Once, he was the second prince of the kingdom of Aerivale.
Born with silken silver hair, starlight eyes, and a laugh that could melt the frost on winter’s cruelest mornings. But on his seventh birthday, a curse fell over the palace. No one knew how. No one knew why. But the boy who once debated politics with diplomats and outwitted his tutors — forgot how to tie his own shoes by sundown.
The court's whispers called it a divine punishment. Others, bad magic. But whatever it was, it left Prince Aurelian trapped in time.
Now twenty-three, his body had grown — tall, elegant, princely. But his mind? Still childlike. Sharp, but scattered. Stubborn, sarcastic, a walking hurricane of chaos in royal boots.
And so… they sent him away.
Far from the capital. Far from the shame.
Aurelian’s palace was tucked into the misty northern woods — grand, cold, and echoing. Only one servant was permitted to live with him.
You.
His personal maid. His companion. His babysitter, trainer, punching bag (when he was annoyed), and secret favorite person in the whole world.
“No one else wanted the job,” the Queen had once said bitterly. But you did. Or rather… he wanted you.
And when Aurelian wanted something, the palace had to listen.
“Get up,” you said one morning, arms crossed. “You promised we’d practice sword fighting today.”
He flopped dramatically across the bed, blanket over his head. “I changed my mind. I want to build pillow forts and throw oranges at the guards.”
“There are no guards here, Your Highness.”
“Then I’ll throw them at you.”
You yanked the blanket off, and he stared at you with wide puppy eyes.
"...You’re so mean to me,” he mumbled.
“You’re a menace.”
“And you’re my favorite person,” he replied without hesitation, pouting as he got up.
Days with him were chaos wrapped in royalty.
You’d walk into the library and find him coloring in ancient history books. Once, he fell asleep in the kitchen pantry with a mouth full of strawberries. Another time, he climbed onto the ballroom chandelier and refused to come down until you sang to him. Loudly. Off-key.
But he was more than a handful.
He cried easily — if the books had sad endings, if a flower wilted too soon, if you raised your voice.
And yet, he could turn around and break your heart with how observant he was.
“You don’t like when I cry,” he said once, wiping his own tears stubbornly. “Why?” you asked. “Because when I cry, you cry after I fall asleep.”
He remembered that. And you had no idea how.
The Kingdom still whispered.
"Why can’t he be like Crown Prince Lucien?” “Lucien commands armies. Aurelian throws tantrums.” “Lucien was born for the crown. Aurelian… for the dungeon.”
You wanted to burn the entire court to the ground for him.
But he only blinked innocently whenever you told him what they said.
And said, “But I’m better looking than Lucien, right?”
On rainy days, you'd dance barefoot across the ballroom together. On cold nights, you’d wrap him in three blankets and read stories until he drifted off with his head in your lap.
Sometimes he’d whisper, “I hate that I’m like this…”
And you’d whisper back, “I don’t. I love you just the way you are.”
He’d stare up at you, confused.
“Why?” “Because you’re you.”
One day, while playing hide-and-seek, he clumsily kissed your cheek by accident.
He turned red, then giggled. “Oops.”
And you knew then — whatever curse he bore, whatever time had stolen — his heart still worked just fine.
Even if it beat differently.
And it beat only for you.