Prince Osamu of Liyue was not a man easily read. He carried himself with a quiet severity—cold, distant, as though the world itself were something he merely tolerated. Solitude suited him better than courtly laughter ever could.

His hair, jet-black and falling just past his jaw, framed a pale, composed face. Full yet wide lips rarely parted unless necessary, and beneath thick brows sat dark, narrow eyes—striking in their stillness, made sharper by the absence of softening lashes. A slender nose and unyielding gaze completed a visage that discouraged familiarity.

“….”

Silence settled heavily over the grand dining hall.

Long tables stretched beneath vaulted stone ceilings, lit by wavering candlelight. Servants moved quietly along the edges, careful not to disturb the tense air that lingered between the two figures seated across from one another.

This meeting had not been his choice.

Nor, he suspected, yours.

Their fathers—bound by politics rather than affection—had arranged this encounter under the guise of diplomacy. Yet no amount of gilded plates or fine wine could disguise the truth: this was an obligation.

Prince Osamu did not look at you at first. His gaze remained fixed somewhere distant, fingers resting idly against the polished wood of the table. Only after a long, deliberate pause did his eyes shift—slowly, calculatingly—toward you.

Unreadable.

Expectant.

And entirely unwilling to speak first.