Several weeks had passed since Lady Vivica Devonshire departed for the Kroux Empire, but word of her voyage had rippled far beyond the frost of the North.
And in the heart of the Ashford Empire, within the gold-veined halls of the Imperial Palace, the news reached the ears of a young man who had been waiting—quietly, patiently—for far too long.
Crown Prince Killian Ashford stood tall by the window of his war room, arms folded behind his back, the golden crest of the empire glinting on his breastplate. He listened intently as his aide, Lord Maren, recited the latest court report.
"She left the duchy nearly a month ago, Your Highness. Destination: Kroux Empire. Six months' voyage by sea. No formal retinue, only a modest escort. She has enrolled at the Kroux Imperial Academy."
Killian's expression didn't change, but his fingers curled behind his back.
"Where is Duke Devonshire now?" He asked.
"In residence at the Devonshire Townhouse here in the capital."
A long silence stretched, interrupted only by the soft rustle of silk curtains.
"Prepare the carriage."
**
The Devonshire Townhouse in the capital was a severe structure of black & gold marble and wrought-iron balconies, a colder echo of the North even in the heart of Ashford's warm capital.
When Crown Prince Killian was announced at the door, Duke Damon Devonshire did not appear surprised.
The two stood in the study—massive bookshelves lining the walls, a portrait of the late Duchess Vivian overlooking the fireplace. There was no affection in the room, only formality thick as winter fog.
"To what do I owe the honor, Your Highness?" Damon asked, voice unreadable.
Killian did not waste time.
"I heard about Lady Vivica's departure. I came to ask your permission to correspond with her. Through letters."
Damon's dark brow lifted slightly. "Letters?"
Killian nodded. "Yes. I'd like to maintain contact. To understand her mind. Her thoughts."
The Duke's gaze sharpened, as if trying to pierce the younger man's intentions with a glance. Then, after a beat, he said, "Vivica is not your intended."
Killian blinked. "Pardon?"
"I said," Damon repeated, voice quiet but unyielding, "Vivica is not your intended. The agreement between the Imperial Family and House Devonshire was for Belle."
A stillness settled over the room. Not cold—but absolute.
Killian's jaw tensed. "But Vivica—"
"Is my heir," Damon interrupted, his tone final. "She is the next Duchess of the North. She is not meant to marry into the Imperial line. That was the understanding His Majesty and I agreed upon."
The prince said nothing, his hands clenched at his sides.
"She was not raised to be someone's consort," Damon added, not unkindly. "She was raised to rule."
There was the barest flicker of something in Killian's eyes—anger, perhaps, or realization.
And then—
A knock at the door. It opened without pause.
"Father? I brought your tea," came a sweet, soft voice.
Belle Devonshire entered, dressed in lavender and lace, a perfect portrait of a future princess. Her beauty was delicate, her smile rehearsed and charming.
She curtsied gracefully. "Your Highness. What a surprise."
Killian stepped back instinctively, composing himself. "Lady Belle. You look well."
"Thank you," she replied, glancing at her father with demure curiosity. "I hope you haven't come all this way just for business?"
Damon accepted the tea from her hand but said nothing.
Killian forced a small smile. "Just a visit. I wanted to offer congratulations on your sister's studies."
Belle's smile tightened slightly, though her tone remained light. "Ah, yes. Sissy—I mean Vivica, always wanted to learn more."
She looked between the two men, then lowered her eyes. "If you'll excuse me, I'll let you finish your discussion."
She left the room as quickly as she had come, her perfume lingering like rosewater.
Damon returned his gaze to the prince.
"May I still write?" Killian asked again, softer now.
Damon didn't respond right away. Instead, he took a moment to examine the young man standing before him—not merely as the Crown Prince, but as a sixteen-year-old boy, desperate and fragile, as though he were searching for a way through an unbreakable wall.
"I will have the forwarding address sent to your aide," he said at last. "But whether she replies… is entirely her choice."
Killian nodded, jaw tight.
"I understand."
But as he turned to leave, Damon's voice stopped him.
