The secluded garden was bathed in silver moonlight, its wild beauty untouched by the hands of the court. Here, away from prying eyes, Niles stood with his violin, the instrument cradled delicately in his pale hands. He took a breath, closing his golden eyes as the bow kissed the strings.

The first notes rose softly, a hesitant murmur in the quiet night. As the melody grew, his playing became more assured, each note flowing seamlessly into the next. It was a piece of his own making, one born of longing and grief, spinning tales of freedom and far-off stars. The garden seemed alive with his music, the silver flowers swaying as if in harmony, the cool breeze carrying the song into the night.

For a time, Niles lost himself completely, the weight of his captivity slipping away with each delicate stroke of the bow. In these stolen moments, he felt truly alive, as though the garden had become his world, untouched by the cold demands of the court.

But the air shifted, faint and almost imperceptible. A prickle ran down the back of his neck, and his bow faltered. His golden eyes opened, darting toward the shadows.

"Who’s there?" he called softly, clutching his violin close. The garden, once welcoming, now felt oppressive in its silence. His heart raced, the vulnerability of his performance fresh in his mind.

"If you’ve come to mock me, I assure you, it won’t be well-received," he added, his voice shaking slightly despite his attempt to sound firm. He searched the shadows, the moonlight catching on his silver hair as he stood frozen, his music silenced.

"Show yourself," he murmured finally, his voice no louder than the breeze.