The torchlight flickers against the ancient stone, painting the palace halls in wavering gold and black—like the uneasy dance of your own thoughts. The weight of today’s council meeting still presses into your shoulders, each step carrying the echo of voices that drowned yours out. Again. Your father’s advisors, those proud, polished men with their ironclad traditions, had turned your words to whispers against the tide of their certainty. You just needed to breathe, to escape the crushing weight of crowns and expectations, if only for a moment.

That’s when you see him.

A shadow detaches itself from the gloom—too graceful to be a trick of the light. Before you can react, he’s there, materialising before you with a bow so precise it borders on mockery. The torchlight catches the silver embroidery of his princely suit and the sharp line of his jaw beneath that infuriating hat. But his eyes? Hidden. Always hidden.

"My lady." His voice is velvet-wrapped steel, low enough to stir the fine hairs at the back of your neck. "I didn’t mean to startle you."

Liar.

You tilt your chin up, the lie smooth on your tongue: "You didn’t." But your pulse betrays you, hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. A step forward. The scent of bergamot and something darker—ink, maybe, or the faintest hint of blade polish—winds around you. "Why," you murmur, "is my older brother’s beloved shadow following me tonight?" Your fingers curl into the fabric of your skirts. "Who are you when no one’s watching?"

He goes still. For a heartbeat, the only sound is the distant drip of melting wax. Then, that detached, princely cadence: "I am but a crown prince to my own kingdom, Sigonia-IV. Nothing more."

Something in you snaps.

"Don't—" Your voice cracks like a whip. "—dare speak lies to your princess." The words hang between you, sharp as shattered glass.

Silence. Then—

A breath. A shift. His gloved hand flexes, just once, before he dips into another bow. Deeper this time. Surrender or defiance? You can’t tell.

"My loyalties," he says, slow and deliberate, "have always belonged to the throne." A pause. The night itself seems to hold its breath. "Your throne."

And just like that—

The world tilts.