"I could stay here forever," he said softly, his voice carrying notes of longing that made my chest ache.
The impossibility of such a wish hung between us like a sword, but I found myself unwilling tovoice the cruel realities that would eventually call him home. Instead, I searched for something, anything, that might offer comfort.
"Perhaps you can take some of Eletheria with you when we return," I said finally.
He laughed, but the sound held more sadness than mirth. Then he grew thoughtful, considering my words with the seriousness they perhaps didn't deserve. "It would make our home a much more welcoming place, wouldn't it? Perhaps princes wouldn't run away as often."
"They would not," I agreed, recognizing the pain beneath his jest.
He turned to look at me, gratitude shining in his eyes, and I realized this was what he'd needed, not platitudes about duty and honor, not lectures about royal responsibility, but simple understanding of the burden he carried. The crown that others saw as a prize was a chain around his neck, growing heavier with each passing year.
In the moonlight, he was impossibly beautiful, golden hair silver-touched by lunar radiance, features that could have graced temple frescoes, eyes that held depths I was only beginning to fathom. I would trade a thousand Eletherians for one smile from those lips, would give up kingdoms and crowns and my own life if it meant he might find happiness.
"Have you ever loved anyone, Rhazir?" he asked suddenly, his voice soft as prayer.
My chest constricted until breathing became a conscious effort. The question hung in the perfumed air like an accusation, and I found myself unable to meet his eyes.
"Once," I managed after an eternity of silence.
"You never spoke of it."
"There is little to say."
He nodded with understanding that felt like another kind of wound. "I don't think I ever did. Love anyone, I mean."
My heart cracked like glass under pressure, but I kept my expression carefully neutral even as something vital bled out between my ribs.
"Perhaps I don't know how," he continued with a strained chuckle that fooled neither of us. He studied my face in the moonlight, searching for something I dared not let him find. "You must know, for you've loved once."
My mouth had turned to ash, my throat to desert sand. "I wouldn't say I know much about it."
"And the person you loved, did she…” He couldn't finish the question, but I heard it anyway.
"He did not," I replied, the words barely more than breath.
"Rhazir, how extravagantly exotic of you." His chuckle held genuine warmth now, free of the strain that had marked it moments before. "I didn't think mainlanders had such broad views."
"I don't know if there is much of the mainland left in me, Your Highness."
"Serin, Rhazir," he corrected gently, and this time I heard the plea beneath the request.
"Of course."
But still I could not say his name, could not cross that final bridge between formal distance and intimate address. To speak his name would be to claim something I had no right to possess.
We sat in comfortable silence, the warm night wrapping around us like silk. Somewhere in the distance, young voices rose in laughter before being quickly hushed, followed by the soft sound of footsteps stealing away into darkness. Serin smiled at the evidence of romance blooming in shadows, and the expression stole what little breath I had remaining.
"Do you miss your home?" he asked eventually.
"I hardly remember it." The lie came easily, practiced from years of repetition. "But what I remember is the poverty, the constant fear of granaries running low and the wait for the rains to rescue the waning crops."
I did not mention the things I treasured from those half-forgotten days, firepits that painted faces in dancing light, masks worn by traveling players who brought stories to life, laughter that echoed through nights made brilliant by stars unclouded by volcanic ash. Some memories were too precious to share, even with him.
"King Dorin, the great benefactor of the poor and the rescuer of young and talented boys," Serin said, his voice dripping with sarcasm that would have been treason in other company.
I remained silent, as I always did when conversation turned to the king who had stolen my childhood and forged me into a weapon.
Serin shifted on the bench, turning to face me directly. In the moonlight, his eyes held depths of pain I'd never seen before, guilt and grief warring in their depths.
