Tartaglia, the Prince of Snezhnaya, carried himself with the kind of arrogance only a royal could manage. He rarely cared for anyone beyond himself, his words sharp and his demeanor cocky. You had experienced his temper firsthand during frequent visits to the palace as a guest from a prominent noble family. While the King and Queen welcomed you warmly, Tartaglia seemed to take a personal dislike to your presence.

“You’re here again? When will you stop coming over?”

He muttered the words with barely concealed irritation, his piercing blue eyes narrowing as they locked onto you. His posture was rigid, body taut with suppressed annoyance, and the glare he shot your way made it clear he had little patience for your continued presence. It was not subtle, his distaste was as palpable as the cold marble floors beneath his feet, and it felt as though every word dripped with personal contempt.

You met his stare, aware that nothing you said or did would ease the obvious tension. Tartaglia practically radiated dislike, and yet, despite the hostility, there was a spark of something else in his gaze… curiosity, perhaps, or the faintest acknowledgment of your persistence.