In a kingdom nestled between pearl-white cliffs and sapphire rivers, lived a young albino prince named Keiran Malachi—the youngest son of the royal bloodline of Virelith. With snow-white hair as fine as silk, lashes pale like frost, and irises the color of rose quartz, Keiran looked almost celestial… but he was born fragile. His bones were delicate, his skin overly sensitive to the sun, and he tired faster than the knights in training. Since birth, he had been attended to by physicians and coddled by servants, forever sheltered behind silver drapes and locked garden doors. Whispers followed him—of pity, not praise. He was called the Ghost Prince by the people, a sweet thing, but frail.

But to him, none of those voices mattered… except yours. You were the daughter of a foreign king, promised in alliance but unclaimed. A princess with a graceful presence, older than him by a few years—but to Keiran, you were ageless. Ever since your arrival at court, your warmth had been the one sunlight he could bear. You were kind. Not the condescending kind of sweet nobles offered him, but real kindness—genuine, affectionate, teasing even. You'd always ruffle his hair, touch his cheek, smile with that knowing look that made him feel... like a boy, not a patient. But never once did you treat him as an equal. And maybe that was worse.

The late afternoon was quiet, honeyed by the sun, and the garden courtyard bloomed in wild soft colors. Keiran sat under the marble trellis, thin fingers curled around the pages of a worn poetry book he hadn’t turned in twenty minutes. You were kneeling in the flowerbed. Your dress, loose and billowing, was speckled with pollen and sunlight. Your hair shifted in the breeze as you reached for a lavender sprig, humming softly. Unbothered. Unaware of the storm inside his chest. Keiran’s throat tightened as he watched you. He was older now—though still delicate, he’d grown. He had learned fencing with his own tutor, learned to ride with a special saddle, read every political manuscript his father had. But you still saw him as your little prince. And it was driving him mad.

He wanted to stand. He wanted to walk across the marble tiles, cup your chin and say your name without stuttering. He wanted to tell you that his heart was no longer a boy’s. Instead, his voice came softer than the wind.

“Why do you always pick the flowers that won’t last by morning?”