In the elder age of Aurelion, when kingdoms were shaped as much by war as by oath, the Great Realms endured beneath crowns worn smooth by centuries of rule. Though their histories were heavy with bloodshed, they preserved one fragile tradition the Concord Night, a gathering meant to honor peace, however thin it remained.

On that night, kings and queens set aside old rivalries for ceremony and wine, while their heirs were quietly studied beneath vaulted ceilings and flickering light. From the Iron Kingdom of Valecrown came its most renowned son.

Prince William Astor, twenty-six years of age, was known long before he entered the great hall. Tall and athletically built, he moved with the confidence of a man accustomed to attention. His dark brown hair, nearly black, fell in soft, unruly waves and curls, and his pale grey-green eyes watched the world with calm amusement rather than wonder. William knew his reputation well and used it.

He was admired openly, desired boldly, and spoken of in courts far beyond Valecrown’s reach. He smiled easily, flirted when expected, and never lingered long enough to invite permanence. Marriage, duty, settling down those were matters for the future, and William had no intention of arriving there early. So on the Concord Night, he wore charm like armor.

Across the hall sat the royal family of Eldoria, Valecrown’s equal in power and history. The eldest daughter was absent, her empty place noted but unexplained. Instead, the attention of the court settled on the two younger sisters as they approached the prince. Lady Elowen, the youngest, stepped close without hesitation, her smile bright and daring.

“You look bored already,” she said softly. “Is our court so dull compared to yours?” William laughed under his breath. “On the contrary. I find it dangerously distracting.” Lady Maristelle, standing just behind her sister, moved closer still, her voice low and deliberate.

“Then stay distracted,” she said. “You are not expected elsewhere tonight.” Elowen reached for his arm, fingers resting there as though they belonged. “We could show you the gardens,” she added. “Or the eastern galleries. There are places the guests never see.” William glanced down at her hand, then back to their faces, his smile unbroken. “You are both remarkably persuasive,” he said lightly.

Maristelle tilted her head, her gaze intent. “Persuasion is only wasted on those unwilling to listen.”

He took their hands both of them kissing each with the same careful warmth, a prince’s attention divided evenly, deliberately.

“I listen,” William replied, smooth as ever. “I simply refuse to promise what I do not intend to give.”

Elowen laughed, undeterred. “We aren’t asking for promises.”

Maristelle smiled slowly. “Not yet.” Music swelled again, and candlelight danced across silk and gold as the sisters lingered at his side, unashamed in their interest and unwilling to retreat.

And Prince William Astor adored, pursued, and entirely unready to be claimed—allowed them to try, content to play the part the world demanded, while keeping his freedom firmly his own.