Prompt: In a Clover Kingdom engulfed in a civil war brought about by the alienation of the classes, two individuals abandoned by their own find one another.
—
Clover had always looked pristine from the outside.
Tall spires. Crystal streets. Knights in shining armor. Wizards in distinct hats and runic robes.
But under the gloss was rot—deep, old, and impossible to ignore anymore.
The nobles called it tradition.
The commoners called it oppression.
They were tired of bowing.
Tired of starving.
Tired of watching their children die for a kingdom that never saw them as people.
The war didn't start with a grand declaration.
It started with a bakery.
A noble heir burned it down because the baker's son looked at him the wrong way.
No trial. No punishment.
The boy was fourteen.
The baker's neighbors—farmers, merchants, apprentices—rose up that night.
They killed the heir and torched his family estate.
By morning, five more towns had followed.
The capital labeled them terrorists.
But outside the walls?
They were heroes.
It wasn't about that one boy.
It was about every boy like him.
Every girl mocked for weak magic.
Every man denied healing because his blood wasn't noble enough.
The rebellion didn't wear uniforms.
They wore stolen cloaks. Mud-slick boots.
They carried pickaxes and rusted swords passed down from their grandparents.
Strong magic or or practically none—they fought back.
At first, the royals laughed.
Then they sent in the Silver Eagles and Crimson Lions.
That's when the laughing stopped.
Entire villages were wiped off the map.
No survivors. Just smoke and silence.
And yet... the rebels kept coming.
Every massacre made them louder.
Every orphan made them angrier.
The kingdom split fast.
Noble families fortified their manors.
Commoners abandoned their fields and joined the fight.
Even some Magic Knights switched sides—or disappeared altogether.
You weren't just choosing a side anymore.
You were choosing what kind of world should survive.
Propaganda filled the streets.
Posters of smiling royals.
Messages painted in blood across broken walls—"WE BLEED THE SAME."
The war was no longer a skirmish.
It was a purge.
Magic doesn't make you divine.
Birth doesn't make you worthy.
The rebellion's words spread like wildfire.
Even some nobles whispered them at night.
But it wasn't black and white.
There were zealots among the rebels.
Men who killed not for justice—but revenge.
Or just for the rush of it. The high.
And there were nobles who tried to help—who were slaughtered anyway.
No one's hands were clean.
Just bloodied in different shades.
Through the chaos, two names faded into obscurity.
Asta.
Noelle.
One, a peasant from the sticks of the sticks with no magic.
The other, a royal with magic she couldn't control.
Both were enigmas.
Both were wrong.
They didn't fit anywhere.
Not noble enough to be protected.
Not rebel enough to be trusted.
Outcasts in a kingdom tearing itself apart.
Asta fought under a borrowed banner, hiding the mark on his back.
Noelle stayed locked away in a house with too many rooms and no warmth.
They didn't know each other.
But they were already walking the same road.
Both used to being talked about, never to.
Both hated for the things they couldn't help.
The rebellion promised freedom.
The royals promised order.
Neither promised them anything.
The war devoured the weak first.
Then it came for the quiet.
Then the useful.
Anyone not standing loud enough got trampled.
Magicless or uncontrolled, it didn't matter.
You were liability.
You were waste.
So people like Asta and Noelle disappeared.
Not all at once. Quietly.
One shuffled off to a crumbling warehouse no one cared about.
The other exiled from his own unit after surviving too many missions without a scratch.
Rumors followed them.
The cursed Silva girl.
The devil-blooded rebel.
They weren't heroes.
They weren't villains.
Just pieces neither side knew what to do with.
But fate doesn't ask permission.
And war has a way of forcing strangers together.
It was only a matter of time.
—
The Silva estate had eighty-six rooms.
She was allowed in four.
None of them had windows.
She didn't ask why anymore.
She knew why.
Keep the embarrassment hidden.
Out of sight. Out of mind.
She used to scream when she was little.
Beg Nozel not to leave her alone.
He never screamed back.
Just shut the door.
Said it was "for her own good."
She believed him—for a while.
Nozel never raised his voice.
Didn't need to.
The way he looked at her said enough.
Like she was broken.
Like she might explode if he got too close.
Sometimes she thought he was right.
The maids never looked her in the eye.
The guards pretended not to flinch when she walked by.
They called her "Lady Noelle" only when others were listening.
Otherwise, it was "the cursed one."
She heard it through the walls.
Thin walls. Cold ones.
They thought she couldn't control her magic.
They were wrong.
