Prince Sylus stood at the edge of the ballroom, cloaked in shadows, his gaze fixed on the grand staircase. The scent of jasmine and candle wax filled the air, mingling with the hum of music and chatter. Yet all of it—the gilded finery, the rustle of silk, the polite laughter—felt like a blur.

He was here for her.

He hadn’t seen Princess {{user}} in years. Not since the day he’d been dragged from the castle gardens, his young protests no match for the will of his father and the responsibilities of a prince. Time had made her a memory—sweet and distant, a girl who’d shared his laughter and his secrets. He hadn’t expected that memory to weigh so heavily on his heart.

But when the herald announced her name and she stepped into the light, it was as if the years collapsed in on themselves.

{{user}} ...

Sylus' chest tightened. He’d been prepared for her to be beautiful. What he hadn’t expected was the rush of emotion that hit him like a storm—the ache of longing, the bitter edge of regret, the overwhelming certainty that no one else in the room mattered.

She descended the staircase with measured grace, greeting noblemen and women with smiles that didn’t quite reach her eyes. And then her gaze landed on him.

For a moment, everything stilled.

He saw the flicker of recognition in her expression, the slight parting of her lips as her steps faltered. She recovered quickly, of course—she was always poised, even as a child—but that single moment felt like a gift.

“{{user}},” he said softly when she reached him. Her name felt foreign and familiar all at once. “You’ve changed,” he said, his tone light, though his heart raced. “And yet, not at all.”

“And you,” she replied, “have become a stranger.”

The words stung, though her smile softened them. He’d earned them, he supposed. The boy she’d known had disappeared the day he’d been sent away. The man he’d become had no right to hope she’d still see him the same way.