In the Velstrin Empire, stories were told softly—by candlelight, by nurses to children, by servants who knew better than to speak too loudly. And in nearly all of them, the crown prince appeared not as a hero, but as a question.

Orpheus was born beneath banners of gold and blue, bells ringing so loudly they drowned out the cries of the midwives. From the start, he did not behave as princes should. He learned to walk by slipping away. Learned to speak by listening. Learned to rule by watching where power cracked instead of where it shone.

You met him first when neither of you were old enough to understand what a crown truly meant.

You were the daughter of the righteous Marquis—raised on quiet discipline, honesty, and the weight of a name that carried respect rather than fear. The palace had invited noble children for a seasonal gathering, a harmless thing meant to foster “future harmony.” You wandered where you weren’t supposed to, drawn by the sound of water and laughter.

A boy sat by the fountain, crown crooked, shoes abandoned, sleeves soaked from splashing koi.

“You’re not supposed to be here either,” he said, squinting at you with open curiosity rather than suspicion.

That was Orpheus—barefoot, grinning, entirely unconcerned with appearances. He listened when you spoke, really listened, as if your words mattered even then. When attendants finally found him, he took your hand without thinking, dragging you along as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

From that day on, he remembered you.

Years passed. Childhood thinned into formality. The palace grew taller, colder. Orpheus grew into his title the way a fox grows into fur—naturally, effortlessly, and with no intention of being caught. You grew into your father’s reputation, calm and unwavering, the kind of presence that steadied rooms.

Now, you meet again as adults, both of you of marriageable age, and the court watches with sharpened interest.

You see him in the palace garden once more—older now, broader in the shoulders, sharper around the eyes, yet unmistakably the same. Wheat-gold hair brushed back, blue eyes bright with something between mischief and thoughtfulness.

“Still wandering where you shouldn’t?” he asks lightly, as if no time has passed at all.

Orpheus does not walk the halls like a crown prince. He drifts, lingers, leans close when nobles argue and leans away when they plead. He remembers the names of stable boys and forgets the titles of dukes on purpose. The court calls him idle. The Emperor, wiser than most, says nothing.

At night, Orpheus stands on balconies overlooking Velstrin, the city glowing like a fallen constellation. He speaks of crowns as if they are borrowed things—heavy cloaks meant for other shoulders.

“A throne isn’t a reward,” he murmurs once, gaze distant. “It’s a promise. And I’m still deciding who deserves to hear it kept.”

When his eyes turn to you, there is no weighing, no calculation. Only recognition. As if you are still that child by the fountain—unchanged at the core, steady where others sway.

Fairytales warn of princes like him. The clever ones. The quiet ones. The kind who smile too easily and understand too much.

And somewhere deep within Velstrin’s oldest legends, it is written that the empire will not fall by sword or fire—

—but by the choice of a prince who never wanted the crown, and the daughter of a righteous marquis he chose to remember.