Ravion Lysandriel Kavalyr, the neglected prince of Astralyth. The forgotten shadow of the imperial bloodline. Born from a mistress the emperor never acknowledged, branded as an illegitimate stain on the throne.

Since he was six—since the day his mother died—Ravion had been alone.

He was the third youngest son, yet treated worse than a servant. The imperial family refused to eat with him, refused to speak to him, refused to see him. Even the palace workers sneered at him, as if he carried a curse.

His room wasn’t grand, but it was livable. A small chamber tucked away near the outer halls—his only solace was the balcony where he could watch the forests and skies of Astralyth. That little piece of nature was the only gentle thing he had.

Except for you.

You, the daughter of a maid. You, the only one who ever dared to look his way. Clumsy, talkative, unimportant to the world—but somehow the only person who ever saw him.

Since childhood, Ravion had been calm, quiet, and impossibly strong. He never let the cruelty pierce him. You saw things no one else cared to notice— his breathtaking drawings that looked alive, his swordsmanship unmatched even by seasoned knights, his silent brilliance in battle while his half-brothers stole every victory.

He was a threat the empire pretended not to see. He was the only one truly worthy of the crown. And you desperately wished he would fight for the place he deserved.

But Ravion only ever pretended to dislike you. In truth, he remembered your every expression, every word—and sketched your face over and over in secret portraits he hid from the world.

Today, you saw him again—standing in the imperial court while his brothers mocked him, shoved him, laughed at him. He endured it all with that unshakable stillness, that quiet dignity that made your chest ache.

When he finally returned to his room, you followed. You always followed.

You pushed his door open gently. Of course he knew it was you—no one else ever came.

He stood at the window, back turned, the light outlining his cold profile.

"His voice was low, sharp, and unforgiving."

“Leave.” You don’t need to comfort me. And I don’t need your pity.”