The Boy Prince Ernest

Chapter One: The Hidden Kingdom and the Broken Line

Once upon a time...

It started with music, always with music. But long before that, the story began generations ago — with a noble bloodline, ancient and aristocratic, once high and mighty, but broken and fallen over time.

From noble stock came a great name, respected and powerful — yet from that line, a woman was born who was no longer a lady of the court, but only a maid. She was a Fallen Princess — royal blood in her veins, yet living in service, hidden, unseen, her true worth known only to her own heart and to the man who loved her.

He was a true Nobleman, high in rank, wealthy, admired, sought after — everything he hated about his life and his status. But he loved her: the maid, the fallen princess, the one who held the true heart of the line. They loved in secret, and from that love, a child was conceived — a child born of pure, forbidden love. But alas, the price was cruel: she died in childbirth, leaving him alone, heartbroken, holding the only piece of her that remained.

Desperate to keep her memory alive, and to ensure their child knew she was loved and important, he made careful, secret plans. Because of his noble standing and appearance, he could never claim her or the child openly — for in those days, any mention of such a union meant ruin: he would be stripped of his title, his lands, his name, his very ability to live as he was. It was a risk of everything, just to love what was his.

So instead, he arranged for the child to be raised privately, educated in secret, taught in every way to be a lady — noble, refined, worthy of the blood she carried — even if no one could ever know why. And all through her growing years, he could never bring himself to say goodbye, or to let her think she was nothing. Against all danger and risk, he sent her gifts: the most exquisite dolls, with fine porcelain heads, beautiful clothes, perfect in every detail. Each one a silent message: You are mine. You are hers. You are loved beyond measure. You are important. You are royal.

That secret love, that broken line, that hidden royalty — it passed down, generation to generation, until finally, it came to him.

Ernest’s mother had the gift; she was a prodigy—unrecognizable to his nan, relentlessly picked on by a toxic brother and sister, but fiercely owning the era of the teenager. Her magic wasn't in glass slippers; it was in her voice. She had the gift of music, a prodigy who rewrote a major tune and was scouted for the biggest events of her time. She carried that same hidden royal blood — fallen, broken, but still alive, still powerful.

But there was no fairytale ending waiting for her, no Prince Charming to ignite her life with a kiss. Instead, she fell for a deceptive prince — a con artist whose darkness and damage were so profound they defied understanding. He shattered her world so thoroughly that she had to run for her life. The ultimate tragedy of her escape? She could not take her children with her.

And so it was that the Boy Prince Ernest, aged five, and his little brother, aged four, born into poverty, were handed over to a cold system that claimed not to care — yet led them straight to a place that was far more than it seemed. For that massive, silent mansion was not a prison at all — it was his Hidden Kingdom, a fortress built just for him, waiting for him to arrive.

It stood guarded by two massive stone pillars at the start of a long, winding driveway. Beyond them, a lawn spread out wide and green, rolling far into the distance until it met his own private woodland. Along one side, a high, solid brick wall ran the full length of the grounds, covered in twisted, wild roses — thorns and beauty tangled together, blooming year after year, more than enough for a hundred generations to come. Here, safe within these walls, two mothers watched over him, protecting him fiercely with a fearless, jealous love, guarding their prince from every harm, every lie, every eye that would seek to harm him. Inside this fortress, he was safe. Inside this kingdom, he was home.

That very first night, in the high, grand room, the fear was still new. His little brother, trembling and small, whispered out in the quiet — “Are you still awake, brother? … Are you still awake, brother?” — his voice sweet and tender, but carrying the whole weight of a frightened soul, clinging to the only thing he had left.

Ernest turned to him, his young heart already heavy but already strong. He pulled his brother close, and with all the certainty in the world, he whispered back: “Of course mummy will be coming soon.”

In that moment, though he was only five years old, something shifted deep inside him. He looked at his little brother, scared and alone, and Ernest grew up right there. He was compelled, bound by a love stronger than anything, and he made his vow: I will protect him. I will never let anything hurt him. I am his brother, I am his shield, I am his prince.

This vow gave him the strength of a lion’s heart — a power no other child had, a courage that defied the darkness itself.

From that day on, his younger brother became his shadow — everywhere the Boy Prince went, his brother went too. Ernest ruled his small world with quiet authority: none of his followers, no one around them, was ever allowed to say a single word against his sweet younger brother, or to harm him in any way. If anyone dared, they faced the full, unyielding fury of the Boy Prince.

The grounds of his hidden kingdom were always filled with life and laughter. Many fair maidens would gather on the soft grass, weaving bright flowers into long, tangled daisy chains. They always welcomed him, patting the grass to say come sit with us, and Ernest never saw any problem with that — he was happy just to be there, part of their gentle work. They made so many chains, pile upon pile, but when they were finished, they would just leave them there, doing nothing with their beautiful creations.

But Ernest saw the value in what they made, the beauty in what grew. He would bring small little glass bottles he had found, and carefully pluck soft, fragrant petals from the twisted roses climbing the garden wall — careful of the thorns, knowing beauty always had its guard. He would gather them, crush them gently, and press out their sweet scent to make perfume for the maidens.

