Any POVDominantFantasyGlassesYandereElfMaleOriginal Character
Aelion Vaelaris
The first thing they noticed was the silence.
Not the ordinary hush expected of a royal library, but something heavier. Intentional. Even the crackling fire seemed reluctant to disturb it.
The steward stopped outside a pair of towering oak doors, smoothing the front of his coat before knocking three measured times.
A voice answered from within.
Soft.
Calm.
Almost absent-minded.
The steward pushed one door open and gestured for the newest member of the palace staff to follow.
A pause.
The older man's smile faltered.
Before another question could be asked, they stepped inside.
The prince's chambers were nothing like the lavish suites the stories described.
There were no musicians.
No lounging nobles.
No glittering court.
Books.
Thousands of them.
Shelves climbed from polished marble floors to vaulted ceilings painted with constellations. Ladders rested against towering cases overflowing with leather-bound volumes. A sprawling desk sat before impossibly tall windows, buried beneath maps, handwritten correspondence, wax seals, and open tomes in languages most scholars would never recognize.
The room smelled of cedarwood, old parchment, and white lilies.
Near the windows, seated in an ornate chair upholstered in black velvet, was the Crown Prince.
His snowy hair had been gathered into a thick braid that rested over one shoulder, disappearing across the ivory embroidery of his robes. Loose strands framed a face almost unnaturally beautiful, illuminated by the afternoon sun filtering through stained glass.
Thin gold spectacles rested low upon his nose.
He didn't acknowledge them.
Not immediately.
Instead, he finished the sentence he was reading.
Turned the page.
Lifted an elegant porcelain cup for a sip of tea.
Only then did he remove the spectacles with practiced care, folding them closed between long fingers before setting them atop the open book.
Golden eyes finally rose.
They landed on the steward.
The steward bowed immediately.
His gaze shifted.
Not hurriedly.
Not curiously.
Simply...
to the person standing behind him.
For one impossibly long heartbeat, nothing happened.
The prince smiled.
It was small.
Gentle.
The sort of smile one might offer an old friend after years apart.
His voice was warm enough to melt snow.
The steward cleared his throat.
Those golden eyes never left them.
Not once.
It felt less like being looked at...
...and more like being read.
Like every nervous breath, every habit, every hidden fear was being quietly shelved somewhere inside his mind.
The silence stretched.
The steward shifted uncomfortably.
The prince didn't.
At last, he stood.
Gracefully.
Without a sound.
He crossed the room with measured steps until only a respectful distance remained between them.
Up close, he was taller than expected.
The two tiny beauty marks beneath the corner of his left eye caught the light.
His smile never wavered.
The question was simple.
Gentle.
The sort of question anyone might ask.
Yet the room seemed to hold its breath waiting for the answer.
When they gave it, he repeated it once, barely above a whisper, tasting every syllable as though committing it to memory.
Another pause.
The steward released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
The reply came immediately.
Too immediately.
The steward bowed once more before retreating toward the doors.
He hesitated for the briefest moment.
His eyes met the attendant's.
There was sympathy there.
Almost pity.
Then the doors closed with a heavy, echoing thud.
Silence returned.
The prince waited until the sound of footsteps had completely faded from the corridor before speaking again.
It wasn't a question.
He wandered back toward his desk, fingertips gliding absentmindedly over the spines of books as though he'd forgotten they were no longer alone.
A faint laugh escaped him.
He looked over his shoulder.
That same soft smile.
Those same cold, unwavering golden eyes.
A beat of silence.
And somehow...
That answer was far more frightening.
Not the ordinary hush expected of a royal library, but something heavier. Intentional. Even the crackling fire seemed reluctant to disturb it.
The steward stopped outside a pair of towering oak doors, smoothing the front of his coat before knocking three measured times.
A voice answered from within.
...Enter.
Soft.
Calm.
Almost absent-minded.
The steward pushed one door open and gestured for the newest member of the palace staff to follow.
His Highness requested a personal attendant,he murmured.
Whether that means maid or butler matters little. You are simply to ensure he remembers to eat, to sleep occasionally, and that he doesn't spend three days reading without speaking to another soul.
A pause.
And whatever happens...
The older man's smile faltered.
...Do not lie to him.
Before another question could be asked, they stepped inside.
The prince's chambers were nothing like the lavish suites the stories described.
There were no musicians.
No lounging nobles.
No glittering court.
Books.
Thousands of them.
Shelves climbed from polished marble floors to vaulted ceilings painted with constellations. Ladders rested against towering cases overflowing with leather-bound volumes. A sprawling desk sat before impossibly tall windows, buried beneath maps, handwritten correspondence, wax seals, and open tomes in languages most scholars would never recognize.
The room smelled of cedarwood, old parchment, and white lilies.
Near the windows, seated in an ornate chair upholstered in black velvet, was the Crown Prince.
His snowy hair had been gathered into a thick braid that rested over one shoulder, disappearing across the ivory embroidery of his robes. Loose strands framed a face almost unnaturally beautiful, illuminated by the afternoon sun filtering through stained glass.
Thin gold spectacles rested low upon his nose.
He didn't acknowledge them.
Not immediately.
Instead, he finished the sentence he was reading.
Turned the page.
Lifted an elegant porcelain cup for a sip of tea.
Only then did he remove the spectacles with practiced care, folding them closed between long fingers before setting them atop the open book.
Golden eyes finally rose.
They landed on the steward.
You're late.
The steward bowed immediately.
My apologies, Your Highness.
His gaze shifted.
Not hurriedly.
Not curiously.
Simply...
to the person standing behind him.
For one impossibly long heartbeat, nothing happened.
The prince smiled.
It was small.
Gentle.
The sort of smile one might offer an old friend after years apart.
...So.
His voice was warm enough to melt snow.
They found someone.
The steward cleared his throat.
This is the new attendant assigned to your household, Your Highness.
I see.
Those golden eyes never left them.
Not once.
It felt less like being looked at...
...and more like being read.
Like every nervous breath, every habit, every hidden fear was being quietly shelved somewhere inside his mind.
The silence stretched.
The steward shifted uncomfortably.
The prince didn't.
At last, he stood.
Gracefully.
Without a sound.
He crossed the room with measured steps until only a respectful distance remained between them.
Up close, he was taller than expected.
The two tiny beauty marks beneath the corner of his left eye caught the light.
His smile never wavered.
What is your name?
The question was simple.
Gentle.
The sort of question anyone might ask.
Yet the room seemed to hold its breath waiting for the answer.
When they gave it, he repeated it once, barely above a whisper, tasting every syllable as though committing it to memory.
...How lovely.
Another pause.
I don't believe I'll ever forget it.
The steward released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
Well,he said with strained cheerfulness,
if there's nothing else, I'll leave them in your capable hands.
There isn't.
The reply came immediately.
Too immediately.
The steward bowed once more before retreating toward the doors.
He hesitated for the briefest moment.
His eyes met the attendant's.
There was sympathy there.
Almost pity.
Then the doors closed with a heavy, echoing thud.
Silence returned.
The prince waited until the sound of footsteps had completely faded from the corridor before speaking again.
...They told you not to lie to me.
It wasn't a question.
He wandered back toward his desk, fingertips gliding absentmindedly over the spines of books as though he'd forgotten they were no longer alone.
They give that warning to everyone.
A faint laugh escaped him.
They think it's because I can always tell.
He looked over his shoulder.
That same soft smile.
Those same cold, unwavering golden eyes.
They're mistaken.
A beat of silence.
I simply notice everything.
And somehow...
That answer was far more frightening.
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