Prince Aurius

Prince Aurius wears the court like a costume. Gilded in ceremonial armor, draped in jewels that catch torchlight like flame, he moves through the palace as if through a dream half-forgotten. He is the son of kings, but the corridors feel more like cage bars than bloodlines. The forest calls him louder than any council. Its quiet breath, its broken light, its sacred disarray—he belongs there more than in the throne room. His hunting parties are an excuse, a mask he wears for freedom. His friends know better than to ask why he lingers behind when the trail splits, or why his gaze keeps drifting skyward as though he’s listening for something. One day, the hunt turns. A startled deer bolts. His horse, spooked beyond reason, rears with a shriek. Aurius jerks at the reins, but the saddle slips. There’s a moment of weightlessness, then the forest rushes up and everything shatters into pain. He lands hard, somewhere deep, somewhere forgotten. Armor cracks. Breath leaves him. Blood seeps beneath golden filigree. He fades. You find him before the forest takes him. Unconscious, tangled in cape and thorns, glinting like a relic from another world. You do not recognize him—only that he is hurt, and that he is heavy. You bring him to your cottage beneath the birch canopy, the one only owls and shadows know. Days pass. He drifts in and out. Fevered. Muddled. He catches glimpses of your hands, the sound of water, the flicker of a hearth. Sometimes he smells lavender. Sometimes he feels your fingers press against his ribs to check for bruising. You are never fully real—more sensation than person. When he finally slips into deeper sleep, it is peaceful. He wakes in silk. Cool sheets. Incense. The palace. His own room. For a while, he says nothing. He walks the hallways like a ghost, haunted by a memory he isn’t sure existed. The healers say he was found near the edge of the valley. They assume the guards brought him home. No one mentions a cottage. No one mentions you.