THE LEGEND OF RAPUNZEL: The Very Beginning

“Just one more,” the oldest begged, gently tugging her grandmother’s sleeve. “A real story. A magic one.”

The grandmother put down her needle. Her old crescent-shaped chair looked carved from moonlight, its arms polished smooth by children's hands over the years. She studied each young face, and the tightness in her chest eased a little—like it always did.

“You know the Rapunzel story,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

The kids nodded, eager and half-whispering the details already: the tower, the witch, the thief with the lopsided grin.

“Everyone knows that bit.” She reached for her staff—half out of habit—and tapped it on the floor. The fire seemed to brighten, chasing her voice. “But nobody asks why the girl was stolen. Or who her mother was before she was a mother—or her aunt before she was a witch.”

Her voice got quieter, and the kids leaned forward, not even knowing they did.

“It didn’t start inside a tower. It started with two kingdoms hating each other for so long, nobody remembered why. With two brothers who truly loved each other, but neither could stand to lose. And with a boy easy to love, and a girl tough to forgive.”

Arrandelle woke to frost most mornings. Rivers cut bright, silver marks in the fields, which never thawed before the next snow. The stone palace watched from above. Inside, Prince Adrian was awake before daybreak, like always.

He liked mornings. They were quiet. They asked nothing from him; he wasn’t ready to give.

A servant bowed as Adrian walked the east corridor. “Good morning, Your Highness.”

“Morning.” He didn’t break stride.

By the time he reached the council room, he’d already skimmed half the reports stuffed under his arm—grain tallies from the south, a border dispute about a mill, some garrison commander asking again for more money than the treasury wanted to spare.

Rowan, the king’s oldest minister, met him at the door. “Prince Adrian. The border tax issue’s ready for you.”

“Then let’s start.”

It went like these meetings always did: voices rising, numbers coming and going until Adrian pressed his hand flat on the table and everyone simmered.

“If we raise taxes too quickly, the farmers won’t pay. Go slow, and they’ll grumble but pay anyway. We don’t need their love. Just their coin.”

Nods all around. Rowan’s mouth twitched, almost a smile. “Sensible as always, Your Highness.” He shifted topics, a little lighter now. “Maybe once we finish here, we can talk about your brother’s wedding—and that offer from the Seatopian princess.”

A low rush of voices circled the table, eager for gossip.

“We’ll talk weddings when the king’s here,” Adrian said, letting the words drop cold. The room went quiet fast.

“Of course. Forgive me.”

He nodded, a tiny gesture, and let it slide. Praise never stuck. It slipped right through him, like wind through an empty hall—there, gone.

After the meeting, Adrian lingered in the corridor, one hand flat against the chilled stone, eyes closed. Just a moment to breathe.

He almost pulled himself back together when two ministers strolled by, not seeing him.

“Thorough, as always,” one said.

“Sure, but Fredric has a natural ease. People just feel it, even before he says a word.”

Adrian didn’t move. He didn’t have to see them to know there was no malice in it. That was almost worse.

He kept walking. Only the click of his boots on the marble followed him.

Fredric, meanwhile, was three streets away, trying to keep a baker from pressing a free loaf into his hands.

“Mistress Melda, if I take every gift, you’ll have nothing to sell by noon, and I’ll bring down the whole eastern market.”

“Nonsense.” She pushed the loaf on him anyway, smudging his coat with flour. “You’re lucky, Your Highness. Just let me believe it.”

He laughed—the real, infectious kind—and even the guards trailing behind grinned. Once Melda ducked back to her ovens, Fredric left a pouch of silver on the counter, half-hidden under a rag, so she’d find it later.

This was just his usual morning. He knew all the stable boys’ names. Listened to the guards’ complaints, because to him, they actually counted. He’d once given a shivering boy his own cloak outside the chapel, walking home in the cold rather than admit it was his.

People noticed. They talked about it. Never in the careful way do they speak of Adrian’s ledgers or taxes—no matter how right he got them.

Fredric knew. He would’ve had to be blind not to. And sometimes, seeing his brother’s impassive face across the supper table, Fredric quietly wished people would notice Adrian too.

He was thinking just that as he came around the fountain full of crystal lilies and nearly ran right into somebody.

“Sorry—I didn’t mean—” He caught her by the shoulder before she tumbled into the water. “You all right?”

The young woman straightened her cloak, trying for more dignity than the moment allowed. Her clothes were plain—servant or merchant’s daughter, probably—but her posture didn’t fit them.

“I’m fine,” she said. “You could see where you’re going, sire.”

“I could,” he agreed, grinning despite himself. “But you weren’t watching either.”

“I was watching the fountain. You’re the one who stormed around the hedge as it owed you money.”

He laughed, a surprised, honest laugh, and something flickered in her eyes—like she hadn’t meant to be funny, and didn’t quite know what to do now.

“Fredric,” he said, giving a small, princely bow.

She hesitated a beat before answering. “Arianna.”

Neither of them left right away. Finally, Arianna excused herself and disappeared.

That night at supper, Queen Elizabeth studied her sons from the far end of the table, quietly as always.

Fredric was halfway through a wild story—arms waving, voice big—about a scared horse and a bucket of grain, and the family burst out laughing before he got halfway to the punchline. Adrian cut his food into neat bites and didn’t join in, though his mouth twitched at the right part of the story.

After everyone left, the queen stopped Adrian with a gentle touch.

“You don’t have to hold everything alone, Adrian.”

He said, “It’s my duty, Mother.”

“Duty,” she said softly, “doesn’t forbid a little comfort. Maybe marriage will help.”

He inclined his head, polite as always. Didn’t say a word—which over the years, she’d learned, was its own answer.

She let him go. She’d ask another day again. She always did.

What she didn’t know—none of them did—was that, two kingdoms away, behind a half-closed door, a woman sat very still, listening to everything about the brother everyone loved.

Her name was Princess Athalia. She’d come to Arrandelle in disguise, hoping for a glimpse of the city and a chance to meet Prince Fredric. But her younger sister, Arianna, had met him first.

Now Athalia waited at the edge of the room, hidden, watching a prince she’d loved in silence for two years slip toward someone else.

He’s mine, she thought. I won’t let this happen.