Chapter Text
The first thing Mike noticed about the lower village was that no one looked surprised to see a prince. They looked irritated. That was worse.
A woman paused in the middle of hanging laundry, wet linen clutched in both hands. A man with soot-darkened fingers stepped halfway out of a blacksmith's doorway. Children stopped chasing one another through the road and scattered behind crates, fences, skirts.
Mike kept his hands visible. No sword drawn. No holy light. No paladin's command. Just a prince in travel-stained armor, riding through mud.
Beside him, Lucas Sinclair guided his horse with the easy posture of someone who had been born steady.
"Friendly place," Mike muttered.
Lucas gave him a sidelong look. "You're wearing a crown."
"I'm also here to help."
"They don't know that yet."
Mike's jaw tightened. He hated that Lucas was right.
The village sat low in the valley, where the roads softened into brown sludge after rain and the church bells from the capital could not be heard. The cottages leaned close together, patched with mismatched wood and stubbornness. Smoke curled from crooked chimneys. Herbs hung in windows. Charms made from string, bone, and dried flowers dangled over doorways—not sanctioned, not holy, not technically forbidden.
Technically.
That was why Mike had come. Unsanctioned magic. The report had been brief, almost dismissive. A boy in the lower village. Strange instincts. Lucky guesses. Talk of visions. No confirmed danger. No hostile casting. No evidence of heresy.
Investigate and determine whether intervention is required. Mike had read the order three times. The Church had signed it. Nancy had frowned at it. His sister never liked orders that said little and meant much.
"Observe first," she had told him before he left. "Decide second."
Mike had promised. He intended to keep it.
A royal guard waited near the village square, arms folded, expression thunderous. He was broad-shouldered and tired-looking, with a beard that made him seem more severe than his eyes did.
"Captain," Lucas greeted.
The guard glanced at Lucas, then at Mike. His posture shifted—not quite a bow, but close enough to satisfy protocol.
"Your Highness."
"Captain Hopper."
"Just Hopper here."
Mike blinked. Lucas hid a smile.
Hopper jerked his chin toward the far end of the village. "You're looking for the Byers boy."
"I'm looking into a report."
"Same thing."
Mike dismounted. His boots sank slightly into the mud. "Has he harmed anyone?"
"No."
"Has he threatened anyone?"
"No."
"Has he attempted spellwork?"
Hopper's mouth twisted. "Depends who's asking."
"I am."
"Then no."
Mike studied him. Hopper stared back like a man who had decided long ago that titles were mostly decorative.
Lucas cleared his throat. "Hopper."
Hopper sighed. "The kid knows things. That's all. Weather before it turns. When someone's sick before they collapse. Whether a stranger means trouble." His gaze flicked over Mike. "Useful things."
"And no one thought to report this sooner?"
"They did report it. That's why you're here." There was something sharp beneath the words.
Mike did not react to it. He was used to resentment. He was less used to deserving it.
"Take me to him," he said.
Hopper did not move. "He's a good kid."
"I didn't say he wasn't."
"Church usually doesn't send princes for good kids."
Mike's hand curled once at his side. Lucas noticed. Hopper noticed too. Mike forced his fingers loose.
"The Church didn't send a prince," Mike said. "I have been training in the ways of knighthood since I was old enough to wield a sword. I am a soldier like any other. My crown is unrelated. If anything, it's what motivated them to keep tasking me with things so low stakes."
That earned him a longer look. Then Hopper turned. "Fine. This way."
They walked past the square, past the dry well, past houses that seemed to grow poorer the farther they went. At the edge of the village stood a small cottage with a sagging roof and smoke rising from the chimney. A bundle of dried lavender hung above the door.
Not a church charm. A home prayer. Technically allowed, but frowned upon.
Hopper knocked once.
The door opened before he could knock again. A woman stood inside, thin and fierce-eyed, with flour on her sleeve and suspicion in every line of her face.
"Joyce," Hopper said gently.
Her gaze moved past him and landed on Mike. The suspicion became fear. Mike hated that too.
He bowed before she could. Not deeply. Not theatrically. Just enough to make her pause.
"Mrs. Byers. I'm Prince Michael."
"I know who you are."
Her voice was steady. Mike respected her immediately.
"I've come to speak with your son. The youngest. William?"
Her fingers tightened around the door. "He's done nothing wrong."
"I'm here to determine that formally."
"That supposed to comfort me?"
"No," Mike admitted. "Probably not."
Behind her, someone moved. A young man appeared, older than the boy Mike had been sent to investigate. He had tired eyes and a protective set to his shoulders.
"Mom," he said softly.
Joyce did not look away from Mike.
Then another voice came from inside. "It's okay."
Mike turned toward it. The boy standing in the dim room was smaller than Mike expected.
Not weak. That was the first correction Mike made. Small was not weak.
Will Byers looked like someone who had learned how to take up as little space as possible. Brown hair fell into his eyes. His hands were clasped tightly in front of him. His clothes were worn, patched at the elbows and knees, but clean.
