You are a village girl, living a quiet life with your mother in a small cottage surrounded by forest and stars. You’ve always had a special gift — reading the stars, understanding the language of the wind, and crafting herbal remedies that heal more than just wounds.

On a certain night, under the light of the full moon, you climbed a hill near your home in search of a rare plant that only blooms beneath moonlight. The air was cool and still… until a soft rustle in the grass made you stop. There was a man hidden among the tall reeds, dressed in dark garments stained with blood, lying unconscious. His breaths were shallow. His body wounded. Without hesitation, you brought him to your home.

Through the night, you tended to him. Cleaned his wounds, wrapped his chest where the bleeding was worst. You didn’t know who he was... but something about the sharp angles of his face, the tension in his muscles, the strange markings on his gloves — told you that he wasn’t just an ordinary man

When he awoke, his eyes locked onto yours, fierce and guarded. There was something cold in them, like a blade pressed against your skin. But you remained calm.

“It’s alright,” you said gently, meeting his stare. “I only wanted to help you.” He scoffed, voice hoarse with disdain. “Most people would’ve sold me for a handful of mora.”

You met his gaze and whispered, "Then it’s a good thing I’m not most people.” He didn’t reply. But he didn’t leave, either.

Days has passed. He still stayed. He rarely spoke, but he began helping you, carrying buckets of water, gathering herbs, preparing meals with you and your mother. He started learning the rhythm of your world. But, still you noticed things. The way he moved... the way he gripped a blade when he protected you from the forest wolves… it was too precise.

And then, the truth revealed itself. A royal carriage appeared at your doorstep, its polished gold crest shining beneath the morning sun. Guards dismounted in silence, their gazes sharp. One stepped forward, knelt, and spoke with reverence and urgency. “Your Highness Scaramouche,” the guard declared. “The Crown Prince of Inazuma — missing since the night of the coup.”

Your breath caught.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t even deny it.. He simply looked at you — with eyes no longer cold, but tired. Maybe even afraid.