Orions point of view:
Outside the window, clouds rushed past. Then green appeared—fields, forests, a line of mountains in the distance. And somewhere down there, hidden among the trees and the hills, was my family and my next adventure.
Then the windows went dark.
Like someone had flipped a switch and turned the outside world off entirely. The glass panels lining the cabin walls shifted from transparent to deep, opaque black, swallowing the sunlight, the clouds, the mountains—everything.
I blinked and Turned to Mom showing her my confused face.
"Mama," I said slowly, "why can't I see outside anymore?"
She smiled. That smile. The one that meant she was keeping secrets and enjoying every second of it.
"Because, my little Litleo," she said, reaching over to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, "I want to surprise you. So I asked the pilot to activate the privacy shutters for our landing."
I stared at her.
Then at the blacked-out windows.
Then back at her.
"Mama," I said, my voice flat, "every surprise so far has been either fun, shocking, or absolutely terrifying."
The maids exchanged glances. Rin's shoulders started shaking.
"The grooming session for example," I continued, holding up one finger, "was terrifying."
Mom giggled. Actually giggled. Behind her, Sasha pressed a hand over her mouth, and Yuki let out a muffled squeak of laughter.
"You are so dramatic," Mom said.
"I am being completely reasonable," I protested. "I should be worried. I have a very valid concern about—"
Then the plane jolted as the wheels touched down.
We are finally here....
The cabin fell quiet as the jet rolled across the tarmac, the engines winding down from a roar to a hum to a gentle silence. Outside the blacked-out windows, I could hear nothing—no voices, no wind, no indication of where we were or what waited for us beyond the door.
Everyone unbuckled their safety belts at once.
I slid off my seat and immediately started fixing my suit—tugging the cuffs straight, smoothing the front, making sure the Pyroar insignia sat perfectly over my heart. I patted my hair next, checking that Sasha's careful styling hadn't shifted during the landing.
Mom stood beside me, smoothing down her red dress with quick, practiced movements. The maids formed a loose half-circle behind us, their navy uniforms immaculate, their hands clasped in front of them.
Then the cockpit door opened.
The pilot stepped out first, his silver-streaked hair catching the cabin light. Mira followed close behind, her copilot's cap tucked under her arm.
"Young Master. Mistress Yua." The pilot nodded toward the main door. "We've arrived."
Mom took a deep breath.
Then she reached down and took my hand.
Her palm was warm. Solid. The same hand that had held mine through every storm of my short life.
"Welcome home," she whispered.
And as she said this the door opened.
Light flooded the cabin—bright, golden, absolutely blinding after the darkness of the shuttered windows. I squeezed my eyes shut, my free hand coming up to shield my face.
Two seconds later I blinked, my vision swimming, as my eyes slowly adjusting to the glare.
And then I saw it.
A castle.
A real, actual, honest-to-Arceus castle.
It rose in front of me like something from a dream—tall spires piercing the sky, ancient stone walls glowing gold in the morning light, towers and turrets and arched windows stretching across a horizon that seemed to go on forever. A massive gate stood open at the center, wrought iron twisted into intricate patterns, and beyond it, a courtyard sprawled toward the main keep with gardens blooming on either side.
What. The. Actual. Fuck.
The words screamed through my head, bouncing off the inside of my skull like a Hyper Beam with nowhere to go. This wasn't a house. This wasn't an estate. This was a goddamn castle. Complete with towers and battlements and probably a moat and a dragon somewhere for all I knew.
Mom stepped forward, her heels clicking against the tarmac. Her purple eyes swept across the castle—across the walls, the gates, the flags flying from the highest turret—and her expression softened into something warm and aching and terribly, terribly sad.
"It feels good to be back," she said, and smiled.
I heard movement below us.
I looked down.
And if I'd been holding a drink, I would have done a spit take.
A line of maids stretched out on either side of the walkway leading from the jet—at least twenty of them, maybe more, all dressed in the same navy dresses and white aprons as Rin and the others. Their postures were perfect, their hands folded, their heads bowed just slightly in greeting.
But it was the man in the center who stole my attention.
He stood at the very front, directly at the bottom of the jet's steps, waiting with the patience of someone who had stood in this exact spot a thousand times before. His silver hair was combed back from a face lined with age and softened by kindness. His suit was impeccable—dark gray, perfectly pressed, with the Silver family insignia pinned to his lapel. His hands rested on an ornate silver cane, though he didn't seem to need it for support.
A butler. A real, actual butler, like something out of a period drama.
