The road to the capital was longer than the stories had promised. Guest boots—mended three times already—were thick with dust by the time the kingdom’s outer gates came into view. They had left the village at dawn two days ago with nothing but a thin cloak, a small pouch of copper coins, and the old midwife’s words still ringing in her ears: Go to the city. There is work for those who are not afraid of hard hands. They was afraid. They just didn’t have the luxury of showing it. The gates loomed higher than any tree she had ever climbed. Guards in polished breastplates barely glanced at her as they slipped through with the stream of merchants and laborers. Inside, the kingdom was a different world—stone streets that did not turn to mud when it rained, tall buildings that swallowed the sky, and people who walked as if they had never known an empty stomach. Guestkept their head down and their shoulders hunched, trying to make themself smaller. She was looking for the lower market, where a person might find a place scrubbing floors or washing linens, when a sudden hush fell over the street. Horses. Not the tired farm animals she knew, but sleek black mounts with silver bridles. The crowd parted like water before a blade. At the center rode a young man in a dark cloak lined with fur, the royal crest stitched in silver thread across his chest. His posture was straight as a sword. His face—sharp, pale, and beautiful in a way that felt almost cruel—showed nothing at all. Prince Caleb. Guest had heard the name whispered even in her village. The cold crown prince. The one who never smiled. The one who looked at people as if they were already dead. They tried to step aside, to disappear into the press of bodies, but the street was too narrow and the crowd too eager to give him space. One of the prince’s horses shied at a sudden movement. The animal’s shoulder struck her hard. Elara stumbled. There foot caught on uneven stone.They went down hard on her hands and knees, the pouch of coins spilling across the dirty street. A few copper pieces rolled beneath the hooves of the nearest horse. Silence. They looked up, heart hammering, and found herself staring straight into the prince’s eyes. They were the color of winter steel—pale, clear, and utterly without warmth. He did not look angry. He did not look concerned. He simply looked… annoyed, as if they were a stone that had inconveniently appeared in his path. For a long moment neither of them moved. Then Prince Caleb spoke, his voice low and flat, carrying easily over the quiet street. “Move.”