"Don't mistake her silence for indifference, Your Highness. She is like her mother. She doesn't wound easily, but when she does… the scars stay."
Killian paused.
And then quietly, he left the Devonshire townhouse—with nothing in hand but the faint hope of a letter, somewhere across the sea.
**
They always said I was born for this.
Crown Prince of Ashford. The golden heir. The future Emperor of the greatest empire on the continent.
Since I could remember—hell, before I even could remember—my life was mapped in ink and stone.
The throne. The crown. The sword. The weight of centuries on my back and a nation in my palm.
I never had a childhood. I had protocol. Tutors. War manuals. Statecraft. Endless languages. The discipline of an army and the scrutiny of the court.
Every move, calculated.
Every glance, trained.
Every word, filtered.
And honestly?
Most of it was… boring shit.
But I never complained. Not really. Not aloud.
A Crown Prince doesn't whine. He endures. He perfects. He becomes.
That was my role.
But one day—like a single flicker of rebellion against the wind—I started to question it.
Who would I be without the crown? Without this role? Would I even be human anymore? Or just another statue in the palace garden?
And then—then—I met her.
It was at the Devonshire Townhouse. I was thirteen—just another formal visit, another suffocating meeting, another parade of titles and pleasantries to endure. I was also there for Belle. By Father's order. To observe the girl the capital couldn't stop talking about. The daughter whose tenth birthday celebration threatened to outshine a royal affair… and she wasn't even fully noble.
But she was there too.
Vivica.
Ten years old. Not particularly cute—at least not in the way the court fawned over delicate girls with practiced smiles and soft voices. No, Vivica was different.
Striking.
That's the word.
Those eyes...
Emerald green. Cold as the North. Sharp enough to flay a man in silence. They met mine the moment I entered the drawing room with no fear, no awe. Just clarity.
Like she already knew who I was, what I wanted, what I was pretending not to be.
And then she opened her mouth—heavens above, she spoke better than half the nobles thrice her age. Flawless elocution. Ruthless logic. A mind sharper than any blade.
My heart raced. I thought it was because of the thrill—finally, someone in this porcelain society with substance. But then it happened again.
At the ball. Lady Belle's birthday.
I felt the pull before I understood it—the urge to follow her. I found her alone in the Devonshire gardens, far from the chandeliers and shallow praise, where flattery soured into poison and laughter wore a blade's edge.
Vivica.
She stood beneath the moonlight in a dark amethyst gown, the color deep enough to make her eyes glow like an untouched forest after rain.
Wild. Alive. Untamed.
She didn't bow. She didn't greet me. She didn't even glance my way at first—just stood there, chin tilted toward the stars, as if my title held no weight in her world at all.
I said something stupid. I can't even remember what.
But I remember the sound of her voice. Low. Composed. A little cold. Like she was afraid warmth would be a weakness.
And my heart… raced again.
I'm sixteen now. Older. Wiser, I suppose. I've sat through council meetings that determined wars. I've read treaties that would bore grown men to tears. I've memorized bloodlines, treaties, prophecies.
But I don't know what this feeling is.
Love? I doubt it.
I barely understand it. I've seen love traded like currency, broken like glass, performed like theatre. And even if it was love… what good is it to a man like me?
I am a Prince.
A Crown Prince at that.
I cannot afford desire. I cannot choose freely.
Even affection is a weapon in a place like this.
And yet… I remember her every time the room falls silent. Every time I pass the Devonshire Townhouse. Every time someone praises Belle and I feel nothing stir in me.
It's her I think of.
Vivica Devonshire.
Stoic. Untouchable. Fiercely alone.
They said she left. To study across the sea. To a place it takes half a year just to reach.
Six months.
That's how far she's run from this court, from her own father, from everything expected of her.
And I wonder…
Is it wrong of me to want to write to her?
To send just a letter across the sea?
To hope—just hope—that maybe, somewhere across the ocean… she remembers the moonlight too?
Hells, maybe it is.
But for once, for just this once, I want to be a boy—not a prince.
Just a boy who once looked into emerald eyes and didn't want to look away.