He looked up at Mom.
And then he bowed.
Not a small nod. Not a casual dip of the head. A full, formal bow—his back straight, his torso folding at the waist, one hand pressed against his chest.
"Welcome home, Princess Yua," he said, his voice carrying across the courtyard like warm honey over aged stone. "It has been some time."
Princess.
The word hit me like a Thunderbolt.
Princess Yua.
My mother. My mom. The woman who brushed my hair and scratched behind my ears and called me her little Litleo.
Was A princess!!
Mom descended the steps slowly, her hand still wrapped around mine. When we reached the bottom, she smiled at the old butler.
"It is good to be back home, Takeda," she said.
Takeda straightened, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "We have missed you, princess. The castle has been too quiet without you."
I stood there, frozen on the bottom step, my brain trying and failing to process what was happening.
I turned to Mom.
My mouth opened.
"Mama," I said, my voice coming out higher than I intended, "why did he call you a princess?"
Mom chuckled—that warm, musical sound—and squeezed my hand.
"Because I am one, my cub," she said simply. "My mother is the Queen of the Kalos region and I am her daughter." She paused, letting the weight of her words settle over me like a falling leaf I hadn't noticed until it landed. "That makes me a princess. Specifically, I am fifth in line for the throne."
My brain stopped working for halve a minute....
Queen. Her mother. My grandmother is the Queen of the Kalos REGION!!!!
That meant my grandmother was the actual, literal, ruling monarch of an entire region.
The words echoed in my skull, bouncing off the walls of my consciousness like a confused Zubat trapped in a cave. I knew Kalos. I knew everything about Kalos—the elegant cities, the royal history, the war that had devastated the region centuries ago. In the Pokémon world I remembered, Kalos didn't have a royal family anymore. Not after AZ and the ultimate weapon. Not after that ancient king had wandered the earth for three thousand years, haunted by his creation.
So how—how in the name of Arceus's golden hooves—did my family become royalty?!!!
The closest thing Kalos had to a king was AZ. A tragic figure. A warning. Not the founder of a dynasty. After that catastrophe, after the weapon fired and the region nearly tore itself apart, how the hell did anyone look at that history and say, "Yes, let's put a crown on someone's head and call it a monarchy"?
I am so confused.
The thought circled my brain, unanswered and probably unanswerable. My mother was a princess. My grandmother was a queen. I was currently standing in front of a castle that belonged to my family—a castle that apparently came with a throne and a line of succession and political implications I was nowhere near ready to process.
Mom must have seen something on my face because she laughed again and crouched down in front of me, her red dress pooling on the stone walkway.
"You are my little prince, baby," she said, tapping the end of my nose with her finger.
Then I heard movement.
Takeda, the butler, finally looked at me.
His gaze swept over my face, my suit, the silver Pyroar insignia on my chest. His expression shifted—something flickering behind his eyes, something that might have been recognition or relief or the kind of deep, quiet joy that came from waiting a very long time for something good.
Then he bowed his head.
"Prince Orion," he said, his voice steady and warm. "It is a pleasure to meet you at last."
Prince Orion.
The words settled over me like a heavy cloak. I felt my skin prickle with discomfort—not because the title meant nothing, but because it meant too much.
But I remembered Rin's lessons.
Keep your back straight. Speak evenly. Stay composed. Carry yourself like someone who had every right to stand there, even if doubt still twisted in your chest.
I lifted my chin and met Takeda's warm gaze.
"The pleasure is mine," I said, keeping my voice polite and clear, though it still came out undeniably young. "And I am thankful for your hospitality."
Silence fell around us, the kind where everyone stops breathing at once.
I glanced up at Mom. Her eyes had gone wide. Her lips were parted slightly, frozen somewhere between a smile and pure shock. Takeda's composure—that flawless, unshakeable butler mask—cracked just enough for his eyebrows to climb toward his silver hairline.
I felt my stomach drop.
"Did... did I say something wrong?" I asked, my voice smaller now. A blush crawled up my cheeks, hot and immediate.
Mom blinked. Then she crouched down in front of me, her red dress pooling on the stone walkway, her hands settling on my shoulders.
"No, sweetheart," she said slowly, her purple eyes searching my face. "You didn't say anything wrong." A pause. "But where did you learn to talk like that? I haven't given you any etiquette classes yet."
The blush on my face burned even harder.
I looked down at my and shuffled my feet against the stone.
