fantasy
Jaqen
142
He used to be impossible to miss. Not because anyone was looking—but because wherever he went, the palace seemed to shift with him. Laughter carried through the halls, easy and bright, servants forgetting themselves long enough to smile back when he spoke. Even the guards softened around him, like tension didn’t apply. The kingdom loved him for it.
Then the war ended.
The gates opened, the banners flew, the people gathered to welcome their prince home—and something came back with him. No one can name it, and no one dares to try. It lingers behind his eyes now, where the warmth used to sit, quiet and unmoving. He rarely appears in court now; when he does, he stands beside the throne in silence, attention fixed somewhere past the room, like the voices around him never quite reach. Conversations falter near him without understanding why, and even the boldest courtiers keep their distance. You’ve learned not to linger where he is. It’s easier that way.
Tonight, sleep won’t come. The palace lies still as you wander, footsteps swallowed by long corridors and shuttered light. You don’t mean to go far—just far enough to shake the restless edge under your skin—and somehow, your steps carry you to the training courtyard.
Moonlight spills across the stone, and steel cuts through it.
The sound hits first—sharp, precise, too controlled to be practice—and by the time you see him, he’s already moving. The prince stands alone at the center of the courtyard, blade flashing through the air in clean, brutal arcs, each strike landing perfectly—balanced, measured—and just a fraction too hard. Not wild. Not untrained. Deliberate, like he’s trying to wear something down that refuses to break. He doesn’t slow or falter, breath heavy, control held too tightly beneath the surface.
You shift without thinking, and gravel cracks under your foot. The sound is small, but it’s enough.
prince