She could. Sometimes.
But it never mattered.
One cracked vase. One soaked corridor.
And suddenly she was a monster again.
"Royal blood shouldn't behave like that."
"You'll shame House Silva."
She was twelve when she stopped apologizing.
Thirteen when she stopped crying.
Fourteen when she stopped caring.
The war barely reached the estate at first.
Just whispers. Letters. Reports passed around at dinner.
The Silvas didn't worry.
They commanded the front lines.
They were the storm, not the ones caught in it.
Noelle wasn't allowed to go near the battlefield.
Nozel said it was too dangerous.
But she'd seen the look in his eyes.
It wasn't fear for her safety.
It was disgust.
He didn't trust her to fight.
Didn't trust her to follow orders.
Didn't trust her to not humiliate the family name.
So when things got worse a few years later, he sent her away.
Told her it was a secret assignment.
Guard a warehouse deep in the woods.
Keep supplies safe from rebel hands.
She nodded. Obeyed.
Packed her things in silence.
It took two hours for the escort to arrive.
She waited alone in the front hall.
No one came to say goodbye.
She thought—maybe Nebra or Solid would appear.
Just to sneer. Just to gloat.
They didn't bother.
Not even worth mocking anymore.
The warehouse was colder than the estate.
Dusty. Damp. Forgotten.
No guards. Just old crates of medicine, tools, food.
She was alone.
Again.
At night, she'd light a flame in her hand just to hear something.
The crackle. The hiss. The warmth.
Proof she still existed.
She practiced in secret.
Quietly. Carefully.
Trying to shape her magic into something she could control.
But water doesn't obey easily.
Not when your own heart feels like it's drowning.
Sometimes she'd talk to herself.
Pretend someone was listening.
Not a maid. Not a knight.
Just... anyone.
Do they even remember I'm here?
She didn't hate the rebels.
Not really.
She hated the system.
The nobles who laughed while peasants begged for scraps.
The royals who used power like a whip.
She was one of them.
But she'd never been one of them.
Nozel made sure of that.
Every time she looked in a mirror, she wondered if her mother would've been ashamed too.
Dying to birth someone who can't even do anything or be anyone.
Was it always going to be like this?
Forgotten. Powerless.
A ghost in royal skin.
Then came the raid.
The one night everything changed.
The rebels came fast—silent shadows in worn-out boots.
She hid behind a crate, heartbeat louder than any spell she could cast.
One kicked open the door. Another shouted about supplies.
Then—footsteps.
Closer. Heavier.
And then she saw him.
Not what she expected.
Not a monster. Not a butcher.
Just a boy her age.
Small but bulky.
Eyes sharp. Shoulders squared.
But tired. Not cruel.
He saw her.
She braced herself.
Waited for the knife. The spell. The capture.
But it never came.
Just a pause. A flicker of something—pity? Confusion?
She wasn't sure.
But it made her chest ache.
He helped her hide.
Didn't ask why she was there. Didn't treat her like a prize.
He should've killed her.
That's what the war said.
But he didn't.
And when he left—
She didn't move for hours.
She kept replaying his face.
His voice. His silence.
Why did you help me?
Noelle had lived her whole life surrounded by people.
But that night, a stranger in rags made her feel seen for the first time.
She didn't even know his name.
But she would find him again.
Somehow.
—
He was born screaming.
Didn't stop for hours.
The midwife called it a curse.
Said no baby with that much fight would live long.
She was wrong.
He lived. Everyone else left.
Hage wasn't a village.
It was a graveyard with crops.
Old men. Sick kids. Tired women.
No dreams. Just dust.
Asta ran everywhere.
Climbed trees. Broke fences. Laughed too loud.
People hated that.
"Quiet down, runt."
"Magicless freak."
He thought they were joking.
At first.
Then the grimoire ceremony came.
Yuno's book glowed like the sun.
Asta got nothing.
Not even a spark.
The silence hit harder than any slap.
Sister Lily tried to smile.
Said he was special. Said the gods had a plan.
He smiled back.
Pretended to believe it.
That night he punched a wall until his knuckles bled.
Slept with his hand pressed against his heart.
Please—just give me something.
Nothing came.
But he kept training.
Every morning. Every night.
Push-ups in the mud.
Pull-ups on dead branches.
Sprints up the chapel steps until his legs gave out.
He'd scream into the sky.
"If I can't have magic, I'll get stronger anyway!"
Kids laughed. Adults sighed.
Even Yuno stopped answering when he asked for sparring matches.
Eventually, they all left him alone.
