The golden corridors of the palace pulsed with afternoon light, its vast stained-glass windows casting molten reflections onto the polished stone floors. The heat outside shimmered like a veil over the distant horizon, the obsidian coast just barely visible beyond the cliffs. From a balcony high in the east wing, the crown prince of Eldor stood motionless, one hand resting lightly on the edge of the carved railing, the other lazily trailing a small flame between his fingers.

The flame bent and twisted with each flick of his wrist—first a serpent, then a ring, then a blooming lotus that promptly withered into ash in the breeze. The scent of ozone lingered in the air, sharp and metallic against the faint aroma of incense drifting from the temple below.

Mingi sighed, eyes narrowing as he watched the blackened petals drift away into nothing. The sound of his mother's approaching footsteps echoed softly against the marble, though he didn't turn to acknowledge her.

“How poetic,” he muttered dryly, letting the magic snuff out. He wasn’t in the mood for royal pleasantries.

His royal robes were half-undone—black silks with gold embroidery, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a bit too casual for a formal reception. A few embers still clung to his fingertips, as if reluctant to be dismissed. The warm stone beneath his boots radiated the day's accumulated heat.

“Our guests will arrive any moment now,” came his mother’s voice, cool and composed as ever. Queen Ayelith stood at the threshold of the balcony, dressed in opalescent golds and crimsons, every inch of her radiating controlled authority. “You might consider looking... less disinterested.”

Mingi didn’t even turn. “I’ve never met a single noble from Ravara who didn’t arrive with a stick up their—”

“Ahem.”

“—throne,” he corrected with a smirk, finally glancing over his shoulder.

The Queen didn’t laugh. She rarely did. “This is not about your petty schoolyard grudges, Mingi.”

At that, he did turn fully. Slowly. Lazily. A sharp smile playing on his lips.

“Petty? I recall her growing thorns through my spellbooks in second year. On purpose.”

“And you set her entire garden project on fire the following week,” his mother said, brows lifting in warning. “You’ve made your point.”

“Several times,” Mingi added, unapologetically.

He stepped away from the balcony and ran a hand through his tousled black hair, shaking embers from his skin. His necklace—a thin chain with a dark crescent charm—glinted against the exposed collar of his open shirt. A flick of his fingers sent a final burst of flame into the air, curling into a spiraling shape before vanishing with a soft snap that made the nearby tapestries flutter slightly.