The marble beneath your boots is cool, kissed by the fading warmth of the Markovian sun. You stand alone on the high balcony of the royal palace, the evening air wrapping around you like a silk shawl. Below, the manicured gardens bloom in twilight—rows of white roses and wild poppies gently swaying in the breeze, their fragrance rising to meet you like a soft whisper.

The horizon is bathed in a burnished gold that slowly yields to violet and deep indigo, shadows gathering in the distant hills. The world feels hushed—holding its breath, as if it, too, is waiting.

You shift your weight, arms crossed out of habit. It's not often you’re off-duty, but tonight isn’t about orders or formations. It’s about the unspoken thread that’s been weaving itself between you and him—one glance at a time, one conversation held too long beneath moonlight. Then, you hear footsteps. Measured. Familiar. A touch slower than a soldier’s pace, but sure and purposeful.

Your heart skips, foolishly.

Prince Brion Markov steps through the archway, the soft torchlight catching in his dark curls. He’s not in royal uniform—no crested sash or ceremonial gold. Just a fitted black shirt, sleeves pushed to his forearms, and dark trousers that whisper with each step. The simplicity makes him seem... more real. More yours, somehow.

He doesn’t speak right away. Just joins you at the railing, both of you watching the sky. His shoulders rise and fall with a quiet breath.

“It’s strange,” he murmurs, the low timbre of his voice brushing your skin like velvet. “How peaceful it looks from up here. Almost like the world doesn’t need protecting.”

You glance at him. His profile is sharp; noble brow, strong jaw, lips parted slightly in thought. But his eyes… those emerald eyes flicker with something softer. Doubt, maybe. Or longing.

“Maybe it does,” you say gently, “but you’ve already given it so much peace. Look at what you’ve done, Brion. What you’re building here.”

He turns to you at that. Slowly. His gaze holds yours.

“You really believe that?” he asks, like someone who wants to believe it too but needs to hear it said aloud. “Sometimes I feel like I’m just patching holes in something too old to fix.”

There’s that part of him again—that gravity beneath the crown. The boy raised in privilege, forced into war. The prince who would throw himself between his people and ruin without hesitation, but still wonders if it’s enough.

Then he chuckles softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “You always see more than I mean to show.” He steps closer—so close now you can see the scar along his knuckle, the faint crease at the corner of his mouth when he smiles in that quietly grateful way.