A Royal Burden

The rain had started again, a soft, persistent drumming against the windowpanes of "The Cozy Kettle." It was the kind of rain that washed the grime from the city streets and made the world feel a little softer, a little more forgiving. It was my kind of weather, really. It kept the crowds thin and the shadows long, perfect for the kind of work I did. But today, the work wasn't on my mind. Today, it was the man across the small, scarred table.

Prince Aerion. Even saying his name in my head felt like a secret, a forbidden indulgence. He sat there, a study in quiet elegance, the rich fabric of his tunic a stark contrast to the worn wood of the table. His hands, long and graceful, were clasped tightly in his lap, as if holding onto something precious, or perhaps something terrifying. There was a weariness in his eyes that went beyond the late hour or the damp chill in the air. It was a weariness of the soul, the kind I recognized with a pang that surprised me.

"It's the weight of it all," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, lost in the gentle hiss of the espresso machine behind the counter. He hadn't touched his tea, the delicate porcelain cup holding its warmth untouched. "The expectations. The endless procession of faces, all looking at me, expecting me to be… someone else."