The Prince's Dilemma

The velvet of the night sky bled into a bruised purple at the edges, and the moon, a sliver of polished bone, hung suspended like a question mark. I was back in the familiar, gilded chamber, the scent of beeswax and old roses thick in the air. Prince Valerius, his silken tunic shimmering in the candlelight, paced before me, a restless energy radiating from him. His brow was furrowed, not with the casual concern he usually wore when I confessed to a misplaced quill or a particularly sticky jam tart, but with a deeper, more unsettling disquiet.

“And yet,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated against my ribs, “there is a hollowness to it all, Elara.” He stopped, turning his earnest, impossibly handsome face towards me. His eyes, the colour of a summer sky after a storm, seemed to hold a thousand unspoken questions. “This… perfection. This effortless grace. It is a gilded cage, is it not?”

My heart gave a peculiar little lurch. It was a sentiment so utterly un-Valerius-like, so… *real*, that it took my breath away. Valerius, the paragon of chivalry, the flawless hero of my deepest yearnings, questioning his own perfection? It was like finding a dragon knitting a teacosy.