He looked afraid. He also looked directly at Mike. That was the second thing Mike noticed.
Most people either avoided his eyes because he was royal, or held them too long because they wanted him to know they were not impressed.
Will did neither. He looked at Mike like he was trying to understand him. Like he had been expecting him.
A strange unease moved beneath Mike's ribs. "William Byers?" he asked.
Will nodded.
"I need to ask you some questions."
Joyce stepped forward. "He's a child."
"He's the same age as I."
"He's my child."
Mike softened his voice. "Then you may stay."
That seemed to surprise her. It surprised Hopper too. Will, however, only tilted his head slightly.
The cottage was warm inside, crowded with ordinary things: stacked bowls, drying herbs, threadbare blankets, a half-carved piece of wood on the table. There were drawings pinned to one wall. Charcoal sketches. Forests. Faces. A tower with cracked windows. A girl with no eyes.
Mike's attention snagged on that one. Will stepped in front of it. Not fast enough.
Mike looked at him. Will looked down.
Lucas stayed near the door with Hopper and Jonathan. Joyce hovered close to the hearth, arms crossed.
Mike sat at the table because standing over Will felt cruel. Will sat across from him. For a moment, neither spoke.
Mike had interrogated smugglers, border scouts, oathbreakers, and one drunken lord who had tried to claim divine inspiration after setting fire to his own stables.
This was different. This was a boy with ink on his fingers and fear in his throat.
Mike removed his riding gloves. Will watched the movement.
"Do you know why I'm here?" Mike asked.
"Because of what people say I can do."
"What can you do?"
Will swallowed. "I don't do anything."
Mike waited.
Will's hands curled in his lap. "I just know things sometimes."
"What kind of things?"
"When it's going to rain. When someone's lying. When someone is about to get hurt."
"Do you hear voices?"
Joyce stiffened.
Will shook his head quickly. "No."
"Do you see images?"
A pause.
Mike leaned forward slightly.
Will's voice grew quieter. "Sometimes."
"What kind of images?"
"I don't always understand them."
"But you draw them."
Will's gaze flicked toward the wall. Mike followed it.
The eyeless girl.
The cracked tower.
The forest.
"Are these visions?" Mike asked.
Will's face closed off.
Joyce stepped forward. "He draws. That's all."
"Mrs. Byers—"
"He's always drawn."
Mike looked back at Will. "I'm not here to punish you for seeing."
Will gave a small, humorless laugh.
It startled Mike.
"You might be," Will said. "You just don't know it yet."
The room went still. Lucas shifted near the door.
Mike felt something then.
Not magic. Not exactly.
A pressure in the air, faint as the pause before a bell rings.
He had felt divine power all his life. In cathedral halls. In the training yard during oath rites. In the heat of combat when holy force moved down his arm and into his blade.
This was not that. Or perhaps it was. But not shaped. Not polished. Not called through ritual. It was wild only in the way a spring beneath stone was wild.
Hidden.
Patient.
Real.
Mike's breath caught before he could stop it.
Will noticed. Of course he did.
"What was that?" Mike asked.
Will's face went pale. "I don't know."
Hopper muttered something under his breath.
Mike ignored him. His attention stayed on Will.
"You felt it too," Mike said.
Will's eyes widened.
No denial. No performance. Just fear.
The air tightened again. The hearth flame bent sideways.
Joyce whispered Will's name.
Will gripped the edge of the table.
Mike stood. "William?"
"I don't—" Will's voice broke. "I don't know what it wants."
The pressure became light. Not visible. Not at first. Mike felt it strike the center of his chest. His oath answered. The holy mark beneath his armor burned. He staggered.
Lucas was beside him instantly. "Mike?"
But Mike could not look away from Will.
Will's eyes had gone distant, fixed on something beyond the cottage walls, beyond the village, beyond the kingdom itself.
When he spoke, his voice was his own, and not his own.
"The girl without a crown will break the sealed door."
Joyce covered her mouth.
"The shepherds will call the lamb a wolf."
The drawings on the wall trembled.
"The tower of white stone will split from root to bell."
Mike's heartbeat thundered. Will's gaze snapped to him.
"The sword must kneel before the voice, or the throne will fall in silence."
Mike could not breathe.
Will reached across the table blindly, fingers shaking. Without thinking, Mike took his hand.
The burning in his chest flared—not painful now. Clear. Terrifyingly clear.
Will's voice dropped to a whisper.
"The Divine is not in the walls."
Then the light vanished.
Will collapsed forward. Mike caught him before his head struck the table.
For one suspended moment, no one moved.
Then Joyce cried out and rushed to her son. Jonathan was beside her. Hopper swore. Lucas had drawn his sword without realizing it.
Mike still held Will's hand. His own was shaking. Not from fear. From recognition.
He had been sent to determine whether Will Byers was dangerous. He had his answer.
Yes.
Not because the boy meant harm.
Because the Church had been wrong about him. Because the Divine had spoken in a poor cottage at the edge of the lower village.
And it had made sure Mike was there to hear.