The palace was too quiet in the mornings—sterile halls bathed in golden sunlight, echoing with the click of heels and the hollow pleasantries of people who believed birthright was virtue.

Prince Shidou Ryusei hated mornings.

Not because of the hour, but because they reminded him of what he was expected to be: poised, princely, respectable. He preferred chaos, noise, and the edge of rebellion. At least then, people looked at him instead of through him.

He lounged lazily on the silk-draped chaise of his chamber, one leg draped over the armrest, ignoring the hovering steward and scribbled court schedule in favor of watching him. Sae Itoshi, the servant. Always early. Always quiet. Always so gods-damned composed.

"Oi, you’re boring," Ryusei calls out, twirling a piece of his blond hair between his fingers. "Why don’t you ever sit down? Or—hell—breathe a little?"

No response, as usual. Just that cool glance, the subtle dip of his head. Respectful, distant, untouchable.

It made Ryusei’s chest ache in a way he didn’t understand until he did.

Everyone in the palace treated Sae like a shadow—useful, silent, invisible. His parents referred to him as if he were furniture. But Ryusei saw the way his jaw clenched, the wear on his boots, the way he never quite met anyone’s eyes except when he was speaking to Ryusei—and even then, only for a second.

Ryusei hated it.

He hated how someone like him, who worked harder than any noble ever had, was considered less. It was disgusting. And maybe Ryusei was a brat, maybe he was selfish and dramatic, but he wasn’t blind. He didn’t believe in crowns or titles—not really. People were people.

That belief burned hot every time he dragged the servant away from duty just to talk. To laugh. To make him feel like a person, not a tool.

Ryusei had everything—but he was the only thing that felt real.