Prince of the page

[rosieblankenship4-maker]

Chapter One — The Cry in the Ruins
The story I am about to tell you is true—well, as true as any tale can be when it has lived for generations in the whispers of kingdoms. It begins on a night when the sky itself seemed to burn.
For as long as anyone could remember, the Kingdom of Brookshire and the Kingdom of Moon Valley had been at war. The reason had been lost to time. Some said it began over a stolen border. Others claimed it was vengeance for a forgotten betrayal. Most simply accepted the hatred as part of life, like winter storms or summer droughts. Children grew up learning the names of battles before they learned the names of flowers.
But on this night, the war reached a small Moon Valley village that had never asked to be part of history.
King Markus of Brookshire rode through the smoke and ash with his soldiers behind him. Markus was a man carved from duty—broad‑shouldered, dark‑haired, and stern—but his eyes carried the weight of too many battles. He had once been known for his laughter, but war had stolen that from him long ago. His armor, once polished to a mirror shine, was now scratched and dented from years of conflict.
The village was destroyed. Homes burned to their frames. Fields trampled. The air thick with the bitter smell of fire and sorrow. Markus dismounted, boots sinking into the blackened earth. The wind carried the faint scent of lavender—Moon Valley’s signature herb—now mixed with smoke and ruin.
“Search for survivors,” he ordered, though his voice held little hope.
His men spread out. The only sounds were the crackling of dying flames and the distant groan of collapsing beams. Markus walked alone toward what had once been a small cottage. Its roof had caved in, and the door hung crookedly from one hinge. A child’s wooden toy lay half‑buried in the dirt, its paint blistered from the heat.
Then he heard it.
A sound so faint he almost thought he imagined it—a tiny, trembling cry.
Markus froze. The cry came again, thin and desperate, like a bird trapped beneath rubble.
He pushed aside a fallen beam and stepped into the ruined cottage. There, tucked beneath a scorched blanket, lay a newborn baby. Pale, tiny, covered in soot, with a shock of hair as black as midnight. His small fists waved weakly, his face scrunched in distress.
The king knelt slowly. The child’s mother lay nearby, still and silent. His father, too, had fallen in the battle outside. The baby was alone.
An enemy child.
A Moon Valley child.
Markus should have walked away. That was what war demanded. That was what his generals would expect. But when he looked at the infant—so small, so helpless—something inside him cracked. He remembered his own mother’s stories, the ones she whispered when he was young: A king’s strength is measured not by the battles he wins, but by the lives he chooses to save.
He reached out and lifted the baby into his arms. The child’s crying softened, then stopped, as if sensing safety for the first time.
“You poor little thing,” Markus whispered. “You should not have been born into this.”
He wrapped the baby in his own royal cape, warm and heavy with the scent of home. The infant curled against him, barely bigger than a loaf of bread.
When Markus returned to his soldiers, they stared in disbelief.
“Your Majesty… that is a Moon Valley child,” one of them said carefully.
“It is a child,” Markus replied, voice firm. “And he will not die here.”
No one dared argue.
The journey back to Brookshire was long. Markus rode with the baby cradled against his chest, shielding him from the cold night air. The infant slept most of the way, waking only to whimper softly before drifting off again. Markus found himself humming—a lullaby he hadn’t sung since his own son was born.
By the time they reached Brookshire’s castle, dawn was breaking. The sky glowed pink and gold, as if trying to wash away the horrors of the night. Queen Mariam was waiting in the courtyard, her cloak wrapped tightly around her shoulders. She was gentle‑faced, with warm brown eyes and hair the color of chestnuts, braided neatly beneath her crown. She gasped when she saw the tiny bundle in her husband’s arms.
“Oh, Markus… where did you find him?”
“In the ruins,” he said softly. “He has no one.”
Mariam took the baby gently, her expression melting into tenderness. “He’s so small,” she murmured. “So very small.”
“That is why I thought we might call him Simon,” Markus said. “It means ‘small one.’”
The queen smiled. “Simon,” she repeated. “Yes. It suits him.”
But not everyone in the castle welcomed the new arrival.
From behind the queen’s skirts peeked a five‑year‑old boy—Prince Eric, heir to Brookshire. Eric had deep brown hair that curled slightly at the ends and sharp, intelligent eyes the color of storm clouds. He was small for his age but carried himself with the confidence of someone who had always been told he was important. His tunic was rumpled from play, and a wooden sword hung at his side.
He stared at the baby with a mixture of confusion and something darker.
For five years, Eric had been the only child of the king and queen. The only prince. The only one praised, adored, and told stories of the wicked Moon Valley people who threatened their kingdom.
And now, suddenly, he was expected to share his home… with one of them?
Eric’s small hands curled into fists. His jaw tightened. He didn’t cry or shout—he simply stared, silent and stiff, as if the world had shifted beneath his feet.
Queen Mariam reached down and touched his shoulder. “Eric, sweetheart, this is Simon. He will be your little brother.”
Eric’s eyes flicked to the baby, then to his mother. “He’s… from Moon Valley,” he said quietly.
Mariam hesitated. “Yes. But he is a baby, and he needs us.”
Eric said nothing. But the look in his eyes—hurt, confused, betrayed—said everything.
And though Simon was too young to understand it, the first seeds of jealousy were planted that very night.

