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Chapter Text

Once upon a time, there was a prince named Zanka who lived in a castle of white stone.

He was strong enough to split practice dummies in half with a single swing of his spear. He trained from dawn until dusk, and every knight in the kingdom respected him.

Yet Zanka thought he was weak.

His older brother had always been stronger. His older sister had always been faster. They trained him relentlessly, and whenever he failed, his brother would sigh and say, "You're still weak."

So no matter how much stronger he became, Zanka never believed it was enough.

He trained harder.

He spoke less.

He smiled rarely.

And then there was Jabber.

Jabber was the castle fool.

Or perhaps a menace pretending to be one.

Nobody was entirely sure.

He stole food from the kitchens, lied for fun, and started arguments simply because he liked watching people yell. He laughed when people got angry. He laughed when people got sad. Sometimes he laughed for no reason at all.

The servants feared him.

The guards hated him.

And Jabber thought Prince Zanka was the funniest person in the kingdom.

"You're frowning again" Jabber would say.

"I always frown."

"I know. That's why it's funny."

Then he'd run away before Zanka could throw something at him.

Every day Jabber found a new way to annoy him.

He hid Zanka's training spear.

He replaced royal documents with terrible drawings.

He once spent an entire week spreading rumors that the prince secretly cried whenever he saw kittens.

Zanka nearly strangled him.

Yet somehow Jabber always came back.

One evening, after a particularly brutal training session, Zanka sat alone in the palace gardens.

His hands ached.

His muscles burned.

His brother's voice echoed in his mind.

"Weak."

He hated that word.

A bell jingled behind him.

Jabber.

Of course.

The fool dropped from a tree upside down, hanging by his knees.

"You look miserable."

"Go away."

"You know, if you keep making that face, it'll freeze like that."

Zanka ignored him.

For once, Jabber didn't laugh.

Instead, he tilted his head.

"Why do you train so much?"

"To become stronger."

"You already are."

"No."

"You are."

"No."

Jabber stared at him.

Then he suddenly dropped from the tree and landed beside him.

The jester's usual grin had disappeared.

"You're stupid."

Zanka's eye twitched.

"What?"

"Your brother says you're weak, so you believe him."

"That's none of your business."

"It is now."

"It isn't."

"It is."

Zanka stood up, furious.

"I don't need advice from a lunatic."

Jabber barked out a laugh.

"Good. Because I'm not giving advice."

He poked Zanka's chest.

Hard.

"You protect everyone."

Another poke.

"You work harder than anybody."

Another.

"You'd throw yourself in front of a sword for people who don't even appreciate it."

Zanka grabbed Jabber's wrist before he could poke him again.

The fool didn't pull away.

Instead he smiled.

Not his usual cruel grin.

A smaller one.

A real one.

"I think you're plenty strong."

For some reason, those words hurt more than any insult.

Because Zanka realized nobody had ever said them before.

Not his brother.

Not his sister.

Nobody.

Only the crazy fool who spent half his life tormenting him.

Jabber looked away first.

"Don't get emotional on me, Prince."

"I'm not emotional."

"You are."

"I'm not."

"You are."

Zanka tightened his grip.

Jabber laughed.

"There he is."

The prince should have shoved him away.

He should have yelled.

Instead he found himself reluctant to let go.

Jabber noticed.

Unfortunately.

His grin immediately became insufferable.

"Oh."

"No."

"Ohhh."

"No."

"You like me."

"I do not."

"You absolutely do."

Zanka released him immediately.

Jabber doubled over laughing.

The prince turned bright red.

For weeks afterward, Jabber never let him forget it.

And whenever someone asked why the fool followed Prince Zanka everywhere, Jabber would grin and say,

"Because he's my favorite person to annoy."

Meanwhile, whenever someone suggested Zanka cared about Jabber, the prince would grow angry enough to scare the entire room.

But he never told Jabber to leave.

And Jabber never did.

So the stern prince and the maddening fool remained together, arguing every day and walking home side by side every night.

And though Zanka denied loving him until the very end, everyone in the kingdom knew the truth.

Especially Jabber.

Who never stopped laughing about it.

Chapter Text

Once upon a time, in a kingdom of glass towers and flowering gardens, there lived a common girl named Amo.

Amo loved fairy tales.

She loved stories about princes and princesses, secret dances beneath the stars, and true love that could overcome any curse.

Yet she never believed such stories could belong to her.

When she was little, life had been cruel. The world had taught her that beautiful things could disappear without warning. People could leave. Promises could break. Love could hurt.

So Amo admired romance from afar.

Like a bird watching the sky, convinced it could never fly.

Whenever she saw the princesses riding through town, graceful and beloved, her heart would ache.

"That's where love belongs" she would think.

"Not with someone like me."

Meanwhile, in the royal castle, there lived a knight named Rudo.

Rudo was feared throughout the kingdom.

Not because he was cruel.

But because he was angry.

Always.

His brow was permanently furrowed. His voice was rough. His temper was quick.

Bandits feared him.

