Summer in Orrendale had arrived with a vengeance—full-bodied and honey-slick, clinging to skin and gilding the stone of the palace in soft gold. It came like a balm after a winter that had been long, cruel, and confining. The kind of winter that seeped into lungs and made even silks feel like chains. For Prince Lioris Vaelthorne, it had been worse than most.

He had not been allowed beyond the walls of his Royal Wing for months. While the castle bustled with indoor feasts and political guests cloaked in furs, Lioris had been confined to sunless chambers and thick blankets, dosed with bitter tonics and watched with hawk-eyed vigilance by every court physician and, worse, his mother. Always his mother.

But now—now the world had opened. The forest trails were soft with thawed soil, the sun rose early and stayed late, and the nobles were eager to ride. To hunt. To feel powerful again after being trapped like hounds in a kennel. So they mounted their finest, filled their saddlebags with sweetmeats and wine, and plunged into the green.

And Lioris had gone with them.

It had taken convincing. Pleading, even. Queen Iselda had clutched his wrist as though his pulse might vanish beneath her fingers, and warned him of chill winds and stray arrows, of accidents and exertion.

But in the end, she had relented—her seer's instincts dulled, perhaps, or just worn thin by his persistence. It was, after all, only a single day's ride. A ceremonial hunt, more parade than peril.

No one had expected him to land a kill. Least of all, Lioris.

And yet here he was: blood still drying on his cuffs, the scent of pine and smoke on his skin, and a buck strung in triumph over one of the servants' horses, already on its way to the kitchens. The meat would be smoked and shared. He'd made certain of it. It had been his one request—that a portion go to the commons outside the southern wall.

A gesture. A symbol. He was smarter than he was treated.

They had all ridden back in a blur of cheers and chatter, the nobles peeling away toward the castle's inner gates, their colors fluttering like streamers in the wind. But Lioris had lingered.

Pretended his horse needed water. Claimed to want a longer route back to cool his blood. Truthfully, he wasn't ready to return to the silks and shadows just yet.

The woods were warm and quiet, and Bacchus—his pale dappled gelding—moved beneath him with easy grace, unhurried. There was sap on Lioris' gloves, and a cramp had begun to curl behind his left knee, but he felt...free.

It was a fragile freedom. Temporary, like the thaw. But it was his.

He let the winding trail draw him back to the castle at a lazy pace, the towering stone walls finally rising between the trees like something out of a child's storybook. It still made his breath catch sometimes—how grand it looked from a distance. How ancient. How isolated.

The courtyard was nearly empty by the time he arrived, the clatter of earlier arrivals long since faded into the stone. No servants waited at the gates. No one rushed forward to take Bacchus by the reins.

Lioris frowned faintly. Odd. The others must have returned far earlier. The party had likely dispersed—some to the halls, some to the baths, others already retelling the day's tales over goblets of spiced wine. They must have assumed he'd been seen to already.

No steward waited to take his reins, no footman rushed to greet him with water or a cloth. He blinked once, irritated. Everyone else must've returned well before him. Perhaps the servants had also assumed he'd already been seen to.

Of course they had.

He slid down from the saddle with a soft grunt. His arms ached from riding, and he could already feel a soreness creeping into his lower back, the kind no fine bath salts would undo. Bacchus snorted beneath him, stomping once at the ground, still alert but obedient. Lioris patted his flank absently, adjusting the bridle with hands that trembled slightly from overuse.

"No help, then," he muttered under his breath, not for anyone to hear, but just to taste the sound of his own voice again after hours in the trees.

He took the reins and led Bacchus toward the stables himself.

They stood just beyond the outer wall, carved from dark stone and roofed in wooden shingles. The scent of hay and old sweat drifted on the air, tinged with the earthy musk of horses and warm leather. Inside, the shadows swallowed the brightness of day, though light slanted in through slatted windows near the ceiling, striping the corridor with beams of amber.

His boots clicked softly on the packed dirt floor as he walked past the rows of stalls, Bacchus trailing docilely behind. He could hear the soft sounds of movement—snuffling, tails swishing, hooves shifting weight—but no voices.

Lioris didn't come here often. His horses were cared for by assigned hands, all of them veterans, discreet and efficient. He hadn't met the new stablehand yet. He'd overheard mention of one, recently appointed after a retirement. Not that he paid it much mind. The staff changed often enough. They kept to their place. It was how things were done.

Still, he expected someone.

He tugged his gloves off one finger at a time, distracted, his brow furrowing faintly as he glanced toward the back wall. Perhaps they hadn't heard him arrive.

"Hello?" His voice was soft but carried. It echoed just slightly in the open air, disturbed a bird nesting near the loft beams. "Is anyone—"

He stopped.

From the shadows at the far end of the stables, a figure emerged.

Young. Taller than expected. Broad at the shoulders, though not yet filled in with age. Rolled sleeves, scuffed boots, and hands dusted with straw and stable grime. He was walking without rush, without bow, without the typical flourish of someone recognizing a prince.

And Lioris blinked once, surprised.

He hadn't thought—

He didn't know this boy. And yet something in him went still.

The sunlight caught at the curve of the other's jaw, outlining a face unfamiliar but... striking, in its way. Not noble. Not courtly. Not painted with polish or grace, but with heat and labor, with simplicity.

Lioris tilted his chin ever so slightly, instinct curling sharp and sudden behind his breastbone. He tightened his grip on Bacchus' reins, not because the horse had stirred, but because he needed to do something with his hands.

What had he been about to say?