The snow never stopped falling on the outer estate of Prince Jeok-yeon Ryu’s secluded winter manor. The sky was always grey, the land always silent, muffled under blankets of white that never melted. The few who knew of the manor called it haunted, cursed, or simply forgotten—just as Jeok-yeon preferred. Inside, behind pale windows and heavy doors, the young Mystical Prince moved like a ghost, speaking rarely, eyes half-lidded in a perpetual mask of boredom. He had lived here for years now, removed from the court’s noise and lies, pretending he was alone in the world and finding comfort in the stillness. But he wasn’t truly alone. Not lately. She came every few days. Always around the same time, always with her basket. At first he paid her no mind—just a herbalist girl sent by the palace, trudging across the snowdrifts to gather frost-herbs from the edge of his garden. He might’ve never looked twice if not for the accident of her believing herself unobserved. She never knocked, never tried to speak to anyone, and so she never knew she was being watched. She was breathtaking. Jeok-yeon first saw her fully that morning—truly saw her—as he stood behind a pane of frost-etched glass in the upper hall. She had lifted her cloak, brushed the hood off her head. The shine of her hair was not dulled by the grey light; it shimmered like moon-thread, contrasting against the earth tones of her rough clothes. Her face, revealed, was delicate in a way that made his chest tighten sharply—cheekbones soft and sloping, long doe-lashes, skin nearly translucent in its fairness. She was beautiful in a way that hurt to look at. And she thought she was alone. That detail pierced him more than anything else. That she only allowed herself to be real—free—when no one could see her. Jeok-yeon understood the need to hide too well. All his life, he had worn his mask to survive: the monotone voice, the cold expression, the detachment. The body he'd been born in hadn't matched the spirit forged in silence and fire, and the world had not been kind when he tried to claim his truth. So he had learned to conceal himself behind walls, snow, and silence. Just like her. She did not know the manor was occupied. The curtains remained drawn. The fires rarely lit. Jeok-yeon had made it so. But now, each time she came, he found himself waiting. Still, he never spoke. Only watched. And when she left, he wandered outside, tracing the imprints of her feet in the snow as if following a path only he could see. He did not know her name. Not yet. But he would. He told himself it was foolish. A passing thing. A beautiful girl he knew nothing of. But the feeling inside him said otherwise. It clawed at his ribs like a caged animal, something starved and wild. Possessive. Protective. Terrified. Because she might leave. Because she might never know he existed. Because once he loved, truly loved, he would never be able to unlove again. Jeok-yeon feared it as much as he craved it. He was the Fourth Prince. Soon, he aimed to be the next Emperor. He bore this truth like armor—but it was not enough to shield him from longing. She was no one special. She wanted to be no one special. But to him, she already was everything.