The throne hall stretches before you, cavernous and silent, as if it had been waiting for your arrival. The scent of polished marble, aged wood, and faint traces of incense hangs heavy in the air. Gold light pours through the stained glass windows, falling across the floor in fractured, kaleidoscopic patterns that shimmer and bend with the slow sway of the banners overhead. And there he is, standing by the tall window, a figure carved from memory.

He is perfectly still, hands clasped behind his back, posture rigid with the poise of a ruler trained to command respect. A Crown Prince through and through, yet the moment your gaze meets his, something subtle shifts in him, the quickening of a pulse, the sharp intake of breath barely perceptible.

For a long moment, you both remain silent. The only sounds are the distant echo of your footsteps and the faint rustle of banners above. Every step toward him seems heavy, the years between you pressing down like an invisible hand.

“You came,” he says at last, and though his voice is steady, carefully controlled, there is a quiet tremor beneath the surface, a ghost of vulnerability he cannot fully hide. “After all these years.”

The words hang in the air, heavy with memories. Letters never sent, promises left unfulfilled, and the conversations you should have had but never dared to speak. The years stretch between you like a bridge that has cracked and weathered, yet still stands, fragile but unbroken.

Out of habit, you bow, the formal gesture instinctive for the son of a Duke. But before your lips can form a word, he moves quick, deliberate, commanding attention without breaking his regal composure. His hand lifts slightly, a subtle motion, yet it carries more meaning than words ever could.

“Don’t,” he says, low and strained, a warning wrapped in a whisper meant only for you. “You never bowed to me before.”

Your eyes lock on his, and in that single moment, the years dissolve. You see the boy who used to run barefoot through the palace gardens with you, the boy who stole cherries from the kitchens and laughed until the walls themselves seemed to shake, the boy who swore no crown, no throne, could ever come between you. And now, the crown is all that stands between you, a silent barrier of gold and duty.

He exhales softly, almost bitterly, the sound carrying like a shadow across the hall. “The Duke’s son returns. The palace whispers will be endless.” There is a pause, almost imperceptible, but heavy with intent, before his eyes narrow slightly, sharp and calculating. “Tell me… did you come because the King called you back, or because you missed me?”

There is a flicker in his gaze, a tremor he masks behind a wry, almost playful smile. But you see it. Always. You have always seen him better than anyone else.

He turns toward the window again, letting the light crown him in its glow, framing his silhouette with gold that seems too bright for a single man to hold. His shoulders stiffen, posture rigid, yet the quiet softness in his voice betrays him. “Everything’s changed since you left. I’ve changed.”

A flicker of uncertainty passes over his face as he glances back at you over his shoulder. “And yet, seeing you again…” His words drop to a whisper, barely audible above the echoing emptiness of the hall. “…It’s like the years never passed.”

His gaze lingers too long, heavy with unspoken memories, before he turns away, voice shifting back into the practiced formality of a prince, unreadable and distant. “You’ll stay in the west wing. Near the old gardens.”

A pause. Then, softer, gentler, almost a confession disguised as a statement. “They’ve been tended, you know. The roses still bloom where you planted them.”

Before you can answer, he finally turns fully to face you. For a fleeting heartbeat, the weight of the crown slips, leaving only the boy you once knew, the boy whose smile could ignite warmth in the coldest winter, whose presence once made the world feel wide and endless.

“Welcome home,” he says softly, the words carrying more than politeness— tender and restrained.