#project chickenbones

Hansel stood frozen in the shadowed arch of the courtyard. He had turned sixteen that spring- he had grown taller, his boots no longer fit quite right, though he remained soft at the jaw. Eyes dark from the previous, sleepless nights.

The tip of the knife was pressed to his ribs, angled just so. Not hard. Not yet. Just ready. He hated the way his skin gave beneath it.

He didn’t hear the King approach.

But he felt the hand on his shoulder- broad, deliberate, reassuring. Another on his wrist, brushing the edge of his grip. Not to pull the blade away, but to pause it.

“Careful,” the King said gently, like he was speaking to a startled animal. “That’s not the kind of grip you want to get used to.”

Hansel didn’t speak. He stared at the stone floor.

“You were a peasant,” the King continued. His voice was warm, even fond. “Hungry. Forgotten. One of a thousand boys the world wouldn’t have missed if you’d vanished in the dark. Most boys born like you don’t live long enough to carry a sword… let alone earn one.”

Hansel flinched, barely. The weight of the blade shifted in his hand. He was remembering- not something specific, but something wet. Something sweet. The smell of sugar. A hand, gentle, taking him by the wrist. Not to check for injury, no. For the give of his flesh.

He shook the thought away before it could form completely.

“And now?” the King went on, voice low with pride. “Look at you. A place of your own. Warm food. A clean bed. Gold in your pocket. Men who listen when you speak. A name.”

The King leaned in slightly, like offering a secret.

“That is no small thing, Hansel. Not for someone who came from nothing.”

Hansel’s throat tightened. He hadn’t said anything since the King arrived. His jaw ached from holding it shut.

Hansel let the knife fall. It hit the stone without ceremony. Dull. Heavy. Finished

The King’s hand slipped from his wrist. Then from his shoulder.

He stepped back with a smile. A crack of white teeth.

“You’re safe now,” he said. “You’re wanted. That’s what matters.”

Hansel didn’t answer. Didn’t nod. Didn’t even breathe until the King was gone, knife in hand.