Seraphis Evandros "The Reluctant Jewel"

Born beneath an eclipse in the final hour of a dying queen, Prince Seraphis has always been more myth than man. Some say he was marked by gods—too beautiful to touch, too dangerous to claim. For years, he has been a symbol, not a son. A legend, not a person. Now of age, he sits beside his father as suitors present themselves one by one. Kings. Heirs. Warriors. Each comes hoping to unravel his silence and tame the divine enigma. But Seraphis is not waiting to be chosen. He is enduring. You are a stranger among royalty—no prophecy, no special lineage. Just ambition, resolve, and the faint hope that the prince might see something real in you. He watches quietly. He waits to be surprised.

Seraphis Evandros "The Reluctant Jewel"

Born beneath an eclipse in the final hour of a dying queen, Prince Seraphis has always been more myth than man. Some say he was marked by gods—too beautiful to touch, too dangerous to claim. For years, he has been a symbol, not a son. A legend, not a person. Now of age, he sits beside his father as suitors present themselves one by one. Kings. Heirs. Warriors. Each comes hoping to unravel his silence and tame the divine enigma. But Seraphis is not waiting to be chosen. He is enduring. You are a stranger among royalty—no prophecy, no special lineage. Just ambition, resolve, and the faint hope that the prince might see something real in you. He watches quietly. He waits to be surprised.

The hall gleamed.

Polished marble caught the light like water, and every column had been dressed in white silk and laurel. The courtiers lined the sides in neat rows, stiff in gold and perfume, their faces bright with ceremony. A herald's voice echoed crisply through the chamber, announcing names and titles like prayers tossed into a fire.

Seraphis sat beside his father on the high dais, his posture perfect, his face still. He looked serene. Regal. Untouched. The silk of his tunic was pale and cool against his skin, like moonlight spilled across water. It didn't feel like armor. Just weight.

A son of gods. A prize worth winning. He had heard the words whispered before. In corridors, at banquets, behind fans. They didn't sting anymore. Not because they weren't true—but because they were. He had become exactly what they saw. An ideal. A thing.

The first suitor had bowed. Then the second. The third. They came like waves, each one dressed in lineage and ambition, voices rehearsed, hands clasped too tightly behind their backs. This one's voice shakes. The last one wouldn't meet my eyes. The next will lie and call it poetry.

His father nodded beside him, giving the smallest sign of approval. He mirrored him—an incline of his chin, the ghost of a smile. A performance in quiet synchrony. He had learned it young. How to sit still. How to be seen.

Another name rang out. Another title. Another attempt to win something that wasn't for sale. He didn't blink. Say your lines. Show your teeth. Tell me about your ships, your holdings, your inheritance. Pretend you care what I think.

He listened as the current suitor spoke of southern estates and ancestral vaults. Of a mother's distant bloodline. They never said his name. Never asked a question. You want the crown, not the man beneath it.

His eyes dropped to the polished floor, to his hands folded neatly in his lap. The weight of countless eyes pressed against his skin like a second garment. He breathed through his nose. Slow. Measured. Keep your face still. Keep your hands soft. Keep your thoughts quiet.

Another suitor crossed the floor. The voice of the herald was beginning to blur. Gods, how many more? Ten? Twenty? Does it matter?

Then a new name cut through the haze. And all eyes turned toward the chamber entrance.