The kingdom was at last at peace. The war was over—well, in the kingdom, that is. But inside the palace walls, a new one had just begun. Prince Eric, as jealous as he was, began to take to small Simon little by little. He at least found him amusing, especially when he would pee on his father or vomit on his mother. He even found himself becoming more and more protective of little Simon.
Before long, Simon was toddling around with Eric following him like a lost pup. Prince Eric pretended it annoyed him, but he didn’t mind having a little shadow. It was fun, and it also meant he could blame his brother when he got into trouble. Poor little Simon got into more than his share of trouble, but it was better to have that kind of attention than none at all.
He was treated less like a son and more like a servant, but he was still loved very much by his adoptive mother, Mariam. To be quite honest, he was her favorite. He took after her in a lot of ways—he enjoyed sewing and cooking and didn’t have a heart for blood and violence. He was a sweet thing, but a shadow of his big brother, and he didn’t mind. His mother was good to him.
He became what one would call a milksop (a mama’s boy), but his heart was made of gold. He was very bright and intelligent and becoming a man.
Many years later, when he was a young man of sixteen and looking to court, he found that most sneered at him. Because he was considered a milksop, a bookworm, and far too shy, most chose a brute over him. He didn’t let it bother him at first; he was happy with his books, happy with his sewing and cooking. But as time went on, he became lonely—more and more lonely.
Soon his brother took the throne, and Simon decided to travel the world by ship. This, he thought, is where my story will start. Was he scared? Yes, very. But he was determined to see the world that had been described to him through books. He was now a tall and striking young man in his early twenties—young and bright. He was looking for adventure, or at least that’s what he told himself. Truth be told, he was willing to find love. No one in the kingdom seemed to love him, because, as said, he was a milksop—a mama’s boy.
Though he had read many books on adventure, he could never be truly prepared for what lay ahead. As he boarded the ship and began to sail, he realized maybe he had bitten off more than he could chew. Though Simon would never admit he was terrified, he was very scared. But adventures never really are easy, are they? Adventures take bravery, and bravery takes fear, he told himself.
So began the adventure of a lifetime. Not the one he had hoped for, with mermaids and fairies and magical ships that floated on clouds, but one with pirates and bounty hunters and treasure hunters—one that would test his bravery to a whole new level.
Upon the first day on the Great White Sea, Simon vomited violently over the rim. He was so seasick he ended up staying in bed most of the day. By the next day, he was at least able to keep his dinner down somewhat. He began to notice the sun burned his skin differently than it would on land. He was not a seaworthy man. He was not loving this. But he hoped, as time went on, he would find his sea legs—or so the captain told him.
After a few weeks, or maybe it was days—he didn’t really know; he wasn’t keeping track of time on the sea—they came to a small island called Pearl Island, named for its white sand. The village was made of marble. It was a very beautiful island, one he thought he would have read about in a storybook, but more real.
On that island, he found many new sights, tried different foods, and stayed a few nights. But he wasn’t settled there, so he boarded the ship again—regretting it as soon as the next day came, because his stomach soon reminded him why he didn’t like the sea. But once again, a few days later, he was able to keep his brunch down, and they sailed again.
More time went by, and he came to a new city-island named the Island of Ash, because of all the volcanoes there. Needless to say, he did not stop. He did not wish to go down to the island and end up like the land of Atlantis.
They sailed again—longer, more dreary, more drawn out. Day after day, the same thing: mopping the decks, cleaning his cabin, trying to stay entertained with books, sewing, cooking—anything he could think of.
Eventually, they ported at an island—well, really a continent, though a very small one. It was similar to his home but slightly different in how the buildings were made and how the people talked—common things like that. It did, however, have a very big library, and that intrigued him very much. He had had no new books in months, and he was desperate to get his hands on new literature.
He went in and looked around, found the fiction section, found a couple of cooking books, and found several things that particularly intrigued him. Most of the people in the library were either schoolchildren or women, and they all eyed him suspiciously, as if no one had ever seen a tall, slender man reading a book. He gave them no never-mind; he never gave anyone any never-mind, because he was used to it. He was used to the stares.
He went to the counter to pay for the items he chose, and the young lady who took the money asked him if he was staying for a while. He said he was planning to, if he could find a lodging hotel. She told him of one across the street called The Diamond’s Inn. Though the name was deceiving—he had seen burrows under a tree that looked cleaner and more comfortable than that—it was a bed and a bath, and he was not about to complain.
That night he settled into his creaky bed with springs poking him in the back and read his book by candlelight. He dreaded getting back on the boat tomorrow, and maybe staying here would not be a bad idea for just a little while, just to give his stomach time to get used to land again. Though he did not know he was walking into an adventure.
Where would it be?
Over the next few days, he ventured through the city, through the towns and village kingdoms, just getting the feel of the land and the feel of the new continent he had discovered. But as adventure would have it, he saw a massive, war-ripped ship pulling into the harbor. He didn’t know any better—he thought pirates were things written in books for children. But no, pirates were real, and they were very hungry for gold and riches.
So when they saw him in his fancy clothes and jewels, of course they thought him rich—and they thought right.
Simon had just stepped out of the library, arms full of new books, when he noticed the ship in the harbor.

