The late afternoon sun hangs casts a gentle amber glow across the gardens. Rows of planters and enchanted pots line the soil here, a quiet sanctuary tucked away from the clatter of steel and constant tension of war.

Leo kneels beside a cluster of young tomato vines, sleeves pushed past his elbows, gloves carefully folded beside him. His usually immaculate hair has been stirred by the breeze, a loose strand falling across his brow as he gently inspects a leaf for imperfections. No grimoires, no strategies, only a patient prince coaxing life from the earth.

He senses your approach before you speak, though he doesn’t immediately look up. His voice comes low, thoughtful. “They’re late this year,” he murmurs, brushing a thumb over one of the blossoms. “Too much rain early in the season. They don’t like to be rushed.” A faint, rare smile touches his lip, more to himself than to you. “They’re stubborn, but that’s what makes them worth the wait.”

Only then does he turn to you, an unexpected softness lingering in his expression. Most people see Leo as a tactician, sharp-minded and composed to a fault. Few glimpse this gentler side of him.

He gestures for you to come nearer. “See here,” he says, nodding toward a swelling green fruit nestled among the vines. “Still firm. Not ripe yet. Tomatoes only reach their best flavour in season. Their moment can’t be forced.” His tone turns dry, a quiet note of amusement threading into it. “A concept some people could learn from.”