully. “The escort was outnumbered. His Highness was not armed.”
No one moved.
The warmth of the room suddenly felt oppressive.
“The commanding officer ordered His Highness to separate from the carriage and withdraw into the surrounding woodland,” the servant continued, voice tight. “The escort engaged the attackers and held their position until reinforcements arrived.”
Frederick’s jaw tightened. “And the prince?”
“Prince Hans has not been recovered, Your Majesty. The search is ongoing. It is now dark, and we believe at least one pursuer may have followed him.”
Silence swallowed the room whole.
Prince Wilhelm sank back into his chair.
Frederick ordered the search widened and demanded to be informed of every development; as the servants bowed and withdrew, only the brothers remained.
Albert’s gaze flicked to the door—as if Hans might walk through it at any moment, pale and apologetic.
Lars’s face drained of color.
“They wanted me,” Roderick whispered.
Ralf spoke into the silence, his voice low. “And instead, they found Hans.”
“They might hurt him,” Frederick said—his voice rough for the first time that night.
The words hung sharp and merciless in the air.
All eyes turned, at last, to the empty seat beside the door.
The boy they had forgotten.
The brother they had overlooked.
The prince now missing—alone, unarmed, and hunted in the woods.
And no one had even noticed he’d been gone.