Echoes of a Name
The Prince's Secret
Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction. It is an adaptation inspired by the fairy tales owned by the Grimm Brothers, Jacob and Wilhelm. This story is not associated with Disney’s adaptations, their added characters, or story elements.
Princess. The word cuts deeper than it should. It sneers at the bastard I am, the misfit I’ve always been. Yet the way he says it coils low in my chest and refuses to let go.
I shove away from him. Heat stamps my palms, a brand I didn’t ask for. Savior or not, trust is a luxury in Ashvale. “I’m not a princess,” I hiss. My cloak rasps beneath my fingers as I drag it tight. Fabric snags under restless hands. I want to vanish, but he fills the space, leaving nowhere to retreat.
“Do you truly know Sylus?” His tone is soft-edged steel.
It lands wrong. Not curiosity. A test. A blade waiting for a confession.
Defiance is my only shield. “That’s none of your business.”
He moves between heartbeats. One moment there’s space; the next, stone bites through my cloak. He cages me, warmth pressing close enough to steal air. My fingers knot into his shirt—only to steady myself, not to pull him nearer. I lie to myself and hold on.
“It’s wise to be cautious,” he murmurs near my cheek. “But don’t speak to me like that, kitten. This is your only warning.”
Kitten. The intimacy detonates in the dark, stirring a memory I don’t have. My pulse stumbles.
His eyes flare, not hungry amber but cold, violent red. His hair is pale as moon metal, catches what little light there is. That color is rare. Only one family carries it. Sylus’s. My thoughts twist: brother, cousin, hidden kin?
He eases half a step back, granting a sliver of air. “So I’ll ask again. Do you know him?”
My throat locks. I manage a nod.
A smirk ghosts across his mouth. “Raven got your tongue? Then tell me—how do you know Sylus?”
“Childhood friends,” I force out. “He left my city. I never learned why.” Saying it tears an old seam inside me.
“Childhood friends,” he repeats, rolling the words as if testing a key. “What if that boy is gone? Turned ruthless?” His pause is deliberate. “What if he’s become a monster?”
“No.” The refusal leaves me fragile and fierce at once. Fragments of him flare—laughter, a shadow thrown over me against the cold, the way he stood too close when I was afraid. “He was kind.”
“People change.” He leans in until I feel the rumble of his voice through my chest. “Ashvale bends to him now. The Noctrelle answers to his will. Guards look away when he passes, and those who whisper his name don’t always live long enough to repeat it.”
His hand touches the neckline of my dress. I tense—but instead of a threat, a small weight settles against the fabric: a silver brooch shaped like a raven. The metal is cool; the meaning heavy.
“This gets you into Vire,” he says, smooth as smoke. “Noctrelle territory. If Sylus is there, this will open a door.”
Ashvale teaches hard lessons. Turned vampires flaunt sun-warding ink and buy silence. Purebloods need no bribes; power is their coin. The Noctrelle keeps order like storms keep ships honest. I’ve seen guards step aside for less.
“Why should I believe you?” I lift my chin. “It reeks of a trap.”
He grips my jaw, firm enough to freeze breath, and tilts my face until his red gaze fills the world. A caged hunger stares back—leashed, not tamed.
“Because,” he says, low and lethal, “if I wanted you, you’d already be mine. No tokens. No warnings. You’d be bleeding at my feet.” His thumb traces the line of my jaw, possessive, unhurried. “And if you truly belong to him, I’d sooner lose my fangs—my head—than betray him.”
The threat and the vow collide. The image of a toothless vampire—humiliation worse than death—makes my breath catch. That he’d say it without flinching unsettles me more than the wall at my spine.
A tremor works through me. I hate the way my body leans toward his heat when my mind orders distance. Something in me recognizes him—not his name, not his face—him.
I wrench free and clutch the brooch instead of his shirt. “You’re done,” I manage.
“Don’t lose it,” he replies, calm as a closing door. “And don’t speak Sylus’s name. Not here. Not ever. Enemies would use it to wound him—and you.”
He’s simply gone. The space he occupied chills, and my skin prickles in the absence. I whisper into the quiet, “Corvin?”