That hurt less.
Then the war began.
Rebellion. Riots. Executions.
Yuno joined the cause.
Said it was time to change the world.
Asta wanted to believe that.
He really did.
He joined a rebel cell.
Small one. Scattered survivors. Magic-users with scars and grudges.
They didn't know what to do with him.
A magicless soldier?
Deadweight. At best.
He proved himself.
Lifted what they couldn't. Ran messages nonstop. Never complained.
Got his first kill at seventeen.
Didn't sleep for three days after.
The blood didn't scare him.
The man's face did.
He looked like Yuno.
Just older. Sadder.
Asta stopped flinching after the fifth time.
By nineteen, he was the one kicking doors down.
Sword in hand. Demon in his head.
That's when the whispers started.
"That thing isn't human."
"He's got a devil inside him."
They weren't wrong.
The power came out once.
By accident.
Black markings. Red eyes.
A rebel screamed. Another tried to bind him. Failed.
Asta blacked out.
Woke up chained in a barn.
They let him go. Eventually.
Said it was too risky to keep him close.
Told him to "stay useful from afar."
He laughed.
Spit on the ground. Walked out.
Didn't look back.
He survived on scraps.
Fixed old weapons. Slept under bridges.
Saved civilians when he could.
Even if they ran from him after.
He didn't hate the rebels.
He hated the war.
The lies. The betrayals. The way both sides stopped seeing each other as people.
Every fight blurred the line.
One side used power like a leash.
The other used rage like a weapon.
No one fought clean anymore.
Then came the warehouse raid.
They needed medicine. Food.
He volunteered first.
Didn't expect much. Maybe a trap. Maybe nothing.
Found crates. Supplies. Tools.
And her.
Silver hair. Wide eyes. Royal crest on her collar.
He raised his sword.
She didn't scream.
Just looked at him like she already knew it was over.
He hesitated.
She didn't try to run.
Didn't beg. Just stood there, trembling.
He saw it then.
The same fear he'd felt at fifteen.
The same loneliness.
Asta dropped the sword.
Told her to stay quiet.
Moved a crate. Helped her crouch behind it.
Told the others the place was clear.
Left fast. Heart pounding like it wanted to break free.
She haunted him after that.
Not her face—her silence.
The way she looked at him like he was something impossible.
A rebel with no magic.
A soldier who showed mercy.
He didn't know her name.
But he remembered her eyes.
I hope she got out.
He didn't expect to see her again.
Not in this world.
But fate doesn't care what you expect.
—
It was cold.
Colder than it should've been.
Noelle huddled near the wall.
Frost had crept in through the stone.
Nozel said it was secure.
Said she'd be safe.
He lied.
The food shipments had stopped days ago.
She'd rationed dry bread and watered-down wine.
Read the same book six times.
Paced until her boots wore grooves in the floor.
Nozel hadn't sent word.
No guards. No servants. Just silence.
He left me here to rot.
She didn't cry.
Not yet.
Then, distant voices.
Boots. Echoes. Laughter.
Not noble. Not disciplined.
Rebels.
She stood, chest tight.
Tried to summon her magic.
It crackled, hissed—then spiraled wildly, crashing into a crate.
Not now. Not now. Not now.
She crouched behind barrels.
Pressed her back to the stone.
Fingers trembling around a dull dagger.
The voices grew louder.
Closer.
A door creaked. Footsteps.
Then—
Silence.
And a shadow.
A boy stepped into the storeroom.
Sword drawn. Hair like ash. Eyes sharp.
Noelle froze.
He looked young. Maybe her age.
But his presence felt older. Harder.
His magic was…
No. He didn't have any.
Her heart hammered.
She didn't speak. Didn't move.
He saw her.
Lifted the sword.
Didn't speak. Didn't flinch.
Time stopped.
This was it.
After everything. All her shame. All her exile.
She'd die in a forgotten storeroom.
She straightened, jaw clenched.
If he was going to kill her, she wouldn't cower.
His eyes narrowed—then softened.
He didn't lower the sword.
But he didn't swing it either.
"What's your name?"
She didn't answer.
He glanced over his shoulder.
Voices, now distant.
He didn't have long.
"If I wanted you dead, I wouldn't have asked."
She blinked.
Her throat burned. Her fingers ached from clenching the blade.
"Noelle," she said, voice rough.
He stared a moment.
Then moved fast.
Crate. Corner. Shifted boxes.
"Get behind there. Now."
She didn't trust him.
Didn't understand.
