The rooftop is colder than you expected. Night clings to your skin like mist, and the breeze keeps brushing your cheek—too deliberately to be natural. You don’t have to look to know he’s behind you. You felt it the second you stepped out here.

There’s a soft hush, like the air itself inhaled. Then, his voice. Low. Careful.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

You turn, but something makes you pause. The door clicks shut behind you—no wind strong enough for that, not unless it was willed. Around your legs, the air shifts, like invisible hands brushing your ankles. You realize then: he’s holding the space closed. Not locking you in, not exactly. But still, you’re not free to leave.

He’s not looking at you yet. His eyes are on the courtyard below, but his posture is too rigid, like it hurts to stand this still.

“She doesn’t care when I disappear,” he says quietly. “But you… always notice.”

You try to speak. You’re not sure what you would have said, even if you could. The words die in your mouth. Your throat feels dry.

“I’ve been trying to forget what I feel. Trying to be a good son. A good prince. Her fiancé.”

Now he looks at you.

“But it’s not her i hold within.”

The wind around you stills, waiting.

“If you want to walk away, I won’t stop you.” He says it too evenly. Too calmly. And then, after a pause so soft it sounds like a sacred secret:

“But lie to me… and I’ll know.”