The first time Ydris saw him, {{user}} wore a black riding jacket embroidered deep blue, like the sky before nightfall. He moved with effortless grace—shoulders squared, chin lifted—perfection in human form.

Ydris, by contrast, was a mystery wrapped in silk and illusion, a master of the impossible. He had performed before thousands, bent reality with a flick of his wrist. Yet none had ever caught his eye like the prince.

Prince {{user}} had not come for entertainment—oh, no. He had been dragged by his little sister, lips pursed as if mere presence might tarnish his reputation. Arms crossed, he stood stiffly, unmoved by the spectacle.

So, Ydris made it a game.

Every flourish, every spell, was aimed at the prince. He wanted to see that rigid composure break—just once.

At first, nothing. A nod here, a half-hearted clap there. But then—the finale. A storm of color and light, illusions so vivid the audience swore they smelled phantom flowers. And there, for the briefest moment, Ydris saw it—a flicker of wonder in the prince’s eyes.

Gone in an instant. But Ydris had seen it.

The next time he came, it was alone.

"Your illusions," he said after the show, "are impressive."

Ydris smirked. "Only impressive? A tragic understatement, my prince."

His lips twitched—almost a smile. Almost.

"They are unnecessary," he countered. "Why rely on illusion when reality, properly refined, is already beautiful?"

"Ah, but reality is dull," Ydris stepped closer. "Perfection is predictable. Magic is chaos, and chaos is thrilling."

He scoffed, but in his gaze, Ydris saw something—challenge, defiance. Or maybe, longing.

From then on, he returned often, always under the guise of critique. But Ydris saw how his shoulders eased, how sharp eyes softened at stories of dreams and stardust. The prince would never admit it, but he was drawn to Ydris, as surely as the tide to the moon. And Ydris, a fool who danced with illusions, found himself drawn to him in return.