But her body obeyed.
He helped her crouch.
Didn't touch her—just made space.
Covered her with a dusty cloak.
Looked her in the eye.
"Don't speak. Don't move."
Then he left.
She heard him lie.
"Room's clear. Nothing but rotten grain."
A door slammed.
Boots faded.
Silence again.
But not the same kind.
—
He shouldn't have spared her.
Asta knew the rules.
Royals were currency. Threats.
Every one of them was a risk.
But she'd looked at him like she was already dead.
And something in him cracked.
Not pity. Not weakness.
Recognition.
She was just as out of place as he was.
Not pampered. Not cruel.
Just lost.
He didn't know her story.
Didn't need to.
She hadn't screamed.
Hadn't begged.
She'd just… stood there. Waiting.
And something about that stayed with him.
Even days later.
The others talked about loot.
About future targets.
Asta kept quiet.
Eyes scanning the horizon.
He wasn't waiting for danger.
He was waiting for her.
You better have gotten out, Noelle.
He didn't know why he cared.
But he did.
—
She stayed hidden until nightfall.
Came out shaking.
Hungry. Humiliated. Alive.
He hadn't taken anything from her.
Not her life. Not her name.
Not even her pride.
That made him dangerous.
That made him unforgettable.
—
She kept replaying it.
That moment.
His sword raised.
Her name in his mouth.
His silence louder than any scream.
He didn't owe her anything.
And still—he chose mercy.
That shouldn't matter.
But it did.
—
Days passed.
Then weeks.
She was dragged back to noble territory.
They didn't ask where she'd been.
Didn't notice the dust on her boots.
Didn't care about the hollow look in her eyes.
They were too busy losing their war.
The capital felt colder than the warehouse ever had.
—
Nozel visited once.
He didn't ask if she was all right.
Didn't say her name.
He said, "Keep your head down. This will be over soon."
She wanted to ask what this was.
The war? Her life?
She didn't speak.
—
They dressed her in silver and white.
Braided her hair in the Silva way.
She stared at herself in the mirror.
Wrong. All of it.
She looked like a ghost wearing a costume.
And ghosts couldn't scream.
But maybe they could run.
—
She waited until the guards changed.
Stole food. Water. A map.
Cut her hair with shaking hands.
Each strand that fell felt like peeling off skin.
Then the dye. Harsh. Smelled like death.
Turned her hair black as soot.
The mirror showed someone else.
Someone who didn't belong in a palace.
—
The roads were dangerous.
Peasants hated nobles.
Soldiers hunted deserters.
She was both.
But she didn't care.
She had one name. One image. One spark.
Asta.
The boy with no magic, no fear, and no reason to save her.
But he had.
And she was going to find him again, even if it killed her.
It took weeks.
She slept in barns.
Fought off wild dogs.
Lied through her teeth.
Merchant's daughter.
Courier.
Nothing special.
She wore calluses into her hands.
Stopped flinching at every noise.
Her royal accent slipped.
Her pride didn't.
—
Then—she saw him.
Across a half-burned field.
Patching up a wooden shelter.
Sword nearby. Shirt torn. Covered in soot.
She almost ran.
Not away.
Toward.
But her knees gave first.
She dropped beside a tree.
Watched him from behind its shade.
He looked older.
Harder.
Lonelier.
So was she.
—
That night, she waited until the others left.
Only two of them now. Then one. Then none.
He was alone by a fire.
Staring into the flames.
She stepped out of the dark.
He didn't reach for his sword.
Just stared.
Eyes wide. Disbelieving.
"You're—"
"I came to find you."
He stood slowly.
Like he wasn't sure she was real.
She dropped her pack.
Let her cloak fall.
Let him see the chopped hair, the scorched sleeves, the bruises.
"You saved me," she whispered.
"And I have nothing else."
He didn't speak for a long time.
Then—
"You shouldn't have come."
"I didn't come for should."
He turned away.
But not fast enough to hide the flicker of emotion.
She stepped closer.
"I'd rather die free than live as a ghost."
He looked at her then.
Really looked.
Not as royalty.
Not as a burden.
As a person.
As a choice.
He gave her his knife.
She cut the rest of her hair, jagged and uneven.
They burned her cloak in the fire.
Her last thread to House Silva turned to ash.
He handed her a scarf.
Taught her how to wear it like a traveler.
Noelle Silva died that night.
Who she became next didn't have a name yet.
Only a fire in her gut and a boy by her side.
—
They didn't call it love.
Not yet.
There wasn't time.
