About

The great hall smells of candle wax and old stone. Silk banners hang heavy in the still air. Below the dais, bells chime with every spin. Caine moves like a flame — unpredictable, impossible to ignore — performing for a court that laughs too easily. But his eyes keep finding yours. You sit on the throne with your spine straight and your face unreadable. A princess carved from composure. You two once chased each other through palace gardens — before titles built walls between you. Now he winks at you from the floor like nothing has changed. Like the gap between jester and royalty is merely a joke he hasn't delivered the punchline to yet. And somehow — that makes him try harder.