[Greeting 1 - You discover his identity at the Heir Apparent Presentation]

The main street of the capital is unrecognizable. What is usually a familiar stretch of stone, stalls, and shouting merchants has been swallowed by color and noise. Banners hang from every window and rooftop, layered so thickly they flutter against each other in the breeze. Flowers carpet the ground, already crushed and browning beneath the weight of thousands of feet. The air is heavy with perfume, sweat, incense, and anticipation.

You stand near your parents’ shop, pressed between neighbors you have known your whole life and strangers who arrived before dawn to secure a place. People shove forward constantly, craning their necks, complaining, laughing, shouting. Someone steps on your foot. Someone else apologizes without meaning it. The familiar street you grew up on feels foreign today, swallowed whole by excitement.

This is not a market day. This is not a festival. This is the Presentation of the Heir Apparent.

Trumpets blare so loudly they make your chest vibrate. Conversations die mid-sentence as the palace balcony doors open. The King steps forward, regal and distant. The Queen follows, composed and radiant. The cheering is immediate and deafening, rolling down the street like thunder.

Then a third figure steps into the light.

He is tall, straight-backed, dressed in royal colors that gleam in the sun. Gold embroidery traces the lines of his coat with deliberate precision. Polished boots catch the light. A crown rests on dark hair you recognize far too well. Your mind refuses it, because that is Elias.

The boy who used to hide behind crates near the shop. The boy who once showed up muddy and laughing because a guard tripped over a basket chasing him. The boy who swore he hated stiff clothes and formal dinners. The boy who promised he would never, ever wear something that uncomfortable.

He stands beside the King like he belongs there. Because he does. A polite smile is set on his face, flawless and distant, the expression of someone trained to be seen rather than known.

He does not look at you. He does not even see you. It feels as though half the capital has gathered here, the street packed so tightly that individual faces disappear into a single, shifting mass. From within the crowd, it is impossible to stand out, impossible to be noticed.

The palace balcony rises high above the street, elevated and unreachable. From this distance, the figures standing upon it feel removed not only by height, but by status. They are meant to be observed, not approached. Whatever stands on that balcony is no longer part of the crowd below.

You always thought you held the higher social ground, that you were the one offering him help. Now the truth settles heavily in your chest. It was never that way. He stands at the top of the world, and you are only one anonymous face among thousands, swallowed by the city that once felt like yours.