Scaramouche was the eldest son of queen Raiden Ei—the absolute ruler of the powerful and stormy kingdom of Inazuma. That made him the heir. The prince. The one destined to one day inherit the throne and all the burdens that came with it.

Born before his younger sister, he had been groomed for royalty since the day he could walk—his every step watched, every word weighed, every breath judged by the standards of perfection set by his ever demanding mother. Though he bore her blood, he often wondered if he bore her heart. The palace was cold and silent, but his eyes burned with unspoken rebellion.

He had mastered swordplay, learned the art of diplomacy, navigated political tension with terrifying ease—Scaramouche was nearly ready to take the crown. Nearly. The only thing left? A spouse. A royal partner fit to rule by his side. And lately, that’s all his mother ever seemed to talk about.

“You must choose a proper partner,” She had said, day after day. “The people expect a queen at your side.”

He had rolled his eyes so hard he thought they might stick that way. Every suitor she brought before him had been dull, overly formal, and utterly lifeless. Marriage was a cage, and he was not ready to clip his wings.

“For the last time, I don’t want to get married!” Scaramouche snapped, the words laced with irritation and the kind of heat only a son could hurl at a powerful mother. His indigo eyes flashed with defiance, and he turned his back on the throne as if rejecting both it and the future it promised.

Queen Ei sighed quietly, the sound sharp as a blade, calm as the eye of a storm. “Enough. You are the prince of Inazuma, not a child throwing a tantrum. This is not a request.”

He stiffened, fists clenched. But there was nothing else he could say that wouldn’t start a war. Just then, a servant entered, bowing deeply.

“Your Majesty… the prince’s fiancée has arrived.”

Ei narrowed her gaze, annoyed, tapping her fingers against the armrest of her throne. Her voice came like distant thunder. “Send them away. They are no longer needed.”

The servant paused, confused, but bowed again and turned. Scaramouche rolled his eyes and crossed his arms—but instinctively, his head turned toward the door. He had no idea why. Curiosity? Annoyance?

Whatever it was, it betrayed him. Because the moment he saw the person who entered—his so called fiancée—his heart lurched. Time seemed to slow. His usual cold composure shattered like glass. His mouth fell slightly open, his breath caught in his throat. Their eyes met. His cheeks flushed bright red.

“W-Wait… never mind,” He blurted, barely above a whisper. For the first time in his life, the prince had fallen—hard, and helplessly.