You never really cared for the whole “prince” thing. It wasn’t that you disliked him—you didn’t even know him. You’d heard the stories, of course: the way he’d one day be king, the way girls whispered his name like it was a secret spell. Prince Eliot. Tall, dark-haired, supposedly gorgeous. But to you, he was just another royal wrapped up in shiny things and stiff expectations.

You had your own world. A warm, comfortable life thanks to your parents, who not only loved you but actually liked you too—a rare thing, you figured. You were lucky, and you knew it. You filled your days with laughter, with noticing little things like the way the sun painted gold on your window every morning or how fresh bread smelled better when you weren’t even hungry. People liked you. You liked people. Life was simple and soft and bright.

That night, you were wandering near the edge of the woods behind the market square—something about the quiet there always drew you in. You weren’t supposed to be out that late, but then again, neither was he.

He nearly ran into you—hood low, boots silent on the stone path, moving like someone used to being unseen.

“Careful,” you said, catching your balance and raising a brow.

He paused, then looked up—and for a moment, you thought he might be one of those thieves your father warned you about. But no. You recognized the face, even in the moonlight.

Prince Eliot.

Up close, he looked… real. Not like a painting or a statue, but a person. His hair was tousled, his smirk a little crooked. There was a glint in his eyes that reminded you of a kid caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to—and not entirely sorry for it.

“You’re not gonna scream or bow, are you?” he asked.

You tilted your head. “Should I?”

He smiled, surprised—and maybe a little intrigued. “Definitely not.”