It was enormous — patched sails, a hull scarred by battles, and a figurehead shaped like a snarling sea serpent. He thought it looked rather unfriendly, but he admired the craftsmanship all the same.

He didn’t notice the three men watching him from the deck.

Not until one of them called out.

“You there! Young sir! With the fine coat!”

Simon blinked, looking around to see if they meant someone else. They did not.

The tallest of the three hopped down from the gangplank with surprising grace for a man built like a tree trunk. He had a braided beard, a wide grin, and eyes that sparkled with mischief.

“You look like a man of adventure,” the bearded man said.

“Oh—no, I’m not,” Simon said immediately. “I’m more of a… reading sort of man.”

“Even better!” the man boomed, clapping him on the shoulder so hard Simon nearly dropped his books. “Readers are thinkers. And thinkers make the best explorers.”

Simon flushed. No one had ever called him an explorer before.

Another man joined them — slimmer, sharp‑eyed, with a captain’s coat that had seen better days. He gave Simon a polite bow.

“Captain Rowan,” he introduced himself. “And you are?”

“Simon,” he said, shifting nervously. “I’m just traveling. Seeing the world.”

“Perfect,” Rowan said, smiling like a fox who had just spotted a chicken. “We’re headed to Mermaid Island.”

Simon’s eyes widened. “That’s… that’s a myth.”

Rowan leaned in. “Is it?”

The third man — a boy really, no older than seventeen — held up a shimmering scale the size of a coin. It glowed faintly in the sunlight.

Simon gasped. “Is that—?”

“A mermaid scale,” the boy said proudly. “Found it myself.”

Simon’s heart fluttered. Books had told him stories of Mermaid Island — a place of impossible beauty, hidden riches, and ancient magic. He had never believed he would see anything like it.

Rowan saw the wonder in his eyes and pressed his advantage.

“We could use a man like you,” he said. “Smart. Observant. Gentle hands. Mermaid Island is full of delicate treasures. We need someone who won’t smash everything with a sword.”

Simon swallowed. “I… I don’t know. I’m not very brave.”

“You don’t need to be brave,” Rowan said warmly. “You just need to come along. We’ll protect you. Keep you safe. And when the journey’s done, we’ll bring you right back here. Home safe, pockets full of gold.”

The bearded man nodded vigorously. “Safe as kittens, lad. We swear it.”

The boy added, “And you’ll get the best cabin. Promise.”

Simon hesitated. His stomach twisted — part excitement, part fear. But they seemed kind. Friendly. And they were offering him something he had only ever dreamed of.

“Just a short adventure,” Rowan said softly. “Then home.”

Simon took a breath.

“…Alright,” he said. “I’ll come.”

Rowan’s smile sharpened — just a little — but Simon didn’t notice.

“Excellent,” the captain said. “Welcome aboard.”

Before Simon could change his mind, the bearded man scooped up his books, the boy grabbed his arm, and the three of them ushered him up the gangplank with alarming speed.

The moment Simon’s feet touched the deck, the ropes were pulled, the anchor lifted, and the ship lurched away from the dock.

“Wait—already?” Simon squeaked. “I thought— I thought we’d leave tomorrow!”

“Adventure waits for no man!” the bearded one laughed.

Rowan clapped him on the back. “Relax, Simon. You’re safe with us.”

But as the harbor shrank behind them and the wind filled the patched sails, Simon felt a strange sinking feeling.

He had not been invited aboard.

He had been collected.

And the ship was already too far from shore for him to climb back down.