Troublemakers avoided him.

Children ran away from him.

Which hurt, because Rudo actually liked children.

He liked helping people.

He liked fixing things.

Whenever someone threw away a broken toy, Rudo would quietly repair it.

Whenever a chair snapped, he'd mend it.

Whenever a cracked teacup appeared in the trash, he'd save it.

People called him strange for it.

But Rudo hated seeing things discarded.

Because he always wondered:

"If this can be fixed..why throw it away?"

Unfortunately, he often wondered the same thing about himself.

One spring afternoon, Amo found herself wandering through the marketplace.

A merchant had tossed a broken music box into a rubbish pile.

The tiny ballerina inside no longer spun.

Amo picked it up sadly.

"What a shame..."

A rough voice answered.

"It still works."

She nearly jumped.

Standing beside her was Knight Rudo.

Scowling.

As usual.

Without another word, he took the music box.

His hands were scarred and calloused, but surprisingly gentle.

A few moments later, the music box began playing again.

The little ballerina spun.

Amo stared.

Rudo handed it back.

"There."

Then he started walking away.

"Wait!"

He stopped.

Amo smiled brightly.

"That was amazing."

Rudo immediately looked uncomfortable.

"It's nothing."

"It isn't."

"It is."

"It isn't."

Rudo frowned harder.

Amo laughed.

For some reason, that laugh followed him for days.

Soon they began meeting often.

Amo would chatter endlessly about romance, princes, princesses, and fairy tales.

Rudo would grumble.

Amo would point at couples holding hands.

Rudo would pretend not to care.

Amo would ask him if he believed in true love.

Rudo would nearly trip over his own feet.

Yet despite all her talk about love, she never included herself in those stories.

One evening, while watching lanterns float across a lake, Amo quietly said,

"I think love is beautiful."

Rudo nodded.

Then her smile faded.

"But not for me."

The knight looked at her.

"What do you mean?"

Amo hugged her knees.

"Princesses find love."

"That's ridiculous."

"Knights find love."

"Also ridiculous."

"But not people like me."

Rudo's expression darkened.

Not with anger at her.

At the idea.

"Who told you that?"

Amo didn't answer.

She didn't need to.

The sadness in her eyes told him enough.

Rudo clenched his fists.

The old anger rose inside him.

The anger he hated.

The anger that always appeared whenever someone was hurting.

But this time he didn't yell.

Instead he looked out across the water.

Then he spoke softly.

"You're wrong."

Amo blinked.

"Huh?"

Rudo scratched the back of his neck awkwardly.

His attempt at a smile appeared.

Crooked.

Uneven.

Trying very hard.

"If something important gets damaged" he said "that doesn't mean it's worthless."

Amo stared at him.

Rudo looked embarrassed.

"I mean..things can be repaired."

His ears turned red.

"I mean..."

The knight groaned.

Words were harder than fighting monsters.

Amo couldn't help smiling.

Rudo sighed.

Then finally said the truth.

"You're someone worth loving."

The lanterns drifted silently overhead.

For once, Amo had nothing to say.

No fairy tale.

No joke.

No dreamy speech about romance.

Just tears gathering in her eyes.

Not sad tears.

The kind that appear when someone finally says the thing you've needed to hear for years.

Rudo panicked immediately.

"Why are you crying?"

"I'm not crying!"

"You're definitely crying!"

"I'm happy!"

"That's worse!"

Amo burst out laughing.

And soon Rudo was laughing too.

Or trying to.

His smile was still crooked.

Still awkward.

Still imperfect.

But Amo thought it was the most beautiful smile she'd ever seen.

And from that day onward neither felt less than love for one another....

Chapter Text

Once upon a time, there was a prince named Zanka.

The kingdom adored him.

His older brother did not.

His older sister did not.

Not because they hated him.

Simply because they never seemed to think about him much at all.

His brother was busy winning battles.

His sister was busy earning glory.

And whenever Zanka trained beside them, they would scarcely spare him a glance.

"Again," his brother would say.

"Faster," his sister would add.

No praise.

No encouragement.

Only corrections.

If he succeeded, they expected it.

If he failed, they noticed.

So Zanka grew into a quiet prince who rarely smiled and never spoke about his feelings.

Inside his heart lived a terrible fear.

That perhaps everyone else was right.

Perhaps he truly wasn't enough.

Far beyond the kingdom's borders, across deserts and distant seas, there lived a young man named Follo.

He came from a land nobody in the kingdom could pronounce properly.

He arrived with worn boots, a battered sword, and dreams far larger than himself.

Follo wanted to become a knight whose name people remembered.

Instead, people forgot him constantly.

The stronger knights received the praise.

The famous knights received the promotions.

The noble-born knights received the opportunities.

Follo received whatever was left.

Sometimes people forgot he was standing in the room entirely.

Yet every morning he woke up and tried again.

Because if nobody believed in him, he would simply have to believe in himself.

One spring, the captain of the guard assigned Follo a new duty.

Guard Prince Zanka.

