The murmurs of the court hushed like waves drawing back into the sea as Ethan stood before the throne. The vaulted ceilings echoed with breathless silence, every noble and official waiting for the monarch's next words.
King Alden Elvarion III descended the final step of the dais, his boots soft against the marble, his gaze settled on the boy with ink-stained fingers and star-lit eyes.
"You have done something rare, young Ethan," the King said, his voice smooth but steeped with gravity. "You have moved hearts—not with a sword, nor with magic, but with words alone."
He stepped closer, extending a gloved hand.
"In this realm, there are many rewards for those who serve the Kingdom well. And for you, whose story has brought joy, tears, and awe to even the weary heart of your King... I would bestow upon you a gift. Tell me what you desire."
The words hung in the air like golden dust.
Ethan's lips parted, but no sound came. He hadn't expected this—not the throne, not the grandeur, and certainly not this.
He glanced at his father, who gave him a small, proud nod.
Then Ethan looked back at the King. He swallowed, and with a trembling voice, found the strength to speak.
"Your Majesty," he said, "I am... honored beyond words. But I don't seek gold or land, nor sword or title."
The nobles shifted uncomfortably. This was not the usual answer.
Ethan continued, eyes bright with honesty.
"I am a writer. And for someone like me… the only treasure that truly matters is the heart of a reader. To know my story was read, felt, and remembered—especially by you, Your Majesty—that is reward enough."
The room was still.
A ripple of awe passed through the courtiers. Even the guards seemed moved by the sincerity of the boy's words.
King Alden stared at him, eyes sharp and unreadable… and then, they softened.
He let out a breath that sounded like admiration wrapped in nostalgia.
"You remind me," the King said slowly, "of why I ever opened a book to begin with."
He stepped back, lifting one hand.
"Still, even readers and dreamers must be nurtured. And a seed so rare must be given soil to grow."
With a nod, a royal steward stepped forward carrying a sealed document upon a velvet pillow.
"Ethan Aldric," the King announced, "I grant you full admittance to the Royal Academy of Literature—our kingdom's most sacred ground for the arts of language, lore, and legacy. There, you may study under the finest minds, with full scholarship and royal protection."
Gasps echoed across the court. The Academy accepted barely a dozen students a year—mostly children of nobles. Never a commoner. Never a boy from a bookstore.
Ethan's heart thundered in his chest.
But the King wasn't finished.
He gestured again, and a second steward stepped forth with a small, rune-locked chest.
"And as a personal gesture, I present you with twenty Royal Coins. Each stamped with my seal, each worth more than a thousand gold crowns. Spend them as you see fit—or keep them as symbols of your journey."
The chest opened briefly, revealing the shimmering platinum-like coins, each carved with the emblem of the dragon wrapped around a quill.
The room erupted in whispers. A single royal coin was fortune enough to buy an estate. Twenty could change a family's fate for generations.
Ethan, overwhelmed, fell to his knees, tears stinging his eyes.
"Your Majesty… I…"
But King Alden raised a hand gently, silencing him not out of command, but compassion.
"Rise, Ethan. A writer must not kneel forever—your place is standing, with pen in hand, ready to reshape the world."
Cheers slowly rose through the chamber, not forced or political, but warm and genuine.
Even the nobles—those who had scoffed at the idea of a child author—clapped with real admiration. A few even looked misty-eyed, caught in memories of the book they had secretly loved.
Ethan stood again, not as a boy of Rosebarrow, but as a figure of promise.
And as the King returned to his throne, he added one final decree:
"Let it be known—The Sky Beneath the Water shall be preserved in the Royal Archive, and every new scribe at the Academy shall read it upon their arrival. The boy who made a fish fly shall now teach the world to soar."
And so, with paper, pen, and a heart full of dreams, Ethan took his first step onto a path that would someday change a kingdom—not through power or prophecy, but through the quiet, enduring might of story.
The royal carriage rolled through the twilight, its golden wheels whispering over the cobbled roads that led away from the palace. The stars had begun to bloom overhead, scattered like ink-splatters across the parchment sky.
Inside the carriage, Ethan sat quietly, the soft creak of the wooden frame the only sound between him and his father for a long while. The ornate chest containing the twenty Royal Coins sat unopened beside them, and the sealed invitation to the Royal Academy of Literature rested gently in Ethan's lap.
He stared at it, his fingers lightly tracing the embossed crest—a dragon spiraling around a quill. His eyes were thoughtful, distant.
"Father," he asked softly, breaking the silence. "What… what is the Royal Academy of Literature, really?"
Darian Aldric glanced at his son, then out the window where moonlight bathed the hills in silver.
"It's not just a school," he said finally, voice low and reverent. "It's a world within this world. A place where words are treated like spells, where every library breathes, and every book whispers secrets you didn't know you needed to hear."
Ethan looked up at him, eyes wide. "So it's... magical?"
Darian chuckled. "Not in the way of fireballs or flying brooms. But yes. Magic—of a different sort. There, students study the lost languages, write side-by-side with bards and historians, and read scrolls written by sages long turned to dust. They train the tongue as knights train the sword. And they learn how to make kingdoms weep… with a single page."
Ethan's heart thumped in his chest.
He leaned back into the carriage cushions, staring out at the countryside rolling past. The distant shape of Rosebarrow shimmered faintly on the horizon—home, warm and familiar.
"…Do you think I should go?" he asked after a long pause. His voice was small, unsure. "Wouldn't it be better to stay with the shop? With Lina and Mother? I could keep writing from home."
Darian didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, gazing at his son not as a boy—but as something beginning to grow beyond what the world had expected.
"Ethan," he said softly, "you've always been different. You see things others don't. You feel the weight of stories in places where most people see only shadows."
He paused, then laid a firm hand on his son's shoulder.
"This world... it's vast. Much bigger than Rosebarrow. Bigger than our little shop, or even the royal court. There are cities that breathe in rhyme, forests that speak in riddles, cultures whose myths you've never heard. If you want to write stories that truly matter, you need to know that world."
Ethan was quiet. He stared at his fingers, still faintly smudged with ink from his last manuscript.
His father continued, voice more certain now.
"I once dreamed of seeing that world myself. But life had other plans for me. I don't regret it. But I won't let you miss your chance."
He smiled warmly, but there was a glimmer of emotion behind his eyes.
"You were given a gift today—something boys like us are rarely offered. Not just gold, Ethan. But a door. And that door will not stay open forever."
Ethan looked at the sealed invitation again. It suddenly felt heavier—like destiny wrapped in parchment.
"I'm scared," he whispered.
Darian squeezed his shoulder gently. "Good. That means you're about to do something worth doing."
The carriage wheels rolled on, and the moonlight caught the side of Ethan's face—illuminating the quiet, slow resolve forming in his eyes.
He reached for the Academy's letter and held it close.
"Then I'll go," he said at last. "I'll go and learn everything I can. I'll see the world. And I'll write it… all of it."
His father smiled, his chest rising with quiet pride.
And outside the carriage, as if the world itself had overheard their promise, the stars above seemed to burn just a little brighter—like the beginnings of a thousand stories waiting to be written.