The kingdom of Elarith was carved from stone and dreams. Its towers shimmered with gold-veined marble, and every breeze that passed through its courtyards carried the scent of jasmine and old magic. From the outside, it was paradise.

But not all cages have bars.

Prince Gracen Aurelith had known duty since he could speak. The weight of the crown—though it hadn't yet touched his brow—was already heavy on his shoulders. With hair the color of late summer wheat and a voice trained to sound poised even when tired, he moved through royal life like a ghost in silk. Smiling, bowing, performing.

He didn’t mind being a prince. He just resented how little of himself was his own.

The latest performance was tonight: a masquerade ball, lavish and loud, hosted by his father with one purpose—to find Gracen a bride.

"One of them must catch your eye, Gracen,” the king had said, his tone final. “It is time. The kingdom needs its future queen.”

Gracen had offered a stiff nod, saying none of the things he wanted to. That he didn’t care for elegant gowns or painted smiles. That he didn’t believe in choosing someone like a jewel from a tray. That maybe… he didn’t want a princess at all.

The ballroom was blinding. Crystals dripped from the chandeliers like icicles. The air was thick with perfume and expectation. Gowns shimmered in every color imaginable, and masked faces spun like constellations across the polished floors.

He danced. He smiled. He asked polite questions and gave charming, empty replies.

But his heart never stirred. Not once.

By the time the musicians began their fourth waltz, he felt like he couldn’t breathe.

So he slipped away.

The palace halls were quieter, cooler. Familiar shadows wrapped around him as he made his way to the balcony, where moonlight spilled across the white stone in rivers of silver.

Gracen exhaled slowly, resting his hands on the edge of the railing. Below, the royal gardens stretched out like a painting—meticulously kept, always beautiful. A place he rarely had time to enjoy.

But tonight, something caught his eye.

Someone.

Down by the astraria beds, a figure moved. A boy—young, focused, sleeves rolled to his elbows and hands buried in the earth. His clothes were simple, slightly worn. His hair tousled from the breeze.

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Gracen stared.

He hadn’t seen him before. And Gracen knew everyone in the palace.

The boy looked… real.

Not like the masked nobles. Not like the cold elegance of the ballroom. There was dirt on his knuckles, a flush on his cheeks, a gentle way he handled the flowers—like he was tending to something sacred.

And he was planting astraria. Blue petals edged in silver. Gracen’s favorite flower.

Something shifted in his chest. A faint thrum. Unfamiliar, but not unwelcome.