Neither was particularly pleased.

The prince disliked being watched.

The knight disliked being treated like a decorative escort.

Their first conversation lasted less than a minute.

"You don't need to follow me."

"I was ordered to."

"Then ignore the order."

"I'd rather not lose my job."

Zanka frowned.

Follo frowned back.

The prince walked away.

The knight followed.

And so began their strange friendship.

Or perhaps rivalry.

Neither could tell.

Months passed.

Follo accompanied Zanka everywhere.

Training fields.

Council meetings.

Village inspections.

Neither man talked much.

Both spent too much time inside their own heads.

Yet eventually they began noticing things.

Follo noticed the prince staying on the training grounds long after sunset.

He noticed the blisters on his hands.

The exhaustion in his eyes.

The way he stared after his siblings whenever they walked away.

As though hoping they might look back.

They never did.

Meanwhile, Zanka noticed Follo's own loneliness.

The other knights rarely invited him anywhere.

His accomplishments were ignored.

His victories credited to others.

Yet somehow he never stopped trying.

Never stopped helping.

Never stopped standing up after being pushed aside.

One evening they found themselves repairing a broken fence in a village outside the capital.

The work should have belonged to someone else.

But the villagers couldn't afford help.

So Follo had volunteered.

Zanka had stayed.

The sun was setting by the time they finished.

The village children ran off laughing.

The fence stood straight again.

Follo wiped sweat from his forehead.

"There."

Zanka looked at him.

"You could have left it."

Follo shrugged.

"It was broken."

"So?"

The knight seemed genuinely confused.

"So I fixed it."

The answer was so simple that it irritated Zanka.

"You always do that."

"Do what?"

"Fix things."

Follo laughed softly.

"Someone should."

For a long moment neither spoke.

Then Zanka looked toward the horizon.

"My brother thinks I'm weak."

Follo continued hammering.

"My sister too."

The knight was silent.

"I've spent years trying to prove them wrong."

Still silence.

Zanka's voice became quieter.

"I don't think it's working."

Follo finally looked up.

The expression on his face wasn't pity.

It was confusion.

"Why?"

Zanka blinked.

"What?"

"Why are you trying to prove it to them?"

The prince frowned.

"Because they're stronger than me."

"So?"

Zanka stared.

Follo set down the hammer.

"You protect people."

"So do they."

"You work harder than anyone I know."

"They do too."

Follo sighed.

The prince was frustrating.

"You keep comparing yourself to them."

The knight pointed toward the repaired fence.

"If a fence is shorter than a castle wall, does that make it useless?"

"...No."

"Then why are you measuring yourself like that?"

The evening wind carried the scent of flowers through the fields.

For once, Zanka had no answer.

Nobody had ever challenged the idea before.

Not his siblings.

Not his teachers.

Not even himself.

Only Follo.

The overlooked knight from far away.

After that day, something changed.

Not quickly.

Not dramatically.

But slowly.

The prince began seeking Follo's company.

And Follo found himself looking for Zanka in every room.

Neither admitted it.

Of course not.

They were both terrible at that sort of thing.

Especially Zanka.

The prince hardly smiled.

When he did, it was brief.

Small.

Gone in an instant.

Yet Follo began collecting those rare smiles like treasures.

A corner of the mouth lifting after a successful patrol.

A quiet laugh when Follo told a particularly bad joke.

A look of genuine happiness when villagers thanked them.

They became precious things.

Things meant only for him.

One winter evening, years later, the two stood together atop the castle walls.

Snow drifted through the air.

The kingdom glowed beneath them.

Neither spoke for a while.

Then Follo said quietly,

"You know, I still think you're wrong."

"About what?"

"Being weak."

Zanka looked away.

Old habits died hard.

The knight stepped closer.

"You've spent your whole life trying to become someone else's idea of strong."

The wind tugged at his cloak.

"But the strongest person I know is standing right here."

The prince was silent.

Then, after a long moment, something rare happened.

A smile.

Small.

Crooked.

Almost reluctant.

But real.

Follo felt his heart skip.

And for the first time in many years, Zanka realized he no longer cared what his siblings thought.

Because someone had finally seen him.

Not as a prince.

Not as a disappointment.

Not as someone who needed to be stronger.

Just as Zanka.

And somehow, that was enough.

From then on, the prince who thought he was never enough and the knight who thought nobody noticed him remained together.

One was finally seen.

The other finally belonged.

And though songs would later call them heroes, neither title mattered very much.

Because what they treasured most was something far rarer than glory.

They had found someone who chose them.

Again and again.

Every single day.

Chapter Text

Once upon a time, beyond the mountains where storms slept, there stood a tower so tall that its shadow stretched across entire valleys.

At the top of that tower lived Prince Gountess.

He had lived there for so many years that he no longer remembered the sound of a crowded street. He no longer remembered festivals, markets, or the scent of fresh bread drifting from village ovens.

The only thing he remembered clearly was loneliness.

And her.

Too Lily.

Before the tower, she had been a knight.

