The courtyard stones were still warm from the sun.
Prince Timotheus stood in the center of it all, barefoot, curls already damp with sweat, a wooden relic wheel abandoned somewhere behind him like a forgotten decree.
The fountain called. It did not speak, exactly. It shimmered.
He turned his head toward it with that particular stillness that meant something had locked in. His fingers opened and closed once — deciding.
The Queen saw it too late.
“Timo—”
But he was already moving. Not running. Not exactly. A determined, forward lean of a body that had chosen.
She stepped after him, skirts gathered in one hand.
“Timotheus, wait—”
He did not wait.
He reached the fountain’s edge, pressed both palms to the carved stone, and hoisted himself with surprising strength. One knee. Then the other.
The Queen exhaled sharply. “Oh, no you don’t—”
Too late.
Both feet plunged into the basin. Water leapt in greeting.
He gasped — not from shock, but delight — and then it began.
Splash.
Splash-splash.
Wild, uncalculated, whole-arm movements. Water arced high enough to glitter in the sun like thrown jewels before slapping down against stone.
“Timotheus!” she hollered, more startled than stern as a sheet of water soaked the front of her gown.
He froze for half a second. Only half.
Then he grinned — a quick flash — and stomped.
The splash this time was not jewel-like. It was tidal.
From the far side of the courtyard, a voice rang out.
“What is happening out there?”
King Jason emerged through the archway, already squinting against the spray. Blaine followed, ducking instinctively as droplets caught his shoulder.
“Oh,” Blaine said, assessing instantly. “It’s war.”
“It is not war,” the Queen said, pushing damp curls off her forehead. “It is your brother ignoring me.”
Another stomp.
The water did not merely rise. It gathered.
The surface trembled, then began circling inward toward the Prince’s ankles as if considering something.
Blaine’s grin faded just slightly.
“Uh,” he said. “Mom?”
The Queen saw it.
The water was not sloshing randomly anymore. It was turning. Slowly at first. Then with intention.
Prince Timotheus paused mid-splash. He tilted his head.
And very deliberately, he rotated both hands outward in a circular motion — the same rhythm he used on every spinning relic he adored.
The water answered. It spiraled higher. Not spilling yet. But climbing.
The Queen stepped closer despite herself, skirts dragging through shallow rivulets escaping the basin.
“Timotheus,” she said again — this time not sharp, not startled. Just his name.
He did not look at her. He lifted one wet hand and pointed directly at his chest.
Me.
The spiral tightened. And rose.
King Jason strode forward, boots already darkening with water.
“Timotheus. Out. Now.”
The word now struck the courtyard stones like a dropped shield.
The Prince did not flinch. His fingers rotated again — small, precise turns at the wrists.
The water followed. Up past his shins.
Blaine blinked once, then twice.
“Well,” he muttered, rolling his sleeves up. “That’s new.”
“Blaine,” the King said without looking at him.
“I’m just observing,” Blaine replied, already stepping to the fountain’s edge. “Very scientific. Very official.”
Another rotation of the Prince’s hands.
The water began circling faster, climbing in a smooth column around him without spilling over the rim.
The Queen moved closer despite the soaking hem clinging to her legs.
“Timotheus,” she tried again, voice steady but charged underneath. “Feet still.”
He stomped instead. The column wobbled.
King Jason swore under his breath and reached toward the basin.
“Enough.”
But before his hand touched the water, another voice entered the courtyard.
“Well,” Nana said mildly, as if commenting on tea temperature, “that’s not ordinary.”
She did not hurry. She did not shout. She stepped up beside the Queen and watched the spiral with sharp, measuring eyes.
Prince Timotheus glanced at her briefly — just long enough to register presence — then resumed his turning motion.
Faster now.
The water responded eagerly.
Blaine leaned in, lowering his voice as if negotiating with an unpredictable creature.
“Okay,” he said. “That’s impressive. But maybe let’s not summon a sea monster on a Tuesday.”
The Prince’s mouth twitched. He spun his hands again.
The water obeyed. Up to his knees now. Contained. Suspended. Climbing without spilling.
King Jason stepped fully into the splash zone, jaw tight.
“This is not funny.”
“I didn’t say it was funny,” Blaine replied. “I said it was impressive.”
“Timotheus.” The King’s voice dropped lower, firmer. “Stop.”
The Prince froze for a breath. Just one.
The water trembled with him — as if uncertain whether to fall or surge.
His chest rose. His fingers flexed.
Then, very slowly, he pointed to himself again.
Me.
And rotated his hands.
The spiral shot higher. Water arced above the rim now, not spilling — hovering.
Like it was waiting for permission.
