Olivier heard everything.
From the shadows, he had listened as the prince casually discussed the idea of swapping bodies—a secret plan meant for someone else. But Olivier's mind twisted with ambition. If the prince wants to swap, then why should it be my brother? he thought. Why not me?
He didn’t want to follow orders anymore, least of all from his own brother. He wanted power. He wanted to be seen.
That evening, with trembling fingers and a heart pounding with forbidden hope, Olivier crept into his brother’s chambers. There, nestled in the shadows, he found it—a glass bottle glowing faintly with an unnatural light. The swapping potion.
He stole it.
And with it, he stole something far more dangerous: a destiny that was never meant to be his.
If I swap, I’ll do it with the prince himself, Olivier decided. Not with my brother. Not with anyone else. I’ll take his place. I’ll become him.
He crept through the palace like a whisper, moving toward Prince Daemon’s room. Outside the ornate door, he paused, then called out in a steady voice, “Your Highness, I have something to tell you.”
Moments later, the door opened, revealing the prince in a silken robe, brows furrowed. “What is it?”
Olivier didn’t answer.
He struck.
A single, sharp kick to the head dropped the prince to the floor. His royal body crumpled like paper, blood blooming in a perfect red flower at his temple.
Olivier didn’t hesitate. He uncorked the potion and drank it all in one breath.
The change was slow—agonizingly so. Heat flooded his limbs, his skin tightened, then stretched. His arms thickened. His chest expanded. His face twisted like wax in the heat. He stripped out of his own clothes as his bones cracked and his body reshaped itself.
When it was over, he stood taller. Stronger. Handsome in a way he had never been. He turned toward the tall mirror near the window and gasped.
It was Prince Daemon’s face staring back at him.
His own shadow no longer belonged to him.
A dark joy bloomed inside him. “I’m not Olivier anymore,” he whispered. “I’m the prince now.”
Behind him, the real prince groaned faintly.
But something was happening to him too.
He was shrinking.
His regal frame diminished rapidly, curling inward. The body on the floor wasn’t Prince Daemon anymore—it was a boy. A child. No older than thirteen. Small. Fragile. Innocent. His hair tangled, his cheeks soft, his limbs thin.
Olivier, now wearing the prince’s face, dressed the shrunken figure in the clothes of a servant boy.
He looked at the scene and smirked.
Two boys—one fallen, one risen.
The new Prince Daemon carried the regressed child to Charles’s room. Charles blinked at the sight, confused.
“Who is this?” he asked.
“He fell from the balcony,” Olivier replied smoothly. “I thought he might be one of your brother’s playmates. I brought him to you for safekeeping.”
Charles frowned but accepted the explanation. He lifted the boy gently and laid him in bed. The boy stirred but did not speak.
Olivier—the prince—offered a polite smile and returned to his chambers.
That night, he slept deeply. The bed felt softer. The air, sweeter. He had never slept so well.
The Awakening
The next morning, the boy woke.
He sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes. Something felt wrong.
He padded across the room and looked into the mirror.
He froze.
That wasn’t his face.
It wasn’t his body.
He was… small. Pale. With soft hair and a child’s round cheeks.
Panic bloomed.
This isn’t me.
He turned as footsteps approached.
Then he heard a voice that twisted his insides with a sickening jolt.
“Oliver! Where are you, little brother?”
The voice was familiar. Too familiar. It was Charles.
But Charles wasn’t his brother. Charles was his friend.
“No…” he whispered, stepping back from the mirror. “I’m not him. I’m not Olivier.”
The door opened. Charles entered, tall and warm and smiling.
“There you are,” he said. “You’re acting strange today, little one.”
“I—I’m not your little one,” the boy stammered. “I’m Prince Daemon. I’m not… I’m not Olivier.”
Charles’s face softened, almost amused. “That’s enough pretending,” he said kindly. “Don’t lie to your big brother. That’s a bad thing.”
“I’m not lying!”
Charles sighed and, in one smooth motion, slapped him.
The boy gasped.
Tears welled in his eyes.
Daemon had been in battles. He had faced enemies. But never—never—had he been struck like this. And it hurt. It hurt far more than anything he’d ever known.
Because he was no longer a prince.
He was a boy.
A small, helpless, crying boy.
Charles knelt beside him, voice stern. “Now. Tell me. Who are you?”