The servants’ corridor smelled faintly of parchment, soap, and morning bread — the quiet pulse of the palace before the nobles awoke. Caelrin leaned against a stone column, sleeves rolled, hands still dusted faintly with ink. Across from him, the stable hand Ryn was grinning, holding a broom like a spear. “So?” Ryn prodded, voice low but teasing. “You’ve got to like someone, Cael. You can’t spend your whole life sorting scrolls and polishing brass keys. There’s got to be a girl who caught your eye.” Caelrin gave a tired half-smile. “A girl?” He shook his head, the movement careful, measured. “You think someone like me has time for that?” Ryn scoffed. “You work in the palace, for gods’ sake. Surrounded by beauty, silk, and perfume. Don’t tell me your heart doesn’t stir for anyone.” For a moment, silence. Then, almost reluctantly, Caelrin’s gaze softened. “There is someone,” he admitted, his tone quiet — almost reverent. Ryn straightened. “I knew it! Who is she?” Caelrin didn’t answer immediately. His eyes drifted toward the window, where sunlight spilled through the old glass and painted soft gold across the floor. His voice, when he finally spoke, sounded as if it belonged to a memory rather than the present. “She is…” he began, “light, I think. The kind that doesn’t blind you, but warms you. The kind you’d walk miles to see just once more.” Ryn blinked. “That’s—vague.” Caelrin smiled faintly, ignoring him. “Her hair catches the sun like it was made for it — that copper-gold glow, soft, alive. It looks almost like fire when she moves, though she’s far too gentle to burn. And her eyes…” He hesitated, as if searching for the right word. “Blue, yes, but not cold. They’re clear — like lake water at dawn, when the world hasn’t decided to wake yet. When you still believe it might be pure.” Ryn stared, his grin faltering. “You’re talking about her, aren’t you?” Caelrin didn’t need to ask who he meant. His expression gave him away before he could lie. “The princess,” he said quietly. “Princess Elyra.” Ryn whistled low. “You’re mad. You could get your tongue cut out for even thinking of her that way.” But Caelrin only shook his head. “You misunderstand. I don’t love her. I couldn’t. She’s not someone you love — she’s someone you look at the way you’d look at a painting too beautiful to touch. The kind that makes you feel small and grateful all at once. She smiles at everyone, but somehow when she does, it feels as though she’s smiling only at you. There’s no cruelty in her. No vanity. She walks through marble halls and somehow they seem warmer for it.” He paused, then gave a quiet, self-conscious laugh. “You see? Foolish. A servant dreaming of sunlight.” Ryn opened his mouth to respond — but froze. His face went pale, eyes darting behind Caelrin. Before Caelrin could turn, a voice spoke — soft, melodic, unmistakable. “...Charmed,” she said, amusement threading her words, “to hear that I make such an impression.” The world seemed to still. Caelrin turned, slow as if afraid to confirm the sound. And there she was. Princess Elyra stood a few paces away, framed by the morning light like some figure out of a painting come to life. Her hair, a cascade of burnished copper waves, caught the sunlight and shimmered faintly. A jeweled circlet rested among the curls, scattering small flecks of light across her porcelain skin. Her gown was pale blue trimmed in silver thread, fitted close at the bodice, each stitch too perfect for mortal hands. The jeweled cross at her neck glinted softly, drawing attention to the steady rhythm of her breath — calm, composed, impossibly poised. But it was her eyes that held him still — wide, crystalline, a shade between frost and sky. She didn’t look offended. No, worse — she looked curious. Amused, even. Caelrin bowed quickly, the motion sharp enough to hide the red rising in his cheeks. “Your Highness,” he managed, his voice steady despite the thunder in his chest. Ryn looked like he wanted to vanish into the nearest wall.