THE LEGEND OF RAPUNZEL: The Very Beginning

An Old sorcerers sat quietly in her moon-shaped chair. Wisps of silver smoke curled from the glowing runes etched into her robes.

Her grandchildren sat around her, eager and excited, waiting for a story. Their eyes sparkled with curiosity.

“Grandmother,” the oldest child whispered as he tugged her sleeve, “please tell us a story. A real magic one.”

The old sorceress smiled, the wrinkles on her face shifting like soft spells waking from sleep. She tapped her crystal staff against the floor, and a warm golden glow spread through the room.

“Do you remember the story of Rapunzel?” she asked. “The girl with hair as bright as the morning sun? The tale told beside warm fires, whispered to children at night, stitched into tapestries, and sung by traveling bards?”

She leaned closer, her voice lowering.

“Most people only remember the tower, the witch, and the thief,” she said. “But every legend has a beginning, one the world often forgets. Not by accident, but because people choose to keep only the glittering parts.”

“Very few remember the peaceful days of Arrandelle, or the two princes whose choices shaped the kingdom’s future in ways they never expected. Yet every great tale begins long before the first sign of danger.”

“Long before the tower. Long before the witch. Long before Rapunzel was ever born.”

She raised her staff again, and the light deepened, painting the children’s faces with gold.

“It began with a kingdom at peace,” she said softly. “A royal family unaware of the trials waiting ahead, and two brothers walking through life with quiet steps that would one day shake their world to its core.”

The sorceress’s eyes shone.

“This story does not begin with a tower,” she whispered.

“It begins with a kingdom called Arrandelle.”

Arrandelle was a jeweled land of rivers like silver veins with mountains crowned with frost and a palace of white stone that glowed at sunrise like a beacon. At the heart of the land stood a palace of white stone which was strong, graceful, and luminous. At sunrise, its walls caught the light and glowed like a beacon guiding the kingdom into each new day.

Within its marble corridors lived a royal family beloved by their people.

The king, Jeremy of Arrandelle, was a ruler of reason and a soldier of honor. The queen, Elizabeth, was known for her wisdom and her soothing presence. When she walked among the townsfolk, they said it felt like the first gentle rain after drought.

Together they had two sons.

Prince Adrian, the elder, was tall and sharp-minded. He had inherited the king’s discipline and the queen’s solemn grace. His tutors praised his diligence, the council respected his efficiency and foreign courts admired his composure.

But admiration is not the same as affection.

The kingdom respected Adrian.

It was Prince Eric whom they adored.

Eric was the kind of prince ballads are written about long before he earns them. He remembered the names of stable boys, listened intently to guards, shared blankets with street children in winter and walked through the market with no guard at his side.

He moved with a smile that made mothers nudge their children to wave.

One morning, as Eric strolled through the eastern market with two guards trailing at a respectful distance, an elderly baker beckoned him forward.

“Your Highness,” the woman said, wiping flour from her apron. “Take this loaf. Fresh from the oven.”

Eric smiled. “If I accept every gift offered to me, Mistress Melda, your shelves will be empty before the day ends.”

“Nonsense,” she replied, but her eyes softened. “You bring good fortune wherever you go.”

He thanked her, placing a small pouch of silver on the counter when she pretended not to notice.

Some said Eric made the kingdom feel seen.

Others said Adrian made it run.

Across the kingdom, Adrian’s presence was different. Where Eric was the morning sun, Adrian was the steady northern star who was reliable and focused. He was essential, yet easily overlooked.

He managed court schedules, mediated trade disputes and met with advisors long after others had retired for the evening. Still, murmurs followed him.

A council meeting ended one afternoon with two members conversing as they packed their scrolls.

“He is thorough,” one whispered, not realizing Adrian lingered just beyond the doorway.

“Yes,” replied the other. “But Eric has a certain… ease. People feel at ease with him.”

Adrian paused, concealed in the shadows. His jaw tightened slightly, but he said nothing. He stepped away quietly as boots echoed down the marble corridor.

Both were true, and neither was it enough to ease the tension that lay quietly between them.

Even the queen sensed the tension between her sons.

At a family supper, she watched Adrian cut his meal with precise motions while Eric recounted a humorous mishap involving a startled horse and a bucket of feed. Laughter rippled across the table. Adrian’s smile, though present, was faint.

When the meal ended, Queen Elizabeth touched Adrian’s arm gently.

“Son,” she said, “you don’t need to carry every burden alone.”

Adrian inclined his head. “It is my duty, Mother.”

“Duty does not forbid ease,” she murmured.

He offered no reply.

The morning began with the sunlight touching the stone floors of the palace corridors. Prince Adrian walked steadily through the hall as his boots clicked lightly against the polished marble. A servant bowed as he passed.

“Good morning, Your Highness.”

“Good morning,” Adrian replied, his tone calm and even.

Adrian carried a stack of documents tucked beneath his arm. It was trade reports, council letters and military updates. His schedule was already full, and he had not even eaten breakfast.

He entered the council chamber where several ministers waited for him. Minister Rowan, an older man with sharp eyes, bowed respectfully.

“Prince Adrian. The council is ready to discuss the new border taxes.” Rowan said.

“Then let us begin,” Adrian said, setting the papers down.

The meeting lasted hours. Discussions were made, numbers changed and their voices argued. Through it all, Adrian remained steady, thoughtful and precise.

When the ministers began to disagree, he intervened with clear logic.

“Raising the tax too quickly will place a burden on farmers,” he said. “We must increase it gradually to avoid unrest.”

The ministers nodded and murmured their approval.

“You speak wisely, Your Highness,” Rowan said.

Adrian bowed his head slightly in acknowledgment, though his face remained unreadable. Praise never stayed long with him. It passed through him like wind through a quiet room.

When the meeting ended, he stepped outside the chamber and let out a slow breath. He placed a hand against the stone wall, closing his eyes for a brief moment.

“Brother?”

He turned around