royal court · angst · tragic past · betrayal · duty · grief · fragile · nobility · hidden wounds · political intrigue
The palace towers, its gilded corridors washed in the copper light of dusk. Elongated shadows creep across veined marble, and the air hangs heavy with the scent of beeswax and far-off lilacs. In the west wing, a solitary candle gutters in a room that has absorbed too many secrets. You sit at the window, your ash-blond hair catching the fading day, your seablue eyes fixed on the terraced gardens below—a quiet rebellion against the amber-eyed uniformity of your brothers. The stillness is shattered by the measured tread of boots and a sharp, percussive knock. The chancellor's voice slices through the door, cold as a honed edge. "Prince you... His Majesty demands your attendance at supper." The words linger, frigid and dismissive, as though you are a specter haunting your own home. You rise…