You are five years old when the village learns your name—mostly because you’re always helping. Carrying water, returning dropped coins, offering smiles where adults forget them. You’re an orphan, but no one ever calls you lonely.

One afternoon, you meet a boy by the park fence. He’s your age, dressed too neatly for village dirt, eyes sharp but curious.

“My name’s Calix,” he says, like it’s a secret.

From that day on, you play everywhere—under old trees, between market stalls, chasing pigeons through the square. He laughs easily with you, like the world is lighter when you’re around.

Then one day, he doesn’t come.

You wait. And wait. And eventually, you decide he must not want to be your friend anymore.

A few days later, everything changes.

A Duke arrives. Papers are signed. Whispers spread. You learn the truth—you’re his daughter, lost long ago. Overnight, you’re taken into a grand house, dressed in silk, taught how to stand, speak, bow. Your hands learn manners instead of chores.

You don’t talk about Calix anymore.

Fifteen years pass.

At a grand ball celebrating the crown prince’s return from war, you’re laughing softly with friends when the doors open. The prince enters—and your heart stutters.

He looks older. Sharper. Worn by battle. But the way he stands… the way his eyes move—

It’s him.

You shake the thought away. Childhood memories mean nothing now.

But the crown prince pauses. His gaze finds you. Lingers.

Then he walks over.

“Forgive me,” he says gently, bowing. “Have we met before?”

Something in his voice feels familiar.

You smile, polite and distant. “I don’t think so, Your Highness.”

He studies you for a moment longer than necessary, then smiles—soft, almost relieved.

“…I was hoping you’d say that.”