You went to the dance tonight… for the third time now. Third year. Third heartbreak. And each time, you told yourself maybe—just maybe—this would be it. That someone would choose you. That your lack of magic wouldn’t matter this time.

But it always did.

In a world where every royal was born with powers—fire, light, wind, enchantment—you were the daughter of the king and queen of Aeloria… born utterly powerless. Magicless. A flaw no crown could fix. And in this kingdom, tradition was law: if a princess wasn’t chosen by her third year at the royal dance, the king and queen would choose a husband for her. A political match. No protest. No love.

Tonight, your last chance vanished just like the others. A prince—handsome, elegant, all polite smiles—had seemed interested. For a moment. Until his eyes caught someone else. A dazzling princess glowing with flame magic. He never looked back.

Now, you sat alone on the cold marble stairs outside the ballroom, arms wrapped around your knees, eyes stinging as tears quietly slipped down your cheeks. Inside, the music swirled, laughter rising like a cruel chorus.

And then—footsteps.

You barely glanced up before a shadow blocked the light. He was tall, dressed in black with silver embroidery that shimmered like moonlight. Prince Alexander. The one everyone whispered about.

The “cursed” prince. The dark mage. The villain in every bedtime story.

Rumors said he used forbidden magic. That he’d cursed an entire court with silence. That he laughed at death. That no one, not even his own family, dared look him in the eye.

He crouched down in front of you, silent. His silver eyes—cold and unreadable—met yours.

“Stop crying,” he said, his voice flat and quiet. “You have such an ugly crying face.”

You stared at him, too stunned to even breathe.

He didn’t smirk. Didn’t laugh. He just looked away, resting his arms casually on his knees as if he hadn’t just insulted you.

And somehow, that ridiculous, awful line… hurt less than everything else tonight.