Only the emblem answers, heavy in my palm. Pale hair. Crimson eyes. Sylus’s line. He must be kin. Brother. Cousin.
But what if—
No, I can’t follow that thought. Not here.
I run.
Lanterns smear. Alleys grasp. I need Kendra before this secret strangles me.
We meet where the market thins and dusk swallows colors. Her hood hides most of her face, but I read worry in the tight lines around her mouth.
“Well?” I ask.
She shakes her head. Elyra’s talisman dangles from her fist, useless as twine. “No, Lyanna. No rumor. Nothing. It’s as if she stepped off the map.”
Ashvale’s whispers stitch together in my head: the men outside the pub bragging they “calmed that thing,” the way the second-in-command supposedly carries silver-laced chains, the memory of a half-shifted girl’s eyes in the forest. Bloodlock pushes change too fast; if the wrong hands got Lyanna, they’d parade her or lock her away until the moon forces a shift. Either way, she’s bait or business.
“She’ll be at Vire,” I say. “That’s where the Noctrelle funnels anything they want to control.”
Kendra’s gaze snaps to mine, flame lighting the blue. “Then we go tomorrow—”
“Tonight.” The word cracks out. “We get in, find her, and get out of this town.”
“We’re dead on our feet, Ren.” Her jaw clenches. “One night. We rest, we plan, we move at dawn. Running blind helps no one—especially her.”
Time saws at my ribs. Every heartbeat is another step Lyanna could be forced to take. But guilt chains Kendra; she needs a choice she can own.
“One night,” I concede. “No more.”
Relief loosens her shoulders. “I’ll get beds.”
The inn reeks of ale and oil. The barkeep counts coins with a thumb stained by ink and blood—Ashvale’s constant mix. Kendra returns with two brass keys.
“Two rooms?” I arch a brow.
“Safer,” she says.
“We’re tight on coins,” I mutter. “Next time, one room. Promise me.”
She nods, tries for a smile that doesn’t land. We climb a narrow staircase. Floorboards groan. Doors crowd the corridor.
My room holds a small lamp, a washstand, a narrow bed, and a black box centered atop the quilt.
My pulse stutters.
Inside lies a gown the color of midnight water, stitched with threads that catch the light like constellations. On top: a mask in the shape of a raven, carved sleek and merciless. Beneath the silk, a card:
Wear this tonight, starling.
The endearment slides under my ribs and tightens everything there. I have never been called that. My body behaves as if I have.
A soft knock. Kendra slips in with her own box. She lifts a dress, the red of wine—simpler than mine, but fine enough—and a black fox mask.
“Someone wants us at Vire,” she says, voice caught between awe and worry. “Both of us.”
I stare at the mask and feel colder than when he vanished. He leaves heat; the air keeps the chill. The gown is beautiful and ruthless-plunging neckline, cinched bodice, silk that clings and advertises. He wants armor stripped, not with hands but with attention.
“Are you sure we should do this?” My voice comes out smaller than I like.
Kendra squares her shoulders. “We go once. We find Lyanna. Then we leave—Vire, Ashvale, all of it. If she isn’t there, we make enough noise that someone tells us where she is.”
That at least sounds like us.
I slide the brooch beneath my shirt, out of sight but heavy as a promise, and set the mask beside the lamp. The inn’s common room thumps faintly underfoot. Voices rise and fall. Somewhere outside, dice rattle and a dealer calls for bets.
I change.
The gown fits like a decision I can’t take back. The cut bares too much; the fabric molds to curves. I spend my life hiding under leather and wool. Heat crawls over my skin, shame and anger mixing with a curiosity I refuse to name.
Kendra peeks in again. Her dress flatters the hunter beneath the hood; the fox mask gleams on the table beside her. “Ready?”
I settle the bird’s face over my own and feel the world narrow to two eyeholes and a vow. “Ready.”
The word hums like a drawn wire—tight, bright, one breath from breaking.
And beneath it all, three names coil where my heart should be: princess. kitten. Starling.
One of them will undo me. I pray it isn’t tonight.
Editor: Lucy Cafiero
