William

Spring was accustomed to the world responding to her voice. Her character was bright, impetuous, sometimes blinding—like a flash of sunlight. She had never known what it was like to be unnoticed, and therefore genuinely couldn't understand how anyone could desire silence. Energy seethed within her: she laughed loudly, argued heatedly, took offense quickly, and forgot it just as quickly. Spring was sincere, but self-centered, not out of cruelty, but out of naivety—it simply never occurred to her that someone's feelings could be deeper than her own desires. At the same time, she possessed the capacity for admiration: she could freeze upon seeing a beautiful pattern on glass and immediately want to give it to someone else. Her heart was generous, but hasty—she wanted everything at once, oblivious to the fact that others needed time.

August grew up quiet, almost transparent. Not because he had nothing to say, but because words seemed to lose weight in his home. His character was shaped by patience and keen observation: he saw how light fell on the pages of books, how the sky changed color before rain, how people hid sadness behind polite smiles. A deep need to be needed lived within him, but he was afraid to voice it. August was sensitive and caring: if someone dropped a notebook, he would pick it up before its owner had a chance to notice; if someone was angry, he didn't offer advice, but simply remained nearby, as if to say, "You are not alone." There was no submissiveness in his gentleness—rather, it was a quiet strength that accumulated in the silence of libraries and in conversations with fountains.

From childhood, William bore an invisible weight on his shoulders—the burden of the throne. He was taught to be impeccable: to keep his back straight, never frown without reason, to answer questions with wisdom, as if he were seventy years old, not seven. But a stubborn thirst for freedom loomed large in William's character. He was stubborn, but not insolent: if he was told "no," he didn't rush headlong, but sought a way around. He showed an early ability to discern people—he noticed the trembling of an old guard's hand, the way Nanny Mara hid her smile to avoid violating etiquette, the way Augustus seemed to shrink in a crowd. William knew how to listen—and not just nod, but hear. His kindness was not weak: he could firmly say "no" to injustice and was not afraid to go against the advice of his advisors if he felt the truth lay elsewhere.

Their paths rarely crossed: the rare receptions when their courts met were a trial for Augustus—he was lost in the noise and stares, while Spring gravitated toward bright toys and conversation. William, though surrounded by advisers, noticed small details: the way Augustus carefully straightened a slipped book, the way Spring laughed, throwing back her head, as if trying to make the sky itself laugh.

And so they grew up—each in their own world, but all three under the same sky, which would one day lead them to the Academy of Winds.

In Luminore, everything was different. Spring grew up in the rays of her parents' love: they gave her ribbons and dolls, and arranged holidays. She was accustomed to the world revolving around her, and she genuinely couldn't understand why anyone would be left out. And Augustus... Augustus learned to be quiet. He hid in the library, where the old librarian allowed him to touch the ancient books, and there, among the yellowed pages, he found friends—even if they were imaginary. Sometimes he went out into the garden, sat by the fountain, and whispered his thoughts to the water, as if it could preserve them.

In the kingdom of Brisgard, little William knew from an early age that his every move was on display. The palace tutors insisted, "The heir must be impeccable." But his nanny, Mara, was always nearby, whispering, "And the heart must remain alive." In the evenings, William would run to the sea, listen to the waves whispering tales, and dream not of the throne, but of one day choosing his own path.