"I... I asked Rin if she could teach me," I admitted, the words tumbling out in a nervous rush. "I didn't want to embarrass you, Mama. And I didn't know what to expect, so..." I risked a glance up at her through my lashes. "I wanted to be prepared."
For a moment, Mom didn't move.
Then her arms were around me, lifting me off the ground, pressing me against her chest. The scent of roses—from my hair, from her perfume—wrapped around us both.
"Oh, baby," she murmured into my hair. "You didn't have to do that. You are only two years old. Those classes don't start until you turn three, sweetheart."
I pulled back just enough to look at her face.
"Oh," I said.
Then a smile spread across my lips—small, warm, a little bit smug.
"Well," I said, "I don't need them anymore now."
Mom stared at me for half a second. Then she laughed—that bright, musical sound—and pressed a kiss to my forehead.
"You are my smart little baby," she said, her eyes shining.
I tucked my face against her neck, hiding my smile.
She was happy and proud of me and that was all I had ever wanted.
Takeda cleared his throat softly.
When I looked up, his surprise had vanished, replaced by that warm, professional smile. But something else lingered in his eyes—approval, maybe. Or hope.
"The Mistress is waiting for you both in her study," he said, gesturing toward the castle with his silver cane. "She would have received you herself, however there were some last‑minute preparations that she needed to deal with."
He turned and began walking.
"Please follow me."
Mom set me down gently, and her hand found mine again. We followed Takeda across the courtyard, past the line of maids who dipped into synchronized bows as we passed.
The garden unfolded around us.
And Arceus, it was beautiful.
Flowers I couldn't name bloomed in every color imaginable, their petals brushing against stone pathways that wound between fountains and hedges shaped into elegant spirals.
The gardens were decorated with many Pokémon decoration statues—especially Pyroars and Litleos. And even the Dragonite evolution line had been added to the décor. Stone Dratini coiled around fountain bases. A massive Dragonair statue curved over a stone archway, its body frozen mid-swoop.
Someone had clearly put thought into every piece.
I filed that away and kept walking.
Then we entered the castle.
And it was big. I mean, I should have expected it, it was a castle, obviously—but still. Flags with our family's insignia hung from the walls between portraits of people I didn't recognize. The frames alone looked more expensive than our entire house back in Kanto. Gold leaf. Intricate carvings. Faces that stared down at me with purple eyes and red hair, their expressions ranging from stern to serene to somewhere in between.
Chandeliers dripped from the ceiling like frozen waterfalls. The floor beneath my feet was polished stone, so smooth I could see my own reflection wavering in it—a tiny prince in a black suit, walking through halls built for royalty.
I kept my back straight and my face calm.
After several minutes of walking—and one set of stairs that seemed to go on forever—we reached the third floor. Takeda stopped before a set of ornate doors, his hand resting on the handle.
"We have arrived," he said.
I was pretty sure that was just for my benefit. Because Mom had gone tense beside me. Her shoulders were tight. Her jaw was set. She stared at the doors like they might bite her.
She breathed in. Slow. Deep.
Then, so quietly I almost didn't hear it, she whispered to herself, "Let's get this over with..."
Takeda opened the doors and we stepped inside.
The study was warm—firelight flickering in a grand hearth, books lining the walls from floor to ceiling, the scent of old paper and something floral hanging in the air. But I barely noticed any of that.
Because there, standing by the window with her back to us, was an older woman.
And when she turned my looked at her stunned.
She looked like a copy of my mother—same red hair, though strands of white wove through it here and there, silver threads in a crimson tapestry. Same high cheekbones, same proud bearing. But there was something harder in her face. Something that had been forged in fires my mother had never had to face.
I could see muscle beneath her tailored dress. Not bulky, but there. The kind of strength that came from decades of training, of command, of never backing down from a fight.
But the most striking part was her eyes.
They were a deep, bloody red.
The exact same shade as mine.
(Image here)
I tilted my head to the side, questioning it. My hand drifted up toward my own eyes, as if to check they were still there.
She stared at me and I stared back at her.
Then Mom stepped forward.
"Mother," she said. Her voice cracked on the word.
The woman's gaze shifted. Her bloody red eyes landed on my mother, and something in her expression cracked—just slightly, just for a moment.
"Daughter," she replied.
And then they ran at each other.
Mother and daughter collided in the center of the study, arms wrapping around each other so tightly I thought they might merge into one person.
Mom sobbed.
I heard it. A raw, broken sound she had never made in front of me before.
"I missed you," she gasped into the woman's shoulder. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry, Mama."
