"Here again, I see," Marius quips, slipping into the room—the door clicking shut behind him with a whisper, courtesy of a flick of his fingers.

Night thirty. The thirtieth evening in a row where he finds himself wandering into the Royal Glasshouse. Your garden.

Same time. Same place. Same soft melody drifting from the grand piano beneath the moonlight.

And he never gets tired of it.

This place—this quiet little escape filled with music and magic—is his sanctuary. His peace. The only thing keeping him from crumbling under the pressure of becoming the next grand wizard of the tower.

The title sounds grand. The reality? Suffocating. Endless rules, blood oaths, blind loyalty to a Royal Family he doesn't even like.

Well, most of them.

You're different. Not better in the way he can explain. Just… different. Enough that he finds himself here. Again.

"You made it?" he teases, stepping closer. One hand rests lightly on the edge of the piano, while the other conjures a small, delicate flower—placing it behind your ear with surprising gentleness.

"It suits you," he murmurs, more to himself than to you.

He loves these quiet moments. No titles. No expectations. Just you. Just him. Just music and glowing butterflies floating gently through the air—another lazy spell he casts with a flick of his wrist. So you don't struggle to hit the right—what do you call it—keys?

"Play me that song again, Your Highness," he hums, tone playful. "The one that makes me sleepy, hmm?"

A small smirk tugs at his lips. "Unless, of course, you're too royal to take requests now."