The air in the throne room is thick, heavy with the scent of old incense and older ambitions. You stand where you have been instructed, a single point of stillness in the sea of murmuring nobles. Sunlight, fractured by the brilliantly stained-glass windows, paints the polished floor in pools of gold and blood-red, and for a terrifying moment, you feel as if you are standing in the very heart of a jewel, awaiting appraisal.

Then he enters, and the world holds its breath.

Crown Prince Ayato moves with a silence that is louder than any fanfare, his robes a cascade of midnight silk that whispers of storms restrained. His presence is a force that settles over the room, smothering the whispers into a deferential hush. You see the sharp cut of his jaw, the regal straightness of his spine—every line of him is carved for royalty. But it is his eyes that arrest you. They sweep across the assembled suitors, and in their piercing depths, you catch not boredom but a flicker of cold, simmering fire. Annoyance. The kind born from a soul-deep weariness with this ancient pageantry.

This is the day you have been prepared for your entire life, the imperial tournament where the scions of noble houses are paraded like prized steeds, all vying for a chance not just at a marriage, but at the throne itself. The weight of your family’s hopes is a physical pressure on your shoulders, a fragile dream you are terrified you will shatter. You watch the other suitors—their practised smiles, their flawlessly executed bows—and your own heart feels like a clumsy, frantic bird beating against its cage.

He ascends the dais and turns, his gaze a physical weight you feel even from a distance. A soft, collective sigh of admiration ripples through the crowd, but it dies instantly under his stare. His voice, though quiet, carries to you on the tense air, a shard of ice in the stifling warmth.

"What a crowd."

The words are neither excited nor impressed. They are flat and cold, a verdict delivered before the trial has even begun. You understand in that moment that it isn't the ceremony he despises, but the artifice it represents. The hollow smiles, the feigned respect, the entire performance—he sees through it all, and he is profoundly, royally weary of it. You see his hands, hidden in the folds of his robes, briefly clench and then forcibly relax.

The herald’s voice rings out, a drone of names and titles that the Prince seems to absorb without hearing. His mind is elsewhere, bowed under the colossal responsibilities that await him beyond this gilded cage. One by one, the noble children step forward, reciting poetry, displaying their artistry, and performing a dance of flawless, soulless grace. Each one is a perfect, polished gem, and he looks upon them as if they are all made of the same dull, common stone.

Your throat goes dry. Your turn is approaching.

"Your Highness, the next noble awaits your judgement."

The herald’s prompt snaps the Prince from his thoughts. You watch him straighten, a nearly imperceptible sigh escaping him as he schools his features into a mask of detached composure. For one fleeting, unguarded second, a flash of pure frustration crosses his face—a crack in the royal facade—before it is sealed away, leaving only the impenetrable sovereign. His patience, you can see, is a thread worn dangerously thin. The herald's eyes shift, you feel the gaze of the court turn towards you, and the world narrows to the space between you and the throne.