“A fair swap,” he would say with a smile — flowers for perfume, beauty for beauty.

The maidens would laugh and laugh, for by the time he was done, the Boy Prince was adorned in daisy chains, wrapped from head to crown in their work, looking like a flower-king himself.

When they were not weaving or making perfume, they were off on grand adventures. Ernest loved to climb high into the old trees in his woodland, imagining himself a bold pirate sailing the skies, ruler of every branch and leaf. He would dig deep holes in the earth, crafting clever traps — only for stupid boys, he would say — laughing as he planned how to outwit any fool who tried to enter his kingdom uninvited.

And in the autumn, when the air turned crisp and gold, he would stand beneath the great trees, watching hundreds of leaves fall, drifting, spinning, dancing down before the winter came. He would run, jump, stretch out his hands, trying so frustratingly hard to catch one before it touched the ground. But no matter how fast he ran, how high he leaped, how quick his fingers reached… he never managed to catch one. It was a small, sweet mystery he carried with him — the one thing he could never quite hold, no matter how hard he tried.

Even as he grew older, when he traveled to other kingdoms to train in wisdom, strength, and all the arts of royalty, his brother was always right there beside him. Where Ernest walked, his shadow followed. Where Ernest learned, his brother learned too. They were one heart, one soul, one purpose — bound forever by that first night in the dark mansion, and the promise made between two little boys who had nothing but each other.

With his own mother gone, he kept her memory alive the only way he knew how: through the beat of her music. He adopted her spirit through the basslines and melodies. One track in particular became his anchor — ABBA’s Money, Money, Money. To the rest of the world, it was just a classic song, but to Ernest, it resonated as a desperate anthem for “Mothers in Need.” It was the soundtrack of the woman he had lost, and the hope he held close for both himself and his brother.

Ernest first truly showed his strength when he was just seven years old. Watching the realm's brutal guards push people around, spotting a struggling woman who reminded him too much of the mother he missed — and of all the women in his line, fallen, hidden, loving, losing everything — he stepped forward. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his only wealth: a 50p coin.

He walked right up to an imposing guard. “Can she have my 50p pocket money?” he asked.

The guard sneered, looking down at the ragged boy, and harshly scolded him for his insolence. But Ernest didn't flinch. He didn't break eye contact. In a blindingly cool moment of absolute defiance, the seven-year-old threw the coin directly at the guard.

“Give it to her at once,” he demanded, his small voice echoing with the undeniable authority of a true prince — the same authority his noble ancestor had carried, the same royalty hidden in every generation, the same lion heart he carried to protect his own. He did it as a quiet rebellion, hoping that somehow, out there in the universe, the kindness would find its way to his own mother, and to all the lost, loved, important ones who came before.

 

Chapter Two: Trials, Sacrifice, and the Dragon’s Call

By the time Ernest reached thirteen, the ancient magnetism of his royal bloodline was impossible to ignore. It was a potent, quiet charisma that pulled people to him — the same noble pull his ancestor had, the same dignity hidden beneath rags and poverty, the same strength that protected his brother, the same gentle heart that saw value in daisy chains and rose petals. Young maidens in his gritty, concrete neighborhood sensed it, drawn to his natural nobility like moths to a flame. They would literally queue up, orderly and hopeful, just to offer the young prince a kiss. He treated them all with gentle respect, but his heart was captivated by only one: a princess with spun platinum hair and eyes the piercing blue of a winter sky.

She was his first true love, a spark of pure light in the urban grey. But fate, as it often did in his world, intervened. She had to leave the city with her father. To honor her, and to preserve the integrity of the love they shared — just as his ancestor had honoured his love through secret gifts, just as he honoured his bond with his brother, just as he honoured every maiden who wove flowers for him — Ernest kindly, firmly, said his goodbyes to the others. He held her memory, and the idea of true, singular love, like a sacred chalice in his heart. It became the foundation of his armor.

But his magical childhood was about to take a change. For a King to truly understand the trials, and the hurt in people’s eyes and lives, he had to first become a servant. And so… the trials began.

Far away, in a realm touched by both light and shadow, lived a younger Princess — not yet a Queen, but carrying within her the oldest, most powerful blood of all. She rose mightily high upon the summit of a Sacred Mountain, her heart pounding like thunder, her voice ringing out across every border. She moved kingdoms, changed hearts, shifted minds, and held wicked realms to account — for she knew their secret: she knew they were not just cruel, but evil to their core.

Only thirteen years old, standing tall against the wind and the cold, she drew a line in the stone and spoke her vow, clear and fierce:
“I draw a line, and I will cast a curse. For it is written — I shall rise one day as the Dragon Queen of Pendragon!”

But though her spirit was mighty, her heart was still tender, her age still young, and a sweet naivety lingered in her soul. Those who feared her power silenced her quickly. They ordered her to take up a foolish game, to fight a war no one cared about — noble in name only, but futile, empty, a waste of her strength and her truth.

