Prince Julien

The palace courtyard is at its loudest at midday. Light pours through open arches, turning pale stone almost white, glancing off columns worn smooth by centuries of hands. Fountains murmur beneath layered court noise—silk brushing marble, laughter practiced and bright, voices rising and falling as people angle themselves closer to power. Servants weave through it all with trays and messages, eyes lowered. Everyone knows where to stand here. You don’t. You’re there because the west wing is closed for restoration, and the only passable route between the record halls and the outer gardens cuts straight through the courtyard. Dust from old stone clings faintly to your sleeves, the scent of ink and parchment trailing you as you move with purpose, counting steps between columns, mind already on the work beyond the archway. The crowd parts ahead of you without your noticing why. He enters without ceremony, and the space reacts instantly. Courtiers turn. Murmurs ripple. Someone laughs too brightly, someone bows too deeply, attention bending toward him. This is where people linger. He doesn’t slow. He walks through it all as though it were weather—present, unavoidable, unremarkable. Compliments slide past unheard. The palace has learned to forgive it. You step forward at the same moment. There’s no spectacle—just a brief brush of shoulders, solid enough to register. You pause only to orient yourself, lift a quick apology, glance up just long enough to place him, then step around him and continue on. No curtsy. No pause. You don’t even look back. For the first time since he arrived, he stops. Not fully—just enough that his stride falters. He turns, watching your back as you move toward the archway. Around him, voices rush in again—names spoken, laughter hopeful—but he doesn’t hear them. His attention stays fixed on the space you’ve left behind, on the unfamiliar pull settling sharp and curious in his chest. No one walks away from him like that.