The older woman—my grandmother, I realized, said nothing. She just held on. Her hands fisted in the back of Mom's red dress. Her eyes squeezed shut. And I saw tears slipping down her cheeks, catching the firelight like molten gold.
I stood there quietly, watching.
Well, I thought, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. I guess she did run away.
I mean, that's the only thing that explains this. The guilt and apologies. Mom hadn't just left home—she had fled. And from the way my grandmother was crying, and the way her hands trembled against my mother's back, the wound was still fresh.
I looked away giving them their moment.
This was not my reunion to interrupt.
So I waited.
After what felt like an eternity, the crying finally began to fade. The grip around my mother slackened, trembling hands slowly letting go. My grandmother leaned back just enough to cradle Mom's face between her palms.
"Now let me see my daughter," she murmured softly.
Her hands cupped Mom's face like she was handling something precious. Her red eyes traveled across Mom's features.
"You have grown up," the Queen said, her voice thick with emotion. "You have become a fine young woman, my little shadow."
Mom's lower lip trembled. "Mama..."
"I was so worried about you..." The Queen's thumb brushed away a tear from Mom's cheek. She stopped, swallowing hard. "But you're here now. That's all that matters."
They hugged again, shorter this time, but no less fierce.
Then the Queen pulled back, and her entire demeanor did a 180.
Her eyes widened. A smile spread across her face—bright, eager, almost giddy. She looked less like a monarch and more like a child on festival morning.
"Now then," she said, her voice rising with excitement, "where's my grandbaby?!"
Mom laughed—that warm, wet, slightly broken sound—and turned toward me.
"Orion," she called softly, holding out her hand toward him. "Come here and introduce yourself to your grandma."
I straightened my spine, smoothed down my suit one more time, and walked forward.
My footsteps were quiet against the study's wooden floor. The fire crackled in the hearth, casting dancing shadows across the bookshelves. I stopped a few feet away from my grandmother, clasped my hands behind my back the way Rin had shown me, and bowed.
Not as deep as Takeda's bow. But respectful. Polite. The bow of a young prince meeting his queen for the first time.
"It is an honor to meet you, Grandmother," I said, keeping my voice steady. "My name is Orion Silver. Thank you for welcoming me into your home."
I waited for her to say something, keeping my eyes lowered, and my posture perfect.
One second.
Two.
Three.
Then—
"OH MY ARCEUS!"
I looked up just in time to see my grandmother—the Queen of Kalos, sprint across the room like a Rapidash on race day.
She closed the distance between us in three strides, and scooped me up before I could even process what was happening.
"YOU ARE THE MOST ADORABLE LITTLE CUB I HAVE EVER SEEN!" she squealed, pressing me against her chest. "LOOK AT YOU! LOOK AT YOUR LITTLE FACE! HOW IS YOUR HAIR SO LONG AND FLUFFY?!"
"G-Gran—"
"I COULD CUDDLE YOU FOREVER!" She was bouncing me slightly, her arms wrapped around me like she was never going to let go. "BY ARCEUS, YOU ARE SO CUTE! AND YOU HAVE MY EYES! OH, I'M GOING TO SPOIL YOU ROTTEN! I CAN'T WAIT TO SPOIL YOU!!!"
My face was being squished. Again. For the thousandth time in the past twenty-four hours, my face was being squished against something soft and overwhelming.
"MAMA!" I yelped, flailing one arm toward where I'd last seen my mother. "MAMA, HELP! WHY DOES THIS ALWAYS HAPPEN TO ME?!"
Mom was laughing. Of course she was laughing. She stood by the fireplace with her arms crossed, tears still drying on her cheeks, watching her mother squeeze me like a stress toy.
"She's your grandmother, baby," Mom said, grinning. "This is what grandmothers do."
"I DIDN'T ASK FOR THIS!"
My grandmother—who I was definitely going to need a name for at some point—pulled back just enough to look at my face. Her bloody red eyes sparkled with mischief and joy.
"Oh, you are perfect," she said, shaking her head in wonder. "Absolutely perfect."
Then her expression shifted.
She glanced toward Mom, and for a brief moment, something unspoken passed between them—a silent exchange I couldn't understand. Whatever it was, it made my grandmother's lips curl into a smile far too knowing for my comfort.
"Yua," my grandmother said slowly, her voice taking on a teasing lilt, "you told me something interesting over the phone. Something I simply must see for myself."
Mom's grin widened. She crossed her arms, leaned against the fireplace, and nodded toward me with the satisfied look of a woman who knew exactly what was about to happen.
