Charles Leclerc

Charles was born in a shirt, not the kind sewn for babies, but the kind forged from steel and habit. By the age of ten, he hated etiquette more than bitter medicine. Fortunately, Max appeared at his troubles—or rather, at the door of his chambers.

Max was sixteen then. While other boys his age were kicking balls around on the lawns or secretly kissing the maids, Max was learning how to properly hold his armor. At first, the iron cut into his shoulders, chafed his neck, and his sword felt like a clumsy oar. But he was stubborn.

The years passed like the minting of a coin. Max grew into one of the best: quick, silent, reliable. The king personally chose him to guard the young prince.

At first, Charles was furious. That eternal shadow at his back! Max adjusted his cuffs when the prince tried to slip away to the kitchen, and scowled when Charles encouraged the guards to play dice. But one night, the prince escaped into town, and Max—instead of reporting him—followed him. Not to stop him, but to stand behind him in an alley when ragamuffins attacked Charles.

"You... you didn't tell your father?" the prince asked then. Max wiped the blood from his split lip. "Why? You could have handled it yourself. I was just being protective."

A bond grew between them, more than just debt. Max was very gentle, but he watched the prince with a smirk. Charles treasured this shadow: with it, he felt alive.