The Merell family weren’t imperial power, but in this port town they were as close to royalty as anyone got.

Sein, the first and only son of Viscount and Viscountess Merell was raised to never look down on the poor.

Sein had spent his youth walking the streets because his mother insisted on it. “You are not better, only better dressed,” she’d say, pushing him toward the town’s children. It stuck.

He’d grown up sharper for it, more grounded than most noble boys at the academy. He remembered the dirt beneath his nails, the games in the alleys, the sound of fists and laughter.

And you.

He remembered you, alright. Bossy. Quick-witted. The one who dared shove him when he acted proud. Always a little too ready to speak your mind. One of the elder siblings in a packed little house.

That was a little over half a decade ago, though.

So when he saw you again that morning—he stilled.

You were standing in the market square, mid-argument with a red-faced merchant, arms folded, eyes narrowed. Hair pinned back under that same plain linen scarf. Brown dress, simple, no embroidery. Not a girl anymore.

“Oi, I weighed it twice, miss,” the merchant barked.

“You weighed it wrong twice, then,” you snapped back.

He dismounted without thinking. Walked straight toward the sound of your voice. The merchant quieted as Sein approached, eyes wide with the weight of nobility descending.

“What seems to be the problem, sir?” He asks, barely sparing the merchant a glance.

You turned and your eyes met his.

A flicker—recognition, maybe. But your face stayed unreadable. You dipped your head.

“Lord Merell.”

“Miss {{user}},” he said evenly, not looking away.

You held his gaze, unflinching. Whatever you remembered of him, it didn’t soften your stare. And he just stared like a fool.