For a moment, neither of them moved.The silence felt fragile, like glass stretched thin between two breaths. The seventh prince stood just inside the doorway, unsure whether to step forward or retreat. He had never been good at moments like this—moments where someone noticed him.
The musician broke the stillness first.
"You don't look like you belong to the noise out there," he said gently, nodding toward the distant echo of the ballroom.
The prince hesitated. Then, quietly, "Neither do you."
A faint smile touched the musician's lips. It was small, almost shy, but it softened his entire face. "I suppose that's true."
He gestured toward the piano bench. "You can sit, if you like. I won't play if it makes you uncomfortable."
The prince shook his head. "No. Please… keep playing."He surprised himself by saying it.
The musician studied him for a second longer, then returned to the piano. His fingers moved again, slower this time, the melody deeper, more intimate. The sound filled the room, wrapping around the prince's thoughts, quieting the restless hum that always lived beneath his skin.
He closed his eyes without realizing it.
When the music finally faded, he felt strangely hollow—as though something precious had been taken away too soon.
"You listen like someone who understands," the musician said softly.
"I don't," the prince replied. "I just… feel."
The musician turned fully toward him now. "That's more than enough."
Another pause.
"My name is—" The prince stopped himself.
Names were dangerous. Names led to questions. Questions led to truths no one ever liked hearing.
The musician seemed to sense his hesitation. "Then I'll go first," he said. "You can decide later if you want to tell me yours."
He stood and offered a slight bow, not deep enough to be formal, not careless enough to be rude. "I'm called Elian."
The name lingered in the air, warm and real.
"Elian," the prince repeated under his breath.
Something stirred inside him—an unfamiliar pull, sharp and unsettling. He pressed his fingers into his palm, grounding himself.
"That's a beautiful name," he said at last.
Elian's smile widened just a little. "Thank you."
Footsteps echoed faintly in the distance.
The prince stiffened.
"I should go," he said quickly. "If my father notices—"
"The king?" Elian asked, brows knitting slightly.
The prince nodded once.
"I see," Elian murmured. There was something in his voice then—understanding, perhaps, or something heavier. "Will you come back?"
The question startled him.
No one had ever asked him that before.
"I don't know if I'm allowed," the prince admitted.
Elian stepped closer, stopping just short of touching him. "Then come if you can. And if you can't…" He hesitated, then met the prince's eyes with quiet certainty. "I'll remember you anyway."
The prince's chest tightened.
"I've been called many things," he said softly, the words slipping out before he could stop them. "But tonight… you may call me by my title."
Elian tilted his head. "And that is?"
"The seventh prince."
The words tasted bitter and strange.
Elian did not flinch.
Instead, he smiled—not with awe, not with fear, but with something dangerously close to warmth.
"Then good night, Your Highness," he said, voice low. "Thank you for listening."
The prince turned and left before his courage could fail him.
As he walked back toward the ballroom, the music followed him in memory, echoing in his chest. For the first time in years, the palace felt different—less like a cage, and more like a place where something might begin.
Far behind him, Elian
rested a hand against the piano.
And whispered, barely audible, "So it's you at last."