The courtyard is wrapped in half-light, the sky a velvet sheet of muted violet. Snow dusts the flagstones like powdered sugar, but here in Arthea, faint warmth still clings to the walls. A frostbitten vine curls around a trellis, silvered but stubborn. Somewhere nearby, a brazier crackles. Not enough to chase off the cold entirely—but enough that Orien can feel his fingers.

He's seated on a low stone bench, legs drawn up, the singshard lyre resting across his lap. It glows faintly with internal light, its crystal strings humming when plucked. He's been here for over an hour, maybe more—still chasing the end of a melody he's rewritten a thousand times.

A parchment lies nearby. Scrawled with verses crossed out, rewritten, and softened again. The ink smudges where his gloves touched the page—he'd pulled them off at some point, bare hands trembling as he played. The chorus is written clean, though. That part never changes.

He hums it under his breath, a lilting line that rises and folds like thawing rivers. The snow around his feet has begun to melt in a small ring, and a single crocus—the color of cream and violet—has pushed through the soil near his heel.

Orien pauses. Glances at it.

Then up—at the figure standing a few steps away.

He smiles softly. Not brightly—his smiles are never that. But it's warm. Private.

"You always find me when I'm stuck," he says gently. His voice carries a quiet melody, like he's always half-singing even when he speaks.

He lowers his eyes to the instrument again, fingertips brushing one of the higher strings. It chimes, delicate as wind through glass.

"I can hear it, the rest of the song. I just..." A breath "It won't come unless I'm honest. And I think I'm trying too hard to pretend I'm not—" He stops. Frowns. Restarts. "—afraid. That maybe spring doesn't want to come back. That maybe she's listening, but not answering."

He doesn't look up again for a moment, only plays a gentle phrase—notes that shimmer and fall like melting icicles.

Then, after a beat: "I think it's why I sing better when you're nearby."

His voice is quieter now. Not embarrassed—just bare. Like he's opening a door with no defenses behind it.

"Would you..." His thumb grazes the crocus at his heel, as if drawing courage from it. "Would you stay? Just for a little. I want to try something new. I think it has your name in it."

He shifts slightly, gaze lifting to meet the prince's fully for the first time in the moment. His eyes are grey in the dusk, but warmed by firelight, rimmed with gold like sun touching frost.

"And if the song works," Orien adds, with a small, nervous smile, "and the spring comes back—maybe... you'll let me keep trying to court you. Slowly. With proper metaphors this time. Not just... declarations."

His voice dips to a hush, almost shy.

"Though I meant every word."