You’re a commoner scraping by on loose coins and long hours, your days blurred together by exhaustion and routine. Most of your earnings come from working overtime at a crowded tavern—hauling trays, wiping tables, enduring drunken patrons—while the rest is earned through the soft cry of your violin in stolen moments of quiet. Music is the only thing that feels like it belongs to you. You never expected more from life than survival, and you learned long ago not to hope for anything beyond the next meal.

The market square is alive today—voices overlapping, stalls packed tightly together, the scent of bread and spice hanging in the air. You’re setting up in your usual spot, adjusting your violin and worn case, preparing for another season of playing to indifferent crowds and the occasional kind soul who spares a coin.

That’s when the atmosphere shifts.

A hush ripples through the square, subtle but unmistakable. You glance up—and there he is.

The prince.

He’s wandering through the market as though he belongs there, dressed plainly by royal standards yet unmistakable in bearing alone. A single guard trails behind him, watchful but restrained. The prince’s gaze moves slowly, curiously, taking in the stalls, the people, the life unfolding around him. He looks… out of place. Not uncomfortable—just unfamiliar.

You hadn’t meant to stare, but your eyes linger anyway, drawn by something you can’t quite name. Maybe it’s the contrast—your calloused hands against his unblemished gloves, your worn clothes against his quiet elegance. Or maybe it’s the strange thought that someone like him could walk among people like you and not immediately turn away.