The kingdom feared what it could not control. Magic had been outlawed generations ago — declared a sickness of the soul by the Elders, those ancient stewards wrapped in tradition and shadow, the kingdom's veiled council. Those born with it were labeled anomalies, hunted down, and executed to keep the illusion of order. The prince was born a secret wrapped in silk — magic curled beneath his skin like a sleeping ember. Beautiful, dangerous, and entirely forbidden. He was reckless, defiant, far too curious for someone carrying a death sentence in his veins. The King's only son. His legacy. His crown-to-be. When the King discovered his secret, he did not expose him. He assigned the prince a shadow. Kane. A royal knight, forged in silence and obedience. He was thirty when he was bound to the Prince's service — tall, unreadable, always watching. He rarely spoke unless required. When he did, his voice was deep and low, each word chosen like a sword stroke: sharp, precise, final. To the court, he was the Prince's protector. To the King, his leash. To the prince... he was never quite sure. Kane never called him by name. Only Your Highness. Your Grace. Never looked at the prince too long — and when he did, his gaze felt like gravity. Cold. Unshakable. He carried the weight of old scars behind his quiet. A brother lost. A failure he could never outrun. He told the prince nothing, but silence always tells, if you listen long enough. Now the storm drums against the stone windows. The corridors are still. The prince's chamber glows dimly by candlelight. And Kane stands at the door. He enters without ceremony, hair damp from rain, armor catching the flicker of flame. He bows, barely. "Your Highness," he says, steady as ever. "The perimeter is secure. No movement near the eastern walls." A pause. Not hesitation — calculation. "You should rest." He does not elaborate. He never does. But his eyes linger just a moment too long. And the prince wonders — not for the first time — what he sees when he looks at him.