Only hunger, heat, danger, survival.
But in the spaces between…
When he caught her laughing, just once.
When she found him staring at her hands like they held stars.
There was something.
Unspoken.
But solid.
Stolen glances.
Stolen lives.
They'd stolen each other, too.
—
They never gave themselves a name.
Not rebels.
Not royals.
Not lovers.
Just… two people the war forgot.
Two people the war tried to erase.
—
At first, it was survival.
Scouting ruined towns.
Digging through ash and bone for supplies.
Trading meat for medicine.
Dodging patrols.
Hiding when needed.
Fighting when they had to.
They slept in the forest.
Asta always took first watch.
Noelle took second.
The third belonged to no one.
That was the hour for ghosts.
—
He taught her how to fight with knives.
She taught him how to read noble maps.
He didn't ask why she flinched at lightning.
She didn't ask why he never took his shirt off around others.
—
They found a boy once.
Eleven.
Crushed arm. Half-starved.
Bastard child of a noble and a maid.
The maid was dead.
The noble father had sent soldiers after his own son.
They could've left him.
Didn't.
Asta carried him four miles to a healer.
Noelle paid with her earrings.
That night, they didn't talk.
Just sat under a broken roof and stared at the stars.
—
Rumors spread.
A black-haired girl with royal posture.
A magicless swordsman with a demon's speed.
They were blamed for thefts.
For smuggling.
For espionage.
Both sides branded them traitors.
Noelle laughed when she heard.
"They never claimed me before. Why start now?"
—
They found others.
Not many. But enough.
A pregnant woman hiding from both armies.
An old man who refused to leave his burned home.
Twins born to a commoner and a runaway noble girl.
They shared what they had.
Sometimes it was food.
Sometimes silence.
Sometimes a lie to keep someone breathing.
—
Asta built shelters from scrap.
Noelle reinforced them with water magic.
She was learning to control it.
Slowly. But surely.
When she shielded three kids from falling rubble without flinching—
Asta smiled.
Not wide. Not big.
But real.
—
Sometimes they argued.
About risking too much.
About wasting supplies.
About trust.
Once, she slapped him.
He didn't flinch.
Didn't raise his voice.
Just said, "I'm still here, Noelle."
She broke that time.
Cried into his chest.
Let him hold her like the world wasn't burning.
—
It was never about grand confessions.
There was no time for poetry.
Just hands brushing.
Eyes lingering.
A scarf tied a little tighter around the other's neck before a storm.
Love didn't shout here.
It whispered.
—
Then the message came.
A spy they'd helped weeks ago returned, bruised and limping.
"They've declared you enemies of the state."
"Both states."
Noelle folded the letter. Burned it.
Asta watched it turn to ash.
They didn't need the paper to tell them what they already knew.
Clover was gone.
Whatever it had been… it wasn't theirs anymore.
—
"We could run." she said one night.
They were camped beside a frozen stream.
The stars looked brittle.
Like they'd snap if you touched them.
"To where?"
"Heart. They don't care about bloodlines."
Asta didn't answer.
But the next morning, he packed his blade.
She packed her dreams.
They left before the sun rose.
No one cheered.
No flags flew.
But it felt like something holy.
Like rebirth.
Like maybe—just maybe—peace wasn't a lie.
Until they saw the smoke.
And the silhouette in silver armor.
Nozel Silva.
A royal general.
And approaching from behind them, in darker robes, silent and grim—
Yuno.
A rebel leader.
—
They made it to the edge of the forest.
One more valley.
One more ridge.
Then Heart Kingdom.
The trees were thick with frost.
Noelle's breath fogged like smoke.
Asta's grip on his sword never wavered.
They didn't speak.
They didn't have to.
They'd made it this far.
Together.
—
Then came the arrow.
Pure silver, reflecting the light.
Buried itself in the tree beside Noelle's head.
Perfect aim.
Not a warning.
A message.
She turned first.
She knew before she saw.
Silver armor.
Cold purple eyes.
Nozel.
He stood alone.
No soldiers.
No fanfare.
Just him.
And duty.
—
"You're coming back with me."
Noelle didn't move.
Didn't blink.
"Why? So you can lock me away again?"
Her voice didn't shake.
"I protected you."
"You buried me."
Asta stepped forward.
Sword lowered.
But not dropped.
"Leave her alone."
Nozel's gaze slid to him.
Measuring.
Judging.
"So you're the reason she ran."
Asta said nothing.
Didn't have to.
Nozel already knew.
—
Wind stirred behind the trees.
