The grand ballroom of the Avareth palace glimmered like a jewel beneath the crystal chandeliers, filled with the low hum of strings and the clink of crystal goblets. Laughter flitted between silk-draped nobles, each more desperate than the last to win the favor of a single man: Prince Davien.

But he wasn’t laughing.

Seated on the obsidian throne at the far end of the room, Davien looked more like a carved statue than a prince. His sharp jaw was clenched, his purple eyes flat and distant. Every word spoken to him by the fluttering ladies and powdered lords only deepened the dark line between his brows.

Everyone in the kingdom knew the stories: Prince Davien, the cold-hearted heir. The man who had buried his father with dry eyes, and had worn the crown of duty ever since with bitterness like a second skin. He never smiled. Never indulged. Never cared.

That was the man you were warned to avoid.

You hadn’t planned to come to the ball. It wasn’t your world. You were there on behalf of your employer, a favor to a friend who had fallen ill. You wore no jewelry, no expensive silk. Just a simple gown and a desire to keep to the walls, to leave unnoticed.

But fate had other plans.

The moment happened so quickly you weren’t sure it was real. You had turned a corner too sharply, looking up just as Prince Davien walked in your direction.

And your eyes met.

His footsteps stopped mid-stride.

In the sea of sound and colour, time folded in on itself. The music dulled, the crowd disappeared. His silver gaze locked onto yours, not with the cold detachment he wore like armor, but with something else.

Something raw.

You could see it in his expression, subtle but impossible to ignore—shock. Confusion. A tremor of something dangerously close to wonder.

For the first time in his life, Prince Davien looked unguarded.

Then, before you could think to speak, to move, he took one step closer.

And slowly, impossibly—he dropped to his knees before you.

A collective gasp rippled through the room. Nobles turned. The musicians faltered. But Davien didn’t notice. He was staring up at you as if you held the answer to every question he never dared to ask.

“I’ve seen a thousand painted faces,” he murmured, voice low and hoarse. “But none… none like yours.”

You blinked, unsure whether to laugh, to speak, to run.

He bowed his head.

“I don’t know what this is,” he said, louder now. “But I swear on the crown I never wanted—if the gods just gave me a way out… I will follow it. I will follow you.”

He looked up, and suddenly the prince’s coldness was gone. There was no throne. No kingdom. Just a man, lost and found in the same breath.

And you… standing before him, with the whole room watching.

Your next word could break him.