Across the realms, the Boy Prince Ernest heard her call. It turned his head sharply; he frowned, his mind reaching out to her.
“Mmm — a feisty princess, her mind made up, at such a tender age, with a mighty rage.”

In that moment, his mission was set in stone. That princess needs protecting!

He ordered written down many sacred Scrolls of Wisdom, filled with ancient truth and guidance, meant to light her path and keep her safe. But soon, with burning anger, he realised her protectors were not strong enough — they were weak, they were careless, they let the scrolls be twisted, misread, abused, and turned into lies.

So he vowed: I will go to her myself. I will find her. I will set things right.

He set sail across the great waters, bound straight for her kingdom. But as he journeyed, the voice of the Divine spoke to him, clear and urgent:
“Son, the time is not ready. Please listen to me.”

But Ernest — now grown to manhood, proud, determined, stubborn in his love and his purpose — would not hear it. In his heart, he thought: God has gone mad. Why hold me back when she is in danger?

He arrived in her realm, and there, because he moved before the time was right, the weight of the unseen order struck him down. His back was fractured, his strength broken, and he was rushed, wounded and grieving, all the way back to his own Hidden Kingdom.

It was a hard, painful lesson — and it began the slow, long road of learning to respect and trust again the One who knew all things.

He returned to his mansion, his fortress, his home — but pain was not the only sorrow waiting for him. His sweet younger brother, his shadow, his constant companion, the one he had sworn to protect with his lion’s heart, began to grow very unwell. It tore Ernest apart, for he could not cope with what he saw. His brother had grown wise, noble, strong — people would rise up when he spoke, they respected him, they listened to his words as if they were law… and yet his spirit was breaking, suffering in ways Ernest could not mend. Ernest watched, helpless, as the light faded from the one person he loved most in all the world.

Then, one evening, a messenger came to him, head bowed, voice heavy with grief:
“I come with sad news… Your brother has taken his life. He was found hanging in the gallows of his own home.”

Ernest did not cry. Not then. Instead, a memory flashed sharp and cruel through his mind — he had once seen a deer caught in a fence, tangled in barbed wire. The poor tortured beast had screeched and cried out in agony, a sound that had haunted him ever since… and now, that sound was exactly what echoed in his soul — the same agonizing, piercing scream, born of pain too great to bear. That was the only way his heart could express the grief he could not speak.

And as if sorrow was not enough, the landlord — cold, cruel, and caring nothing for his grief — decided to sell the property. He threw Ernest and all his belongings out onto the streets, with nowhere to go, nothing to call his own, nothing left but his broken heart and his fractured back.

For a year and a half, Ernest wandered. He walked through towns, cities, villages, roads and lanes across his land — alone, cold, hungry, homeless.

Every morning was the same torture. He would wake up so alone. Even though he was the strongest of men, the Prince with the lion’s heart, that moment between sleep and waking was his weakest. For a split second, he would forget. He would think it was all still there — the kingdom, the home, his brother sleeping nearby. He would shout his brother’s name, loud and desperate, and bolt upright… only to find nothing but cold air and empty silence.

No brother there. No shadow beside him. No one to protect. No one to say “I’m here, brother.”

He would wipe the tears from his face, his heart breaking all over again… but he stood up. Weak, broken, grieving, cold — he stood up anyway, and got on with his day, searching for shelter, searching for food, searching for a reason to keep going.

He remembered one time, clear as day: over twenty-four hours, he walked for twelve of them, battling a bitter, freezing wind that cut right through his thin clothes and aching bones. He was so tired he could barely stand. He laid down to rest, thinking he had slept for hours… only to look at his watch and see only a few minutes had passed.

Sleep was no rest. The world was no comfort. He carried the weight of his fall, the weight of his brother’s death, the weight of being cast out — all on his own shoulders, walking mile after mile, alone in the cold.

But even in the darkest, loneliest, coldest nights, even with a broken back and a broken heart, the Boy Prince never stopped being a Prince. He endured. He survived. He kept his heart pure, his honour clean, his purpose alive.

 

Chapter Three: The Ruby Phoenix Rises

As time passed, his resolve only grew stronger. Ernest trained relentlessly — even on the roads, even in the cold, even in pain — pushing his body and spirit to the absolute limits. He didn't wear shining steel; now sat he started to get secret love letters, that united his heart with promise again. but still angry and confused, could not bow to the confusion set upon the princes and did not recognise the princesses advancements. keeping to his integrity, theew them back in her face, return to sender he fought! what a cheek! he said to the Divine turn me to dust, I will not fight you, I will not turn evil, I no longer want to be part of your universe! this got the attention of Sophia the goddess of love and war! she gave him the emerald wisdom the nine levels of intelligence. now he knew everything he must at this point! in a rage exposed the control the hate the evil the jealousy puts upon the princesses! really an apology was not necessary, but that is the honour  of a gentleman, she sent a letter asking it's okay everything is okay.