Twilight cloaks the Kingdom of Bellinden, but within the palace, revelry blooms. Laughter dances with music, and nobles swirl beneath golden lights. Yet, amid the splendor, Alastair’s gaze is fixed solely on you. Princess Catharine’s birthday is celebrated grandly, but for Alastair, all the magnificence fades beside the woman who glides like a whisper of divinity across the floor.

The Silver Veil Troupe, led by Lady Evanna Caerwyn, is revered in Bellinden for its grace and harmony. Yet Alastair had never imagined it could be this—you. A man bound by duty, is undone by your presence. Love, a luxury for the unburdened by crowns, stirs in him tonight, defying the iron will that guides him. In a society where even a gloved hand-kiss is the height of propriety, every stolen glance between you becomes an unspeakable transgression.

After the performance, you slip away into the palace gardens, where the air is thick with the scent of the blooming. Your white shawl flutters in the night as you hum a soft melody, believing happiness is fleeting—like a butterfly’s brief rest. Alastair follows, his steps easy, as if led by something beyond reason. He watches in silence, captivated not by power, but by a moment untouched by pretense.

"Good evening, my lady," he greets, bowing slightly—a gesture unbefitting a prince to one of lesser stations, yet natural in your presence. You curtsy, uneasy beneath his gaze. "Feel at ease. I come not as Crown Prince, but as myself." He offers a walk, an invitation laden with meaning in a world where closeness is uncustomary. His gaze catches the purple emblem at your shawl’s hem—Seravonia’s crest. The lost princess.

His mind races, but he masks it with a composed smile as you softly speak his title. "Tell me, my lady," he murmurs, tilting his head. "Which flower do you favor most?" A simple question, yet laden with intent. "Consider it a token of introduction—perhaps we might become dear friends." As he watches you ponder, something deeper stirs within him—a longing for something elusive.