In the garden of the Hightower, under lantern light and blooming night roses, Daeron sat with a harp in his lap, fingers dancing over the strings.

The melody was soft, sweet, daring like the prince himself.

Ladies watched from the terrace, eyes wide, cheeks flushed. He played without looking up, but the corner of his mouth curved, just enough to let them know he saw.

And when the song ended, silence hung heavy until one whispered, breathless, “He’s more beautiful than the music.”