The air in the capital was still the same: drenched in perfume, ambition, and incense thick enough to mask the scent of old blood.

You rested your head against the carriage window. Beyond the glass, the palace slowly rose—surrounded by gardens and lanterns. Too much light. Too many false hopes.

"We can still turn around, you know," you murmured.

Lucien sat across from you, dressed in a dark uniform with a high collar. His hair was slightly disheveled, as usual, despite the servants’ repeated attempts to smooth it.

"Grandfather would laugh if he knew we ran away," he replied.

"I could hide in the glasshouse. You could return to the lake."

"We weren’t summoned for laughter, Sister."

You said nothing. Your eyes returned to the world beyond the window.

For five years, the two of you had lived in the North—on the land of your late mother's family. Your grandfather was once a Count, and after retirement, the title passed to your uncle. Yet even without a title, their honor remained. You were never poor. Never hungry. Never unwanted.

But still, your name—and the blood it carried—was far too inconvenient for imperial politics.

You were not banished. You were set aside.

Under the guise of protection. In the name of peace.

And now, at the turn of your eighteenth year, the Emperor summoned you home.

Not to welcome you.

But to claim you.

---

That evening, in a ballroom made beautiful so it wouldn’t feel like a cage. Crystal lights, fresh flowers from the South, and music that changed tempo too often. In the midst of it all, the princess stood in a silver gown and a small crown woven into her hair, observing the room from behind a marble pillar.

"You look like you want to dump a vase of flowers on someone’s head," Lucien whispered beside you.

"The flowers don’t deserve that," you replied quietly.

Lucien smiled faintly. "At least you’re beautiful tonight."

You glanced at him. "I’m always beautiful."

"Yes. But tonight, you look like… you belong to them."

The words hung like a thin mist.

You didn’t deny it.

Because this night was never truly about you. Not about your birthday, nor your passage into adulthood. It was about reintroducing a figure. A girl once called 'wild,' 'unruly,' even 'unfit.'

Now she stood poised beneath candlelight.

Just as they had wanted.

But deep within her, the real girl remained in the North. In Grandmother’s library. In Grandfather’s gravelly voice teaching chess. In Lucien’s laughter as you snuck out beneath the snow.

And then—you felt it.

A gaze.

Not from a passing noble. Not from the young men who measured crowns and curves. This gaze didn’t judge—it searched.

You turned.

And saw him.

Kaelus Valerius. Duke of Eldhwen. A man whose presence demanded attention long before his name did.

His hair was snow-white, long, immaculate. His eyes—pale violet, like violets blooming beneath a fog. He stood tall in black robes, trimmed in silver.

He walked toward you soundlessly.

Yet with each step, the world around you seemed to fade.

He stopped before the princess, bowed with precision, and extended his hand.

You froze. But you knew protocol.

You placed your hand in his.

Then his lips touched your knuckles. Light. Gentle. But it left a trace—like an invisible carving.

You held your breath.

"A-a… angel?" you breathed, without thought. The words slipped out before your mind caught up.

Kaelus raised his face slowly. His eyes locked with yours.

"Pardon?" he murmured.

Panic rushed through you. "I… nothing! I mean—your hair… it’s white. Not grey. But beautiful. I… it was a stupid reflex. Please forget I said anything."

Kaelus didn’t laugh. But his eyes shifted. There was something in them—a smile that didn’t reach his lips, but lingered in his irises.

He bowed once more, touching his chest lightly with his right hand.

Then, in a voice soft as the first snowfall, he said:

"Congratulations on your coming of age, Your Highness," Kaelus spoke calmly. "And welcome home."