“Timotheus!” the Queen snapped.
It came out sharper than she intended. Sharp enough that Blaine glanced at her. Sharp enough that the Prince’s shoulders tightened.
The water shuddered.
King Jason stepped forward decisively. “That’s it—”
He reached for the Prince’s arm.
The column lurched sideways in protest. A sheet of water slammed against the King’s chest, drenching him completely.
Blaine coughed to hide a laugh. Failed.
“Oh,” he said. “It’s definitely war now.”
“Blaine,” both parents said at once.
The Prince’s breathing had changed. Quick. Charged.
He rotated his hands faster.
The water responded instantly — climbing, tightening, coiling like a glass serpent around him.
“Timotheus, stop,” the King commanded.
The Prince’s face flickered — not defiant, not amused.
Overloaded.
His hands jerked once, out of rhythm. The spiral wavered violently.
The Queen felt it in her own body — that split second where everything could tip.
She stepped forward, into the basin without thinking. Cold water swallowed her shoes.
“Jason, wait.”
He hesitated. Not because he wanted to. Because her voice had changed.
She crouched slightly, lowering herself to her son’s eye level — though the water between them distorted his small face into shifting fragments.
“Hey,” she said, softer now. “Hey, Timotheus.”
He didn’t look at her. He was watching the water. Controlling it. Trying to.
His fingers trembled.
The Queen swallowed the frustration rising in her throat — the urge to say I told you to stop — the urge to end it quickly.
Instead, she did something different.
Slowly, deliberately, she lifted her own hands.
And rotated them.
Not fast. Not sharp. Just steady.
One small circle.
The water faltered. Prince Timotheus blinked.
Another slow rotation.
The spiral loosened — just slightly.
The King stared. Blaine leaned forward. Nana’s mouth curved faintly, but she said nothing.
The Prince’s eyes flicked to his mother’s hands. Then back to the water.
He matched her movement. Slower this time.
The column shrank an inch. The Queen exhaled carefully.
“Good,” she murmured.
Not praise. Not command. Just acknowledgment.
He rotated again. The water lowered. Not all at once. But enough that the rim stopped trembling.
The courtyard fell quiet except for the soft churn of settling current.
Prince Timotheus stood in the basin, soaked, breathing hard.
He looked at his mother.
And very deliberately —
Pointed to his chest.
Water dripped from his elbow in steady rhythm.
The basin no longer trembled, but it had not forgotten.
The Queen did not rush to correct him.
She did not say, No, we don’t do that.
She did not say, See? You have to listen.
She stayed where she was — ankle-deep, skirts ruined, hands still lifted in quiet rotation.
“Yes,” she said instead.
Her voice held no edge now. Just breath.
“You.”
The Prince’s fingers twitched.
The water quivered in answer, lifting a fraction as if to test whether the spell was truly finished.
King Jason stepped closer, cautious now, no longer charging.
“We can’t have this every afternoon,” he said, though the force had drained from his tone. “The courtyard isn’t a harbor.”
“It might be,” Blaine muttered, squeezing water from his sleeve. “We don’t actually know.”
“Blaine.”
“What? I’m just saying. If he can steer it—”
“Not helping,” the King replied.
Nana stepped up beside them, skirts dry only because she had chosen her position wisely.
She looked at the basin, then at the Queen, then at the Prince.
“Well,” she said calmly, “it listened.”
The Queen’s eyes did not leave her son.
He was watching her again — not the water.
Her hands.
So she rotated them once more. Slow. Intentional.
The water lowered to his ankles. He matched her.
The surface flattened. Completely.
For a moment, nothing moved. Not the Prince. Not the water. Not the family.
The courtyard seemed to hold its breath.
Then, without warning, Prince Timotheus stomped once — small, mischievous, testing.
A splash leapt outward, soaking Blaine from the knees down.
Blaine stared at his drenched boots.
The Prince’s mouth curved at one corner.
King Jason rubbed his face with both hands.
The Queen laughed. Not startled this time. Not sharp. Just a short, surprised sound she didn’t try to swallow.
“All right,” she said, stepping forward and lifting him from the basin in one decisive motion. “Harbor closed.”
He protested immediately — twisting, reaching back toward the water.
She held him firmly against her hip.
“Closed,” she repeated, pressing her forehead briefly to his wet curls.
His fingers opened and closed once.
Then he placed his palm against his chest.
Me.
“I know,” she murmured.
Behind them, the fountain sat still. Calm.
But the stone rim bore the mark of water that had climbed higher than it ever had before.
And in the quiet that followed, it was impossible to ignore:
The water had not spilled.
It had waited.
For him.
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