Not the strongest knight in the kingdom.

Not the most famous.

But the bravest.

And Gountess had loved her.

He still did.

Unfortunately, love was difficult when one lived in a tower guarded by a dragon.

The dragon's name was Mymo.

Mymo was ancient.

Cruel.

Patient.

He delighted in breaking hope.

Unlike other dragons, he did not simply burn kingdoms.

He preferred to deceive them.

He spread lies between friends. Turned allies against each other. Led heroes into traps and watched them fail.

For years, knights had attempted to rescue Gountess.

None returned.

Mymo made certain of it.

And so the prince waited.

Year after year.

Until his hair grew longer.

Until his hands grew weaker.

Until he began wondering whether anyone still remembered him at all.

Then, one spring morning, a bird landed on his windowsill.

Tied to its leg was a letter.

Only three words.

"I'm coming. -Too Lily"

For the first time in many years, Gountess smiled.

It was small.

Weak.

But real.

Far below, Too Lily was already on her journey.

Many people underestimated her.

She encouraged it.

If enemies thought she was foolish, they became careless.

If they thought she was harmless, they stopped paying attention.

Too Lily found that useful.

So she smiled often.

Asked simple questions.

Let people believe whatever they wished.

Meanwhile, she watched everything.

Remembered everything.

And planned carefully.

When she entered Mymo's mountains, the dragon immediately began his games.

Roads twisted where they shouldn't.

Signposts pointed in circles.

Travelers swore they had seen villages that vanished the next day.

Too Lily noticed the patterns.

She noticed the lies.

And she kept going.

The dragon grew irritated.

Then he sent illusions.

Entire castles appeared on distant hills.

False princes called for help.

Voices echoed through the forests.

Too Lily ignored them all.

Because she knew exactly who she was looking for.

At last she reached the mountain.

There, waiting before the tower, sat Mymo himself.

His scales were black as midnight.

His eyes glowed like dying embers.

"You've come a long way," the dragon rumbled.

Too Lily rested her hand on her sword.

"I have."

"Many have tried."

"I know."

"They all failed."

"I know that too."

Mymo smiled.

It was not a pleasant sight.

"And what makes you different?"

For a moment, Too Lily considered the question.

Then she answered honestly.

"I never came to be a hero."

The dragon frowned.

"I came for someone I love."

Something cold flickered in Mymo's eyes.

Perhaps because he understood neither love nor loyalty.

He only understood possession.

The battle that followed became legend.

Not because Too Lily was stronger.

She wasn't.

Not because Mymo was weak.

He wasn't.

But because the dragon expected fear.

And Too Lily refused to give it to him.

Every trick failed.

Every lie was recognized.

Every attempt to shake her resolve collapsed against the simple truth that she had not crossed mountains for glory.

She had crossed them for Gountess.

And some things are harder to defeat than armies.

At last, wounded and furious, Mymo retreated into the storm clouds.

His roar shook the mountains.

But he was gone.

The path to the tower stood open.

Too Lily climbed.

Hundreds of stairs.

Thousands, perhaps.

Until she reached the highest room.

The door creaked open.

And there he was.

Older.

Thinner.

A little tired.

But unmistakably Gountess.

For a moment neither moved.

Years of separation suddenly felt impossible to fit into words.

Then Gountess laughed softly.

"You actually did it."

Too Lily smiled.

"Of course I did."

"You could've been killed."

"I know."

"That was reckless."

"A little."

"A lot."

"A lot."

He shook his head.

The prince's eyes were shining.

"I missed you."

Too Lily crossed the room.

"So did I."

And when they embraced, all those lonely years seemed to loosen their grip at last.

The tower no longer felt like a prison.

Only a place they were leaving behind.

Together.

Chapter Text

Once upon a time, in a kingdom where white roses bloomed year-round, there lived a knight named Zanka.

The people called him brave.

The soldiers called him strong.

The children called him a hero.

Zanka disagreed with all of them.

Every battle he survived felt like luck.

Every victory felt unfinished.

Every mistake lingered in his mind long after everyone else had forgotten it.

So while the kingdom praised him, Zanka quietly believed he wasn't enough.

Far away in the royal palace lived Princess Eishia.

The people called her gentle.

The healers called her gifted.

The sick called her miraculous.

Eishia disagreed with all of them.

She was shy and soft-spoken, often hiding behind books or flower gardens to avoid attention.

Though she could heal wounds that others could not, she always noticed the patients she failed to save.

She remembered every mistake.

Every loss.

Every moment she wished she had done better.

So while the kingdom admired her, Eishia quietly believed she wasn't enough.

The two met during a terrible winter.

A sickness spread across the kingdom.

Villages filled with coughing children and exhausted families.

The palace healers worked day and night.

Among them was Eishia.

One evening, after treating patients for nearly two days without rest, she collapsed from exhaustion.

Fortunately, someone caught her before she struck the floor.

A knight.

Zanka.

"You should rest," he said.

Eishia immediately looked embarrassed.

"There are still people who need help."

