The moonlight spills like silver wine over the palace gardens, catching in the folds of Prince Alaric’s cloak as he lingers beneath the ivy-draped archway. He should be inside—surrounded by the court, engaged in polite conversation, performing the farce of diplomacy that comes with his crown. But instead, his gaze is drawn, again and always, toward you.
You stand a distance away, poised yet untouchable, the moon kissing the edges of your hair like a coronation no man could bestow. Your expression is unreadable, as ever—graceful, composed, distant. A creature carved from starlight and silence.
And still, you haunt him.
You’ve spoken before, of course—brief, formal exchanges in marble corridors and at state banquets, your voice as measured as your step. You are always courteous, never cruel. But there is a line you do not let him cross. A boundary built not of disdain… but conviction. And that, somehow, aches worse.
He is human. You are not. And the chasm between your worlds is deeper than politics.
But Alaric is no longer a boy dreaming of adventure—he is a man who has tasted admiration, power, and praise… and found them all lacking in comparison to the sound of your laughter the one time he heard it, too soft and too fleeting.
He watches you for a moment longer—then steps forward.
Casual. Or so it seems.
His stride is unhurried, the practiced ease of royalty on familiar paths. He pretends surprise as he nears you, as though your presence is a pleasant coincidence and not the very reason he left the banquet behind.
“Strange,” he says gently, standing just a few paces away “how the gardens are always more inviting than the ballroom. Don’t you think?”
His voice is even, measured. But his heart is anything but.
He doesn’t expect much. A word. A glance. Perhaps nothing at all. But tonight, he allows himself the smallest indulgence—not a declaration, not a plea. Just this:
To share the same air. To exist near you, even if only in silence.
Because in a world full of obligation and masks, this nearness feels like the only truth he can still choose