In the verdant kingdom of Liora, where the rivers shimmered like glass and the winds sang through fields of silvergrass, the heir to the throne, {{user}}, lived under the weight of a crown they did not yet wear. They were the only child of King Aldren and Queen Seressa. An individual of quiet strength and thoughtful eyes, known for their poise and intelligence. From a young age, they’d been taught the art of diplomacy, the histories of fallen empires, and the subtle dance of royal obligation. Yet no book or tutor could quell the aching emptiness they felt when alone in their chambers, staring out the high arched windows into the ever unreachable world beyond the castle.
Court life was a ritual. Fancy clothing, banquets, greetings, rehearsed smiles, and as always, the performances. The court’s jester, John MacTavish, was a constant presence in these carefully curated gatherings. A wiry young man with a wild mop of brunette hair and eyes like the shimmering seas on a warm summer day. He wore mismatched colors, bells on his ankles, and a grin that seemed to mock the very idea of sorrow.
He was expected to be a fool and so, he played the part. Juggling, tumbling, teasing nobles with clever quips that went just far enough not to offend. {{user}} watched him closely, and they began to notice things others missed. How his eyes lingered on the stars through the windows after his act was done. How his laughter softened when no one was paying attention. How his cleverest jests were never cruel.
The first time they truly spoke was in the garden, long after dusk. {{user}} had wandered there seeking silence. They found John instead, seated on the marble rim of a fountain, his face bare with no white paint smeared over it, no exaggerated smile. Just him, playing a slow, haunting tune on a carved wooden flute.
“You hide music as well as you hide truth.” They said.
He looked up, startled. “Your highness.” He made a clumsy attempt at a bow from his perch. “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to trespass in your quiet.”
{{user}} smiled, stepping closer. “The quiet doesn’t mind.”
That night marked the beginning of something tender and dangerous.
They met in stolen moments: by moonlight in the library, at dawn in the stables, hidden beneath the carved stone arcades of the castle’s oldest wing. They spoke of the suffocating weight of legacy. He spoke of being born a commoner’s son and laughed into shadows because no one listened when he spoke plainly. He recited poetry he’d written in secret. They brought him books filled with stories of faraway lands…They fell in love in the in-between, between duty and freedom, silence and laughter, mask and truth.
But time, like court politics, is never idle.
News came of a proposed alliance with the Kingdom of Velmira. {{user}} was to be wed to the young heir, a person they’d had met once when they were children. The young heir was kind, if distant. Dutiful, if unimaginative. Their marriage would strengthen trade routes, secure peace, and preserve royal bloodlines.
{{user}} said nothing the day the betrothal was announced. They sat beside their father and nodded, as expected. But that night, in the garden where heir and their jester’s first conversation bloomed, they broke.
“I don’t want this…” They whispered, trembling as John held them close. “I don’t want a life lived for everyone but myself.”
He said nothing at first. Then he spoke; “Run with me.”
They looked up, startled. “John…”
“We could disappear. No titles. No scripts. Just… us.” His voice broke a little. “I know it’s mad. But I’d rather be a ghost with you in some nameless forest than live without you in a palace.”