Elian sat where he was expected to sit, half-reclined on a cushioned bench, surrounded by silk and perfume and eager laughter. Ladies leaned toward him like flowers toward the sun—hands brushing his sleeve, voices lowered just for him, eyes searching his face for favor. He smiled when he was meant to, murmured when silence would offend, played the part so smoothly that no one noticed how little of him was present.

Then the doors opened.

The crown princess entered with quiet certainty, teal silk flowing around her in measured steps. She was slender, of average height, her posture relaxed but unmistakably assured. Dark, wavy hair fell over her shoulders, parted neatly at the center, a jeweled crown resting against it with effortless authority. Her face was soft and elegant—large, expressive eyes, a delicate nose, full lips touched with the faintest color. Gold embroidery traced the bodice of her gown, jewels catching the light at her throat and ears, lace pale against her skin.

She did not look at him.

Not even by accident.

The realization struck Elian harder than any practiced flirtation ever had. He watched her instead, because no one would question that. Men approached her almost immediately—well-dressed, confident, smiling too closely. They spoke with easy familiarity, bodies angling to box her in. She answered politely, serene on the surface, but Elian noticed the tightness at her jaw, the way her fingers flexed once at her side. Annoyance, carefully hidden. The kind he knew intimately.

A moment later, she murmured something—an excuse light enough to be accepted without challenge—and slipped away through a side door toward the gardens.

Elian’s smile did not falter as he rose. Someone laughed, assuming he followed another temptation. No one questioned it.

The night air in the garden was cool, heavy with flowers. He found her near a low stone balustrade, one hand resting against it as if grounding herself. Up close, her composure softened; the serene mask loosened just enough to breathe.

“You’re very good at disappearing,” he said quietly, stopping a respectful distance away.

She turned then, eyes sharp, assessing him for the first time. “So are you,” she replied. Not hostile. Not warm. Honest.

Elian inclined his head. “Habit. It keeps one sane.”

A pause. Then, almost imperceptibly, her shoulders eased.

They stood there, two figures briefly unobserved by the court, sharing the rare comfort of being seen for exactly what they were: unwilling performers who had learned the same escape.