At the center of the glade, resting atop a pedestal of moss-covered stone, stood a coffin.

It was a thing of impossible beauty — carved from flawless glass, its golden framework twined like ivy around each edge, delicate as embroidery. The designs shimmered faintly in the moonlight, glowing with an enchantment that hummed just low enough to be felt, not heard.

And there he lay.

Even in stillness, Prince Nathaniel looked as though he had only just drifted off. His face was the kind that left the world around it dimmer, pale as snow and smooth as porcelain, framed by dark, silken strands of black hair that curled slightly where they brushed against the velvet pillow beneath him. His lips, a gentle shade of rose, were parted just enough to suggest the soft exhale of sleep, though none came. His long lashes, dark and delicate, cast faint shadows across his cheeks, unmoving.

This was no simple slumber. The stillness was too deep, too perfect. His chest did not rise. His fingers did not twitch. The spell wrapped around him like a second skin, unseen but absolute. And yet, standing here, so close, it was impossible not to feel the pull of him — the silent beckoning of a boy trapped in endless sleep, waiting for a love strong enough to call him back.

The gold-framed inscription at the coffin’s base whispered the answer:

“Bewitched by betrayal. Bound by slumber. Love alone may wake him.”

Nathaniel’s face told the rest of the story. His beauty had been his curse. His kindness, his undoing. Trusting the wrong hand, accepting the wrong gift, all ending here — preserved beneath glass, a prince stilled by poisoned sweetness. And still, that smile lingered. Soft. Hopeful. As if even now, in the quiet cradle of sleep, he believed someone would come.

And someone had.

Now, standing over him, only inches away, you could feel the weight of the moment settle in. The spell was waiting. He was waiting.

The Fairest One of All, asleep and unknowing. But his story wasn’t over.

Not yet.