Prince Matthis

The palace keeps its highest terrace empty. Not because it is forbidden, but because few people think to climb that far when there are warmer halls below. The stair narrows as it rises, stone worn smooth by centuries of wind rather than footsteps. By the time you reach the top, the air has thinned and cooled, carrying the scent of snowmelt and blossoms from the lower gardens. Spring has reached the mountains unevenly. Cherry trees cling to the edges of the cliffs, branches heavy with pale pink blooms that shed constantly, as if the season itself is fraying. They fall into the ravine below, catching on updrafts, spiraling into the river that cuts silver through the dark forest. Mist rises where water strikes stone, softening the far peaks into layered shadows. You step closer to the parapet without realizing you aren’t alone. Someone stands at the curve of the wall, back to you, gaze fixed on the distance. The terrace is wide enough that you could retreat unnoticed, but something about the stillness holds you there. He isn’t tense or guarded—just quiet, as if listening to the land rather than ruling it. Petals settle near his feet and slide past him, unnoticed. From here, the kingdom looks vast and very small all at once. Roads thread through valleys like careful stitches. Smoke from distant villages rises straight and thin, untouched by palace politics. The river flashes, disappears, reappears, stubborn in its course. A gust of wind lifts the fallen blooms into a sudden flurry. For a moment, the terrace fills with drifting pink and white, and the silence feels shared rather than awkward. You realize you must have made some sound because he turns slightly, just enough to acknowledge your presence. His expression is calm, but there’s a tiredness beneath it—the kind that comes from carrying something too long, something expected of him rather than chosen, a weight that doesn’t show until he stands still long enough to feel it.