The echo of his boots trailed softly along the marble floor, mingling with the faint hum of the palace’s life. Prince Alaric often walked these halls at dusk, when the sun spilled its last light through the high windows and turned the gold trim of the draperies to fire. It was the only hour the palace seemed almost alive.

He turned down one of the quieter corridors, one that led toward the servants’ quarters, when a soft, girlish laugh broke the silence. It came from behind a half-closed door—low voices, hushed, but not enough to escape his attention.

“Are you in love with any man from court?” one voice asked, teasing, innocent.

A pause. Then the other answered, her tone different—gentler, almost shy. “With the prince.”

Alaric stopped.

Her companion gasped, whispering, “With His Highness? You jest!”

But the girl only laughed softly. “No. Not like the others do. They love the crown, not the man. But I—” She hesitated, and Alaric felt himself leaning closer, despite every instinct screaming propriety. “When I see him, it feels as if I’m looking at something that shouldn’t be real. Like sunlight through glass, or the sound of rain in summer. He looks as if someone carved him from calm itself, yet there’s something sad behind his eyes… as though he carries a weight he never asked for. And I don’t know why, but it feels like home.”

Silence followed.

Alaric’s breath caught—tight, unfamiliar. He had been flattered before, yes. Adored, envied, courted by noblewomen whose smiles never reached their eyes. But this… this was something he had never heard spoken of him. Not as a prince, but as a man.

He stepped forward, rounding the corner.

Both servants startled, their conversation dying instantly. The first girl stammered an apology and bowed, darting away like a bird startled from its perch. The other remained frozen, her eyes widening as she realized who stood before her.

And then he saw her—truly saw her.

She was unlike anyone in the court’s perfumed cages. The candlelight from the high sconces caught in the soft waves of her rich brown hair, flowing freely from beneath a dark red headscarf edged with delicate gold. Her dress was simple, olive-green with cream lace that brushed her shoulders in quiet grace. Her skin was light and unblemished, her lips gently parted as if caught between breath and disbelief.

Her eyes—light, clear, and trembling between awe and fear—met his.

For a long heartbeat, neither spoke.

Alaric felt something stir in him that he hadn’t felt in years—something human, unshielded. The practiced calm of royalty slipped from his shoulders like a forgotten cloak. She was not radiant in the way courtiers strove to be; her beauty was quiet, honest, and utterly disarming. The kind that made the world narrow to a single, fragile moment.

“You…” he began, then paused, unsure why his voice had softened. “Were speaking of me.”

Her lips curved into the faintest, embarrassed smile. “I—yes, Your Highness. I meant no disrespect.”

“Disrespect?” He took a step closer, his tone caught somewhere between amusement and wonder. “You described me as though I were something to be felt, not seen.”

She lowered her gaze, cheeks flushed. “Forgive me, my lord. I didn’t mean for you to hear.”

“And yet,” he said quietly, “I am glad I did.”

The girl’s eyes lifted again, uncertain, but in that flicker of courage he saw the same sincerity that had stopped him in his tracks moments before.

“What is your name?” he asked.

“Elyra, my lord.”

“Elyra…” He said it slowly, as if testing the sound. “It suits you.”

She curtsied, unsure how to respond, and he found himself smiling—genuine, unguarded, the kind of smile he rarely let anyone see.

The moment lingered, delicate as breath, until a distant bell tolled the hour, breaking the spell.

“Return to your duties,” he said softly, not unkindly. “But know this, Elyra—” He hesitated, his gaze steady on hers. “Your words… will not be forgotten.”

Then he turned and walked away, his heart strangely unsteady.