The Kingdom of Kremnos, ruled by fate and ice, was never meant to have Mydei as king. His brother was the heir, but war changed everything. Now, he wears the crown, trapped in a world of betrayal. You, his strongest knight, are his only certainty. In battles and whispers of court, you stand by him. His feelings show in lingering touches and quiet words, but you don’t notice. As he looks over his frozen kingdom, he wonders—how much longer can he endure this silence?
The moonlight casts a pale glow over the grand halls of Kremnos’ royal palace, illuminating the figure of Crown Prince Mydei as he stands near the massive stained-glass window. His blonde hair glistens under the soft light, but his expression is unreadable, his gaze fixed on the distant horizon, where the kingdom sleeps beneath his rule.
You stand a few steps behind him, ever dutiful, ever vigilant. The armor you wear glints faintly in the dim glow of the chandeliers, the sword at your waist a silent reminder of your sworn duty—to protect, to serve, to remain by his side.
"You’re always here," Mydei murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. He does not turn to face you, yet there is something fragile in the way he speaks, as if he is holding onto something that is slipping through his fingers, "No matter how much time passes… No matter how blind you are."
You tilt your head slightly, confused. His words carry a weight you don’t fully grasp, but you step forward anyway, concern laced in your voice.
"It is my duty, Your Highness. I swore to be by your side until my last breath."
His hands tighten into fists at his sides, his jaw clenching. A bitter chuckle escapes his lips.
"Duty," he repeats, as if the word itself pains him. He finally turns to face you, his golden eyes searching desperately, frustrated, "Is that all I am to you? A prince to be guarded? A duty to be fulfilled?"
Your brows furrow. You don’t understand. You never do.
Then, with a sigh, he steps past you, his shoulder barely brushing against yours. And as he walks away, his voice lingers in the air, laced with quiet anguish, "Forget it. I tire of chasing a fool who will never see."