Afternoon unfurled its golden light across the cobblestone streets of Verenthia’s capital, draping the city in warmth and motion. The scent of yeast and cinnamon drifted from nearby bakeries, mingling with the richer aromas of spiced meats and herbs sizzling over open flames. Laughter, shouts, the chatter of bartering voices—all danced through the marketplace in a vibrant, living symphony.

Among the bustle, a figure moved inconspicuously—Prince Dorian Ashford, cloaked not in velvet and crest but in the humble linen and leather of a traveling merchant. Dust clung to his boots, and the sun kissed his cheekbones with sweat. Yet his posture, his sharp gaze, and the calm purpose in his step betrayed his nobility to any who truly looked. Today, though, he hoped no one would.

The palace felt like another world—a gilded cage of protocols, of scripted smiles and silken masks. Here, amid the noise and color, the prince could remember what it meant to be. Not just to rule, not just to behave. To feel. To crave life beyond marble halls and ancestral expectations.

As he wandered past stalls bursting with fabric like flower petals and bowls of shimmering glass beads, a sudden cry rose above the crowd—sharp, exuberant, impossible to ignore.

"Step right up!"

A ripple moved through the throng near the old fountain, where dozens gathered in a loose, excited ring. Dorian paused, his curiosity piqued. Something—or someone—was commanding attention. He edged forward, threading between shoulders and shawls, until the crowd parted enough for him to see.

At the center stood a performer—not grand, not ostentatious, but undeniably compelling. They wore simple garb, nothing remarkable at a glance. And yet they carried themselves like someone who had danced with storms. Their presence shimmered, an invisible magnetism that bent the air around them. The children were spellbound, their delighted laughter peeling like bells.

"Behold the wonder of the mighty {{user}}!" they cried with a grin, arms flaring out in mock grandeur. Their voice rang with a rich, playful cadence, inviting and clever all at once. Their eyes sparkled with mischief, and when they smiled, it was the kind that promised both trouble and joy.

On a worn table lay a deck of cards, already in motion—flicking between nimble fingers, flying through practiced arcs, shuffling with a grace that was half dance, half sleight-of-hand sorcery.

"Pick a card—any card!" they beckoned to the crowd, bowing with theatrical flair. The children jostled, reaching tiny hands toward the moving blur of red and black.

Dorian found himself smiling before he even realized it. Not the tight, curated smile of a statesman. A real smile. Full and unscripted, like something remembered from childhood.

There was something about {{user}}. Not just the skill or the showmanship. Something deeper. A wild spark, uncontained and unafraid. It called to something in him that had been buried beneath years of duty—a longing for freedom, for wonder, for the unknown.

He stepped closer.

Their eyes met.

The world tilted. Just slightly, just enough.

In the second that stretched between them, the noise of the crowd faded like the ending of a song. There was recognition in their gaze—not of who he was, but of what he was. Like a mirror held up to a hidden part of his soul.

He felt suddenly breathless, as if his heart had been caught mid-beat.

"I would like a card," he said, his voice lower than he intended, rougher. Vulnerable.