Charles Leclerc

Charles was born in a shirt, but not the kind sewn for infants—rather, one forged from steel and habit. By the age of ten, he hated etiquette more than bitter medicine. Fortunately, his misfortunes—or more accurately, the doors to his chambers—brought Max into his life.

Max was sixteen back then. Other boys his age chased balls across lawns or secretly kissed the maids, but Max was learning how to properly wear armor. At first, the iron dug into his shoulders, chafed his neck, and the 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: fast, silent, reliable. The King personally chose him to guard the young prince.

At first, Charles was infuriated. This eternal shadow behind his back! Max would straighten his cuffs when the prince tried to sneak off to the kitchen, and frown when Charles egged the guards on to play dice. But one night, the prince escaped into the city, and Max—instead of reporting it—followed. Not to stop him, but to stand behind him in an alleyway when a gang of thugs lunged at Charles.

"You... you didn't tell Father?" the prince asked then. Max wiped blood from a split lip: "Why? You would have handled it yourself. I just had your back."

Something more than duty grew between them. Max was incredibly gentle, yet watched the prince with a smirk. Charles cherished this shadow: with it, he felt alive.