Fast. Precise. Familiar.
A boy in black stepped out.
Grimoire at his side.
Stars in his eyes.
Yuno.
Noelle stiffened.
Asta tensed.
This wasn't a coincidence.
They'd been tracked.
Cornered.
—
Yuno's voice was calm.
Too calm.
"You've caused a lot of trouble."
Asta looked at him.
Saw the tightness in his jaw.
The way his fingers curled at his sides.
Not anger. Guilt.
"You here to kill us?"
Yuno didn't answer.
Just looked past him.
To Nozel.
—
Tension thick as blood.
Noelle stepped between them.
"If you want to drag me back, then fight me."
Her magic swirled around her—
Stable. Strong.
Not wild. Not broken.
Calm yet heavy and powerful torrents and rings of water purer than the ocean's seas.
She wasn't that girl anymore.
Nozel stared at her.
He didn't lift a hand.
Didn't summon a spell.
He just said, "…You've grown."
Then turned to Yuno.
A nod.
Yuno nodded back.
—
Suddenly—
Green winds surged.
Silver mercury flashed.
They moved at each other—fast, loud, brutal.
Noelle flinched.
Asta didn't.
Because it wasn't real.
Their attacks never landed.
Clashed in midair.
Pulled punches.
A storm of light and steel.
All for show.
—
Asta grabbed Noelle's hand.
"Now."
They ran.
Behind them—
The roar of battle.
Theatre.
A shield.
Two protectors hiding it as war.
—
They crossed the river.
The border shimmered like heat.
A magical boundary.
Once they stepped through—
No turning back.
No more Clover.
No more hiding.
—
Asta hesitated.
Noelle didn't.
She pulled him forward.
"If you stay, I'll stay."
He looked at her.
Tired. Hopeful.
In love.
"…Let's go."
—
They stepped into Heart Kingdom.
Snow turned soft.
The air gentled.
And waiting for them—
A young woman in white and sky-blue with tears in her eyes.
Queen Lolopechka.
"I've been expecting you."
—
She gave them asylum.
A home.
Peace.
Noelle wore her hair long again.
Asta smiled more.
Sometimes, people still called them traitors.
But more often—
They were called free.
—
The moment they stepped through the barrier, Noelle felt it.
Warmth.
Not just in the air—but in her bones.
She let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding.
Asta didn't speak.
His shoulders sank.
Not in defeat.
In relief.
—
Lolopechka greeted them herself.
No guards.
No pomp.
Just kindness.
She reached for Noelle's hand.
"It's over now."
Noelle didn't answer.
She just nodded—once—and cried.
—
They were given a house near the eastern lake.
Small. Quiet. Safe.
Asta patched the roof with magicless tools.
Noelle grew herbs outside the kitchen window.
They didn't need much.
Not anymore.
—
At night, Noelle sometimes woke up gasping.
Memories of chains.
Of war.
Of being told she didn't belong.
Asta held her.
Didn't try to fix it.
Just stayed.
—
Asta flinched when he heard wind magic for the first time again.
Thought it was Yuno.
Thought it was an ambush.
Noelle took his hand.
"He let us go."
"They both did."
He nodded.
Didn't say thank you out loud.
But he whispered it to the stars.
—
They taught orphaned and abandoned children how to fight.
Helped Heart rebuild its border towns.
Noelle taught spells to kids who thought royals were myths.
Asta carried lumber until his back gave out—and then kept going.
They never took sides again.
Never swore loyalty.
Never wanted crowns.
But word of them spread.
The devil-blooded boy who defied both armies.
The disgraced princess who gave up a kingdom.
Stories. Legends.
They didn't correct them.
—
One evening, Asta stood by the lake.
Sword at his back.
Sun at his face.
Noelle joined him.
Her hair was long again—wavy and wild in the breeze.
Not silver.
Not black.
Just hers.
—
He looked at her.
"You ever think about going back?"
She didn't answer right away.
Then—softly—
"No."
He nodded.
"Me neither."
They kissed like survivors.
Not desperate.
Not perfect.
But real.
Like they'd earned it.
Like they finally believed it.
—
Some days, Noelle still heard her brother's voice in dreams.
You were born wrong.
Other days, she heard Asta's.
You don't have to prove anything.
Only one voice stayed.
—
They planted flowers around the porch.
Not for beauty.
For the bees.
Asta built a bench.
Noelle painted the shutters blue.
Little things.
New things.
—
They didn't need the world's forgiveness.
They had each other's.
And that was enough.