"There always will be."

His voice was gentle.

"You can't help anyone if you collapse."

Eishia lowered her gaze.

She knew he was right.

But she still felt guilty.

The next morning, Zanka escorted medicine shipments to distant villages.

When he returned days later, he was injured.

Nothing serious.

A deep cut along his arm.

Yet when Eishia saw it, she frowned.

"You should have gotten treatment immediately."

"It's fine."

"It isn't."

"It's barely a scratch."

The princess gave him a look.

A very small look.

But somehow terrifying.

Zanka immediately sat down.

Eishia treated the wound in silence.

Her hands were careful and warm.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

She nearly dropped the bandages.

Nobody ever thanked her.

Not directly.

Not like that.

The princess turned pink.

"You're welcome."

That became the beginning.

As winter passed, they saw each other often.

Whenever Zanka returned from patrol, Eishia checked his injuries.

Whenever Eishia worked too long, Zanka brought her food she forgot to eat.

Neither spoke much.

Neither was good at expressing themselves.

Yet somehow they understood each other.

One spring afternoon, they sat together in the palace gardens.

Flowers swayed in the breeze.

Birds sang overhead.

Eishia carefully tended a rose bush while Zanka repaired a broken trellis nearby.

After a long silence, Eishia spoke.

"I don't think I'm a very good healer."

The knight looked up.

"What?"

The princess shrank slightly.

"I make mistakes."

"So does everyone."

"I could always do more."

"You already do more than anyone."

Eishia shook her head.

But Zanka's answer came immediately.

As though there had never been any doubt.

"You've helped thousands of people."

She stared at him.

To him, it seemed obvious.

To her, it felt impossible.

A few moments later, Zanka quietly said,

"I don't think I'm a very good knight."

Now it was Eishia's turn to stare.

"What?"

The knight looked away.

"I fail all the time."

"You save people."

"Not everyone."

"You protect the kingdom."

"Not perfectly."

Eishia frowned.

Then, gathering all her courage, she said,

"You're the bravest person I know."

Zanka nearly dropped the piece of wood he was holding.

The two fell silent.

Because neither realized they had been carrying the same burden.

Both believed everyone else was worthy except themselves.

Both offered kindness freely.

Both refused to give any to themselves.

And little by little, they began changing that.

Not because they suddenly became confident.

Fairy tales rarely work that way.

Instead, they borrowed each other's belief.

When Zanka doubted himself, Eishia reminded him of his strength.

When Eishia doubted herself, Zanka reminded her of her kindness.

And together they carried those burdens until they felt lighter.

Years later, people would tell stories of the great knight and the beloved healer princess.

The tales often exaggerated.

Some claimed Zanka slew giants.

Others claimed Eishia could cure any illness with a single touch.

The truth was much simpler.

A knight who could see goodness in everyone except himself.

A princess who could heal everyone except herself.

And a love that taught them both they deserved the same kindness they gave to others.

From then on, whenever Zanka walked through the palace gardens, he always found Eishia among the flowers.

And whenever Eishia looked up from her work, she always found Zanka nearby.

Neither thought themselves extraordinary.

But to each other, they were.

And that was enough.

Chapter Text

Old storytellers still tell this tale by hearthfires on cold nights.

Whether it truly happened or not depends on who you ask.

But everyone agrees on one thing:

It happened a very long time ago.

Back when knights still wandered dusty roads and farmers measured time by harvests rather than clocks.

In those days there lived a knight named Enjin.

Enjin was loud.

Exceptionally loud.

When he laughed, birds fled trees.

When he sang, entire villages heard it.

When he entered taverns, people knew before he opened the door.

He was handsome, brave, strong, and entirely aware of all three facts.

More importantly, Enjin loved romance.

Or at least he thought he did.

Every town had a sweetheart he adored.

Every village had a beauty he swore was his destiny.

Every month he claimed he had found the love of his life.

Then the next month he found another.

People stopped taking him seriously.

Even Enjin's horse looked tired of hearing about it.

One spring, Enjin rode into a small farming valley.

The wheat fields rolled like golden oceans.

The rivers sparkled.

The air smelled of fresh earth.

And there lived a farmer named Gris.

Gris was the opposite of Enjin in nearly every possible way.

He rarely raised his voice.

He disliked crowds.

He spent most days tending fields or repairing tools.

While Enjin could spend hours talking, Gris often spoke only when necessary.

People trusted him.

Not because he was charming.

Because he was dependable.

If Gris promised something, it happened.

Simple as that.

The first time they met, Enjin fell off his horse.

Literally.

His horse had wandered into one of Gris's fields.

Gris calmly informed him of this.

Enjin tried to apologize while dismounting dramatically.

Instead, his boot caught in the stirrup.

A moment later he was face-first in the dirt.

Gris stared.

Enjin stared back.

Then Gris laughed.

It wasn't a loud laugh.

It wasn't even a particularly long one.

But Enjin had never worked so hard to hear it again.

Naturally, he assumed this meant he was in love.

Again.

