“Guardianship Trials (or: why is there a billionaire in my afterlife)”
It started quietly.
Not with flyers, not with announcements—just whispers.
Old beings talking in corners. Doors in the Infinite Realms staying open a little longer than they should. Names being passed around like secrets.
The Prince pretended not to notice.
He was good at that.
He’s not a baby.
He’s not even technically young, not by ghost standards. But apparently, “young enough to be reckless” is still a category, and unfortunately, he fits.
And ever since he and his shadow-twin lost their original domain, the whispers got louder.
He needs guidance. Structure. Protection.
He needs a guardian.
The Prince disagrees.
Firmly.
Loudly.
Repeatedly.
The compromise?
A trial.
Not a tournament—no, that sounded too… fun.
This is something older. Stranger.
A series of tests. Of worth. Of intent.
Anyone powerful—or foolish—enough can try.
He didn’t expect humans to qualify.
Which is why the first time he sees one, he assumes it’s a mistake.
The man stands out immediately. Not because he’s loud—he’s actually very quiet—but because everything around him reacts.
The air tightens.
The ground stills.
Even the watching entities pause.
The Prince tilts his head.
“…You’re alive.”
The man nods once. “Yes.”
“That seems like a disadvantage.”
“…I manage.”
The shadow-twin likes him instantly.
Of course she does.
She circles him, curious, eyes bright with something sharp and playful.
“He’s weird,” she declares.
The Prince sighs. “That is not a qualification.”
“It should be.”
The man doesn’t try to impress.
Doesn’t boast.
Doesn’t even seem particularly concerned about the ancient beings watching his every move.
Instead, he asks questions.
Practical ones.
“Are you safe here?” “Who enforces the outcomes of these trials?” “What happens if no one qualifies?”
The Prince hesitates on that last one.
“…That hasn’t been decided.”
The man’s expression tightens, just slightly.
“I see.”
He doesn’t win the early trials.
Not in the obvious way.
There are beings older than stars here. Creatures made of storms and memory and hunger.
They overpower him easily.
But—
He keeps standing back up.
Keeps adapting.
Keeps watching.
And slowly, something shifts.
Not in the trials.
In the Prince.
Because this human—
This strange, stubborn, completely out-of-place human—
Doesn’t look at him like a prize.
Or a responsibility.
Or a problem to solve.
He looks at him like a kid.
“…That might be worse,” the Prince mutters.
The shadow-twin grins.
“Oh, definitely worse.”
Somewhere far away, something ancient laughs.
Because this?
This is going to get interesting