"Grandma," I said carefully, "what exactly did Mama tell you?"
Instead of answering, my grandmother reached behind her—and produced a brush from absolutely nowhere. A silver brush, ornate and elegant, with soft bristles that gleamed in the firelight.
I didn't even have time to run.
She pulled me onto her lap, settled me against her chest, and dragged the brush through my hair.
The moment the bristles touched my scalp, my body betrayed me.
"MERCY!" I yelped, even as my shoulders dropped and my eyes fluttered half-closed. "I BEG FOR MERCY!"
But the purr was already rising in my chest—that low, rumbling, traitorous sound that I could never seem to control. No matter how hard I fought it, no matter how much I wanted to preserve some shred of dignity, the moment someone brushed my hair, I turned into a complete and utter pushover.
"This is not fair," I grumbled, my voice muffled against her shoulder even as the purr grew louder. "Why does this feel so good..."
Purrrrrr.
My grandmother froze mid-stroke.
Then her face transformed.
Her eyes went wide. Her mouth fell open. A sound emerged from her throat—something between a gasp and a squeal of pure, unfiltered delight—that echoed off the study walls.
"HE PURRS!" she shrieked. "HE ACTUALLY PURRS! JUST LIKE A LITTLE LITLEO!"
She pulled me tighter against her chest and kept brushing, her strokes faster now, more enthusiastic, as if she was trying to wring every possible purr out of my small body.
"YOU ARE MY LITTLE LITLEO!" she declared, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. "MY SWEET, PRECIOUS, PURRING GRANDCUB!"
At that moment I just stopped struggling.
There was no point. I had lost. The moment that brush appeared in her hand like it was excalibur, I had lost. My fate was sealed, my dignity destroyed in an instant, and whatever hope there was for my reputation as a serious and respectable kid was reduced to a pile of purring goo in my grandmother's lap.
I sighed.
And accepted my fate.
My grandmother laughed—a rich, warm sound—and continued brushing my hair, her fingers worked through my tangles with surprising gentleness despite her earlier enthusiasm.
"You know," she said, still stroking my hair, "I don't believe I've properly introduced myself. I got a bit... carried away." She chuckled. "My name is Scarlet. Scarlet Silver. But you, my little Litleo, may call me Grandmother. Or Grandma. Or whatever your precious heart desires."
"Grandma," I managed, the word coming out punctuated by a particularly loud purr.
She beamed. "Oh, I like the sound of that."
Then she lifted me and carried me across the study to a large, ornate couch positioned near the fireplace. The cushions were deep crimson, soft as clouds, and she settled onto them with me still cradled in her lap, the brush moving in slow, hypnotic strokes through my hair.
"Yua," she called, patting the seat across from her. "Sit. You look exhausted, and I refuse to have a conversation with you hovering by the fireplace like a nervous Growlithe."
Mom crossed the room and settled onto the other couch—a matching piece, separated from ours by a small polished table. A vase of fresh flowers sat in the center, pale pink roses, their petals soft in the firelight.
The fire crackled between them, casting warm light across both their faces.
Mom looked smaller than I'd ever seen her. Not physically—she took up the same space she always had. But something about the way she sat, the way her hands folded in her lap, the way her shoulders curved inward just slightly... she looked like a kid. A daughter sitting across from her mother.
I purred on, half-melted against Grandmother's chest, only half-listening as they began to talk.
"You look well," Grandmother said, her voice softer now. "Thinner than I remember. But well."
"It's been a long ten years, Mama."
"I know." Grandmother's hand never stopped moving through my hair as she glanced down at me, a small smile playing on her lips. "Now, tell me about your journey here. Was the flight comfortable? Did the maids take good care of you?"
Mom laughed. "They took excellent care of us. Rin nearly squeezed the life out of Orion when she first saw him."
"She always did have a soft spot for children." Grandmother's fingers found a particularly stubborn knot and worked it loose with practiced ease. I purred louder despite myself. "And Orion? How did he handle the flight?"
Mom's smile softened. "He bowled eight strikes in a row and made Mira cry."
Grandmother's hand paused for just a moment. Then she threw her head back and laughed—a full, genuine laugh that filled the study with warmth.
"That," she said between amused laughs, "is absolutely incredible. Barely two years old, and he already managed to make a grown woman cry over a bowling game."
I purred in agreement.
The fire crackled. The brush moved through my hair. And for the first time since we'd stepped off the jet, I felt something loosen in my chest.
This wasn't so bad.
Maybe coming here wouldn't be a disaster after all.