The villagers rolled their eyes.

"Give it two weeks."

"Maybe three."

"Depends how dramatic he feels this time."

Enjin would prove them wrong.

Unfortunately, proving them wrong turned out to be difficult.

Because Gris seemed completely immune to charm.

Compliments didn't work.

Flowers didn't work.

Poetry definitely didn't work.

One afternoon Enjin presented him with an elaborate love poem.

Gris read it carefully.

Then said,

"Your horse ate my cabbage."

"What?"

"Yesterday."

Enjin blinked.

Gris handed back the poem.

"Nice poem though."

For the first time in his life, Enjin was speechless.

Months passed.

Then more.

And something strange happened.

Enjin never left.

Usually, he would have moved on by now.

Chased another adventure.

Another romance.

Another story.

Instead he kept finding reasons to stay.

Helping repair fences.

Harvesting crops.

Carrying feed.

Learning which chickens were mean and which goats escaped constantly.

The villagers became suspicious.

Gris became suspicious.

Even Enjin became suspicious.

One evening, while repairing a barn roof together, Gris finally asked,

"Why are you still here?"

The knight opened his mouth.

Then closed it.

Because for once he didn't have an easy answer.

The sunset painted the fields gold.

The valley stretched endlessly below them.

And Enjin realized something.

For years he'd chased excitement.

Butterflies.

Dreams.

Grand declarations.

But somehow the happiest moments of his life had become things like fixing fences with Gris.

Eating dinner with him.

Listening to him talk about crops.

Watching him smile when the harvest was good.

The realization hit him harder than any sword.

"Oh."

Gris raised an eyebrow.

"Oh?"

"I think this one's real."

"What is?"

Enjin laughed.

A quieter laugh than usual.

A rare one.

"Never mind."

Now, old folktales claim there was a spirit watching from the fields that evening.

A harvest spirit.

They say it appeared whenever someone finally understood the difference between admiration and love.

The spirit supposedly blessed the valley that night.

The crops grew taller afterward.

The rivers ran clearer.

The winters became gentler.

Maybe that's true.

Maybe it isn't.

Folktales tend to grow with every retelling.

What is true is that Enjin never left.

Years later people still expected him to flirt with every pretty face he saw.

Instead they'd find him sitting beside Gris on a farmhouse porch.

Perfectly content.

The old storytellers usually end the tale there.

But the farmers prefer a different ending.

They say the lesson isn't about romance at all.

It's this:

A river makes noise because it's rushing somewhere.

But a lake is quiet because it has already arrived.

And Enjin, for the first time in his life, had finally stopped rushing.

Chapter Text

This is an old folktale told by travelers, soldiers, and grandmothers alike.

Some say it happened hundreds of years ago.

Others insist it happened only yesterday.

As with most folktales, the truth is somewhere in between.

Long ago, there lived a princess named Amo.

Princess Amo loved love.

She loved songs about love.

Poems about love.

Stories about love.

Stories about stories about love.

If two strangers accidentally made eye contact across a marketplace, Amo immediately decided they were destined for each other.

If birds nested together, she called it romance.

If flowers grew side by side, she called it romance.

Everything was romance.

Unfortunately, love had not been particularly kind to her.

Long ago, someone had broken her heart.

The details changed depending on who told the tale.

Some said it was a prince.

Others said it was a poet.

One storyteller even claimed it was a mermaid.

Regardless, the result was the same.

Love had hurt her deeply.

Yet somehow Amo refused to stop believing in it.

"Love is wonderful," she would declare.

Then she'd stare dramatically into the distance and add,

"It simply doesn't seem to like me very much."

Now Princess Amo had a personal knight named Fu.

Fu was many things.

Loyal.

Polite.

Dependable.

Terrified.

The poor knight was afraid of almost everything.

Thunder.

Spiders.

Dark forests.

Large dogs.

Small dogs.

Occasionally medium-sized dogs.

Yet despite his fears, Fu possessed one remarkable quality.

He followed orders.

Exactly.

If Princess Amo told him to climb a mountain, he climbed it.

If she told him to cross a river, he crossed it.

If she ordered him to stand between her and danger, he did so without hesitation.

Usually while trembling.

One summer evening, Amo sat upon a palace balcony staring at the moon.

She sighed dramatically.

Then sighed again.

Then a third time for emphasis.

Fu stood nearby.

Concerned.

"As your knight, I feel obligated to ask if something is wrong."

Amo pointed at the moon.

"I want it."

Fu blinked.

"The moon?"

"The moon."

There was a long silence.

Then Fu nodded.

"Very well."

And began walking away.

"Wait."

Fu stopped.

The princess looked horrified.

"Where are you going?"

"To retrieve the moon."

"You can't retrieve the moon!"

"You ordered me to."

Amo covered her face.

"That was a metaphor."

Fu visibly relaxed.

"Oh thank goodness."

According to the old storytellers, this should have been the end of it.

But folktales rarely take the sensible path.

The next morning, Amo learned of a legend.

