Augustine, the second-born prince, had never known love—not in any form he could recognize. No matter how hard he sought it, affection always seemed to slip just beyond his reach. He stood on the outside, watching as his parents showered his sisters with the warmth and attention he longed for. Love, he had decided, was something meant for others, never for him.
At least, that's what he believed—until he met Merritt...
Augustine was nine when he first met Merritt. It was one of those rare afternoons when he'd managed to slip away from a training session, escaping into the solace of the royal gardens. The Flamboyant Tree was his sanctuary—a sprawling, flowering canopy where he could be alone. Augustine loved the peacefulness it offered, far from the cold indifference of his parents or the eyes of tutors and guards.
Perched on the lowest branch, nine feet off the ground, Augustine took a bite of the sandwich he'd swiped from the kitchens. As he sat hidden among the red blossoms, he heard distant voices calling his name—none of them his parents, so he ignored them.
"For someone so short, you're pretty good at climbing," a voice called from below, interrupting Augustine's peace.
Startled, Augustine looked down and saw a boy, about his age but slightly shorter, with a defiant chin and eyes squinted against the sun. He wasn't a servant by the look of him, but something about him didn't seem to fit the palace's usual order.
"Are you a servant?" Augustine asked, watching as the boy began to struggle his way up the tree, his long limbs awkwardly grasping the branches.
"No," the boy replied with effort, finally reaching a low branch. "I'm Merritt."
Augustine had heard that name before—whispers of a fourth-born orphan, a child that wasn't supposed to exist.
Augustine glanced down at the boy. "Oh..." he muttered, eyes drifting back to his half-eaten sandwich. He hesitated for a moment, then broke it in half, the crumbling bread spilling onto his lap.
"I'm a second-born," he said quietly, as though the admission carried a weight of its own. He reached out, handing the other half of the sandwich to the boy sitting below him.
The boy blinked, surprised, before taking the offered food. "Thanks," he said, settling awkwardly onto the branch beneath Augustine. He bit into the sandwich, chewing thoughtfully before glancing back up.
"Is that bad?" the boy asked, his eyebrows furrowed.
Augustine shrugged, staring at the red flowers swaying above in the wind. "It's just... what I am," he said, trying to sound indifferent, but even at nine, he couldn't hide the hollowness behind the words. He had long accepted that he was nothing more than a weapon for the kingdom, and it seemed pointless to even try and discover who he really was beneath that fate.
The boy looked at him for a moment, then smiled, a small and defiant grin. "I'm Merritt like I said before," he replied, wiping crumbs off his chin. "I'm... no one. But maybe that's not so bad either."
August looks down at Merritt, giving him a soft smile, the two share a moment of staring at each other before they look away.
The two sat in silence for a while, eating together in the shade of the Flamboyant treeHe had long accepted that he was nothing more than a weapon for the kingdom, and it seemed pointless to even try and discover who he really was beneath that fate.
Years passed like the changing of seasons, each one more distant from the child Augustine once was. Training became his life. At ten, the lessons were challenging but still bearable. By eleven, his body ached each night as the weight of expectation pressed down heavier. At twelve, August stayed in the barracks like the rest of the trainees. His parents stopped speaking to him unless it was about strategy, combat, or his performance. At thirteen, he stopped trying to impress them altogether.
Augustine's life blurred into a routine of training, combat drills, and cold indifference from his family. He grew stronger, faster, and more skilled, but his heart remained distant from the duty he was being molded for. At fourteen, he stopped seeking any approval from his parents—they only saw him as their soldier, not their son.
But then, there was Merritt.
What began as a chance encounter beneath the branches of the Flamboyant Tree became something more. Merritt was always around, always watching, always pushing himself further. Augustine couldn't ignore the way Merritt fought, as if his very existence depended on it—because it did. And slowly, Augustine found himself driven not by the hollow need for his parents' approval, but by a growing need to be noticed by Merritt.
Their friendship had grown slowly over the years, from the moment they'd met under the Flamboyant Tree to the hours they spent sparring at the academy. Merritt never treated him like the prince bound for war. To Merritt, he was just Augustine, and that was enough. By fifteen, they were both rising stars in the Academy of War, but it was Merritt who made Augustine push harder. When Merritt trained late into the night, Augustine trained longer. When Merritt mastered a new technique, Augustine perfected it twice over. He told himself it was about competition, about keeping his place at the top, but the truth gnawed at him: it wasn't his parents he cared about anymore.
It was Merritt's attention he craved.
At sixteen, Augustine no longer cared about being the perfect soldier for his kingdom; he wanted to be more than that. He wanted to figure out who he was beyond the role forced on him, but it wasn't for self-discovery's sake. It was because Merritt was watching, and Augustine wanted to make sure that he kept watching. Augustine was still top of the class, but the reason had shifted. He didn't care about duty or family pride anymore. What mattered was the look in Merritt's eyes, that flicker of acknowledgment. Merritt's approval became his driving force, the only thing that kept him striving to be more than the weapon the kingdom wanted him to be.
Augustine stood in the academy courtyard, drenched in sweat after a long session of sparring. The usual whispers about him being the "royal weapon" buzzed in the background, but Augustine had learned to tune it out. He was sharpening his sword when Merritt approached him, that familiar smirk playing on his lips. Every night after training, Merritt would offer a nod of approval. It wasn't much, but it was something Augustine found himself needing. When Merritt told him he was proud, it made Augustine's chest swell with something unfamiliar—something like hope.
And Augustine needed that. Needed to hear it, even if he didn't always believe it.
Because if Merritt was proud, if Merritt saw something in him beyond the prince destined for the battlefield, then maybe Augustine could be something more. Maybe he could find out who he really was—not for the kingdom, but for himself.
And maybe, just maybe, Merritt would keep watching. That thought was enough to keep Augustine going, enough to make him want to stay alive—to be seen, to matter.
By the time Merritt turned sixteen and August seventeen, Augustine was still top of the class, but not because of duty or family pride. No, it was because every time he succeeded, he saw the flicker of acknowledgment in Merritt's eyes. That look—the one that said Augustine wasn't just a weapon, wasn't just a prince bound to the front lines—it was the only thing that made him want to keep going. Because if Merritt was paying attention, Augustine had a reason to stay alive. And if Augustine could keep Merritt's focus on him, that meant something in his existence mattered.
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