Far beyond the kingdom stood a lake known as Moonwater.

Its surface reflected the moon so perfectly that people believed a piece of moonlight rested within its depths.

Naturally, Amo decided they should visit.

Fu was given exactly three minutes to prepare.

Then they left.

Their journey took them through forests, valleys, and winding hills.

Along the way they encountered bandits.

Fu was terrified.

He protected Amo anyway.

They encountered wolves.

Fu was terrified.

He protected Amo anyway.

They crossed a bridge suspended above a canyon.

Fu was so frightened he nearly fainted.

He crossed it anyway.

Every time danger appeared, Amo noticed the same thing.

Fu never stopped being afraid.

But he never ran.

One evening they camped beside a river.

The princess stared into the fire.

"You know," she said quietly, "most people think bravery means not being scared."

Fu looked up.

"That's silly."

Amo blinked.

"What?"

The knight poked the fire with a stick.

"If I wasn't scared, half the things I do would be easy."

The river murmured nearby.

The stars glittered overhead.

Fu shrugged.

"I just do them because someone has to."

For once, Amo had no clever reply.

The journey continued until they finally reached Moonwater Lake.

The surface shimmered like silver glass.

The moon reflected perfectly within it.

Amo stepped closer.

"It really is beautiful."

"It is."

The princess smiled sadly.

"You know, I spent years chasing stories about love."

Fu nodded.

"And?"

"And maybe I was looking in the wrong direction."

The knight tilted his head.

Amo laughed softly.

Because all this time she had been searching for grand gestures.

Epic romances.

Fairy tale destinies.

Meanwhile, the most devoted person she'd ever met had simply been standing beside her.

Following her through every ridiculous adventure.

Protecting her without complaint.

Trusting her completely.

Fu noticed her staring.

"...Why are you looking at me like that?"

Amo smiled.

"No reason."

The knight immediately became suspicious.

Which was difficult, because he was not very good at suspicion.

Years later, the tale became famous throughout the kingdom.

Most versions claim the princess found a piece of moonlight hidden beneath the lake.

Others insist she captured a star.

But the oldest storytellers always shake their heads.

"That's not what she found."

"What did she find then?"

The old storytellers smile.

Then answer:

"The same thing most people find when they stop searching for perfect fairy tales."

"What?"

"Someone who stays."

Chapter Text

Old storytellers tell this tale differently depending on where you hear it.

Some say it happened in a kingdom by the sea.

Others claim it took place in the mountains.

But every version begins the same way.

With a knight named Amo.

Now Amo was brave.

Fearlessly brave.

The sort of knight who would leap between danger and her prince without a second thought.

Which was fortunate, because protecting Prince Rudo was her life's purpose.

Or so she believed.

Amo adored Prince Rudo.

Not quietly.

Not secretly.

Not even slightly.

Everyone knew.

The cooks knew.

The stable hands knew.

The prince knew.

Even passing birds probably knew.

Whenever Rudo entered a room, Amo somehow appeared nearby.

Whenever he spoke, she listened attentively.

Whenever anyone asked why she worked so hard, she answered dramatically:

"For love!"

Prince Rudo usually groaned.

The trouble was that Rudo didn't return her feelings.

He cared about her.

Certainly.

But not in the way she wanted.

Still, Amo refused to surrender.

After all, she loved love.

Romance was her favorite thing in the world.

And if romance wasn't working today, surely it would tomorrow.

That was when Riyo appeared.

According to folklore, nobody knew where Riyo came from.

She simply arrived one day.

A shadow on a rooftop.

A laugh in a dark alley.

A stranger nobody could catch.

She was an assassin.

An unusually cheerful assassin.

The sort who stole information while complimenting someone's haircut.

The sort who escaped guards while waving goodbye.

The sort who seemed to find the entire world amusing.

Unfortunately, Riyo trusted absolutely nobody.

Not kings.

Not merchants.

Not heroes.

Not friends.

Especially not knights.

Knights asked too many questions.

One evening, Riyo was hired to steal a royal seal from the palace.

An easy job.

Or so she thought.

Instead she encountered Amo.

The knight caught her halfway through a window.

"Aha!"

Riyo blinked.

"Aha?"

"I caught you!"

"No you didn't."

"I absolutely did."

"You grabbed my sleeve."

"That's basically the same thing."

Riyo stared.

Then laughed.

Then disappeared.

Unfortunately, this became a pattern.

Again and again they crossed paths.

Again and again Amo chased her.

Again and again Riyo escaped.

Each encounter ended with the same result:

Amo talking.

Riyo pretending she wasn't listening.

Months passed.

One day Amo found Riyo sitting atop a city wall.

The assassin was watching the sunset.

"Found you."

"You say that every time."

"Because I keep finding you."

Riyo rolled her eyes.

"That's concerning."

Amo sat beside her.

For a while neither spoke.

Then Amo sighed dramatically.

Riyo immediately groaned.

"Oh no."

"What?"

"You're thinking about Prince Rudo again."

Amo looked offended.

"How did you know?"

"You get that expression."

"What expression?"

"The tragic one."

"I do not have a tragic expression."

"You absolutely do."

Amo crossed her arms.

For several minutes she complained about love.

About heartbreak.

About impossible feelings.

About Prince Rudo.

Riyo listened quietly.

Then asked,

"Why him?"

Amo blinked.

"What?"

"Why do you love him?"

The knight opened her mouth.

Then paused.

Because she'd never really thought about it.

She admired him.

Respected him.

Wanted to protect him.

But...

Riyo waited.

Amo frowned.

Then changed the subject.

For the first time, doubt had appeared.

And folklore says doubt is a funny thing.

Once it enters a story, it rarely leaves.

The seasons changed.

Amo continued protecting Rudo.

Riyo continued causing trouble.

Yet somehow Amo spent less time talking about the prince.

And more time talking to the assassin.

She learned that Riyo hated being touched unexpectedly.

That she trusted nobody.

That she slept lightly.

That she always sat facing doors.

That she laughed often but shared little.

The assassin seemed impossible to know.

Yet Amo kept trying.

Not because she wanted something.

Simply because she cared.

At first Riyo found this suspicious.

Then annoying.

Then comforting.

Which was much worse.

One winter night, trouble finally arrived.

A group of mercenaries cornered Riyo outside the city.

She was skilled.

But there were too many.

The old stories say she prepared herself for betrayal.

Because that's what always happened.

People left.

People ran.

People chose themselves.

Instead, a familiar voice shouted:

"HEY!"

The mercenaries turned.

There stood Amo.

Sword drawn.

Furious.

"Get away from her."

Riyo stared.

The knight had no reason to be there.

No obligation.

No reward waiting.

Yet she came anyway.

The fight ended quickly.

The mercenaries fled.

Snow drifted silently around them.

For a long moment neither spoke.

Then Riyo asked quietly,

"Why?"

Amo tilted her head.

"Why what?"

"You didn't have to come."

The knight looked genuinely confused.

"Of course I did."

Riyo's chest tightened painfully.

Because nobody had ever said that before.

Not to her.

Not and meant it.

Later, much later, while walking home beneath falling snow, Amo realized something.

She thought about Prince Rudo.

Then she thought about Riyo.

About her laugh.

About her stubbornness.

About how happy she felt whenever the assassin appeared unexpectedly.

About how worried she became whenever she disappeared.

And suddenly the answer became obvious.

Painfully obvious.

"Oh."

Riyo glanced over.

"Oh?"

Amo groaned.

"Oh no."

"What?"

"I've been chasing the wrong heart."

Chapter Text

Once upon a time, there lived a carpenter named August in the heart of an ancient forest.

The villagers never saw him clearly.

They only heard his laughter echoing through the trees and found strange wooden birds hanging from branches, carved foxes sitting on stumps, and tiny windmills spinning where no one had built them.

Naturally, they decided a witch lived in the woods.

So they sent a young knight named Follo to slay the monster.

Follo was brave enough to obey, though he secretly hoped the witch wasn't very frightening.

After a day's journey, he finally found a little cottage overflowing with carved animals, toys, and half-finished furniture.

Outside stood a man covered in sawdust, loudly arguing with a crooked birdhouse.

"No, no! You're supposed to lean this way!"

The birdhouse, unsurprisingly, did not respond.

Follo blinked.

"...You're the witch?"

The man turned with a broad grin.

"The witch? No."

He held out a hand.

"I'm August. Carpenter."

There was a long silence.

"So..."

Follo looked around.

"...No curses?"

"No."

"Magic?"

"I can make a chair that doesn't wobble."

"...That's impressive."

"It is!"

Instead of fighting, August insisted Follo stay for supper.

Then breakfast.

Then "just one more day" to help finish a bridge over the stream.

The bridge became a table.

The table became a roof.

The roof became an entire cottage for an elderly widow in the next village.

Before Follo realized it, weeks had passed.

He found himself laughing more than he had in years.

August laughed enough for both of them.

He filled every silence with stories, songs, and impossible ideas.

Follo filled them with quiet smiles.

One evening, while watching wooden birds sway gently in the breeze, Follo finally confessed,

"...They sent me here to kill you."

August nodded.

"I guessed."

"You... guessed?"

"You've been staring at your sword for three weeks."

"I'm sorry."

August laughed so loudly the birds flew from the trees.

"You'd make a terrible assassin."

"I know."

"And a terrible witch hunter."

"...Probably."

"But," August said, his smile softening, "you've made a wonderful companion."

Follo looked down, his face turning scarlet.

When Follo finally returned to the village, he announced,

"The witch is gone."

The villagers cheered.

They never discovered he had simply replaced the word witch with carpenter.

From that day onward, people stopped fearing the laughter in the woods.

They began following it instead.

For wherever August's hammer echoed through the trees, Follo was never very far behind.

And the little wooden birds they built together still hang from branches, reminding travelers that sometimes the monsters we fear are simply lonely people waiting to be found.