The sunlight filtered like spilled honey through the high-arched stained-glass windows of the Hall of Learning, painting the marbled floor in hues of crimson and gold. Dappled patterns shimmered across the long velvet runner that lined the corridor, where rows of robed scholars and hushed servants moved about like ghosts, careful not to break the sacred silence that clung to the air like incense.
At the far end of the hall, seated at an inlaid desk of rosewood and pearl, Prince Aerion of the House Valefleur—second son of King Theron and Queen Lysandra—leaned over a crumpled piece of parchment, his small brows furrowed in childlike concentration. He was nine years old, dressed in the formal scarlet tunic trimmed with white lace and gold embroidery, a color befitting the Kingdom of Hearts.
But while others his age in court were already practicing the refined art of diplomatic speech or rehearsing the lineage of noble houses, Aerion's quill danced in twisting lines, not words.
He was drawing maps—not of places that existed, but those that might. Islands with names he made up, mountains shaped like curled lion's paws, rivers that curved like music notes. He added small, meticulous details—weather patterns, trade routes, constellations that would guide a sailor at night.
He was so engrossed, he didn't hear the approach of the chamberlain until the man cleared his throat sharply.
"Your Highness."
Aerion flinched and looked up. The Royal Chamberlain, Lord Cyrien, stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his face set in a permanent expression of polite disappointment. His robes were starched and ivory, adorned with the sapphire brooch of his station, and his bald head glistened in the morning light.
"Today is for rhetoric," Cyrien continued smoothly. "You were to be studying the speeches of Queen Melora the Just, not… scribbling fairytales on ink-stained scrolls."
Aerion stiffened. "They're maps, not scribbles," he replied, voice soft but defensive. "Trade routes. Kingdoms I imagined. I thought—"
"You thought wrong," the man snapped, not unkindly, but with the kind of firm steel that bent no argument. "Cartography is a task for mapmakers, not princes. A ruler's place is not among charts and parchment, but among people, history, diplomacy."
The boy's hands trembled slightly as he set the quill down. His mouth opened, then closed. The chamberlain took this as surrender and motioned for the parchment.
Aerion hesitated, then reluctantly slid it forward.
Cyrien examined it briefly, then sighed. "This is elaborate, yes. But misplaced effort. If you applied this detail to your treaty memorization, perhaps His Majesty wouldn't be forced to answer questions for you at the council meetings."
The sting in his voice was subtle but sharp. Aerion's stomach twisted.
From the far end of the corridor, voices echoed—his father's deep, commanding tone, surrounded by the chatter of nobles and advisors. Aerion caught a glimpse of the king through the stained glass: tall, square-shouldered, draped in a cloak of wine-red velvet and lion-gold trim. A ruler carved from pride and expectation.
Aerion's throat tightened.
The parchment was rolled and handed to a passing page without a second glance.
"Now. Your tutor awaits in the council study. I suggest you leave these… whims behind you, and walk like a prince."
As the chamberlain turned on his heel and strode away, Aerion remained seated for a moment longer, staring at the blank spot where his map had been, the ghost of its mountains and rivers still etched into his mind.
In that moment, the sunlight dimmed slightly as a cloud passed overhead. The silence that returned wasn't peaceful—it was hollow.
He rose, mechanically, smoothing his tunic, and followed the path toward the study, each step echoing like a drumbeat of a heart that no one seemed to hear.
But he would remember this day. Not for the words spoken, but for the feeling—the heavy, aching loneliness of being surrounded by splendor, yet unseen.
A prince of Hearts… with no place to put his own.
***
The Council Study was a cold, formal chamber tucked behind the Solar of Heraldry, where banners of old kings drooped from golden rods and the scent of old wax clung to the air like a stubborn ghost.
Aerion arrived five minutes late, which in courtly terms might as well have been an hour.
"Ah," came the dry voice of Master Vellian, "His Highness arrives at last, fashionably delayed by artistic rebellion, I presume."
Master Vellian was a man shaped like a quill—tall, thin, and perpetually brittle. His robes were forest-green and layered, edged in dark bronze thread, with silver wire-rimmed spectacles perched precariously on a long, pointed nose. His fingers, ink-stained and bony, tapped against the mahogany desk like a metronome of disapproval.
"I apologize," Aerion said, quietly. He slid into the high-backed chair across from the tutor, whose throne of knowledge loomed behind towers of scrolls, bound ledgers, and heavy tomes.
The walls around them were lined with shelves that climbed the full height of the chamber, filled with books and codices, arranged by subject, author, and arcane categories that only Vellian understood. A soft golden globe—enchanted to never dim—floated in the ceiling's center like a tiny, silent sun.
"Let us begin," Vellian said, not unkindly, but with the patience of someone who expected disappointment.
He handed Aerion a thin book, the spine brittle with age. The Art of Monarchal Eloquence: Volume I. Aerion held it like one might hold a dull sword—awkwardly, without enthusiasm.
"Page twenty-seven. You will recite the negotiation speech between Queen Elira and the Spade Envoy during the Trade Freeze of the Ninth Era. Do not stumble this time."
Aerion turned the pages with care, even though he knew every crease in this book like the freckles on the back of his hand. He'd read it dozens of times, and still, each time felt more like a performance than knowledge. His voice echoed faintly as he began, clear but toneless.
"'As sovereign of Heart, it is not aggression but principle that stays our hand, yet even a velvet blade draws blood if—'"
"Stop."
Aerion blinked. "What did I—?"
"You recite, but you do not convey." Vellian leaned forward slightly. "You must learn to speak not like a reader, but like a ruler. If you were in a hall of lords, would your tone sway them? Would they listen? Would they believe you?"
Aerion's fingers tightened on the pages.
"I don't want to sway them," he muttered, before he could stop himself.
The silence that followed was sharp.
"You what?"
"I said—" Aerion hesitated, then sighed, voice hollow. "I said I don't want to sway them. I want to chart new lands. Build things. Make maps. Not speeches."
Vellian removed his glasses, inspecting the prince now not as a student, but as a stranger.
"You were born a son of House Valefleur," he said, evenly. "You will one day command lords, armies, perhaps even sit upon the throne if the stars shift course. You were not raised to play cartographer, but to become a symbol—of tradition, of clarity, of vision. You may sketch in your spare hours, but you must become what the realm requires."
Aerion stared at the page, but its letters blurred into meaningless coils. The fire crackled faintly in the hearth behind Vellian, casting flickers of orange across the shelves, and somewhere beyond the windows, bells tolled from the Temple of Hearts. Morning Court would begin soon.
The lesson dragged on.
Vellian quizzed him on diplomatic ranks and precedents, correcting Aerion sharply every time he hesitated. By the time the hourglass on the desk bled its last grain, Aerion's mind was fogged with protocol and scoldings, and his spirit dimmed like a dying wick.
"You may go," Vellian said at last, scribbling notes into his black journal. "And I suggest you ask yourself—what kind of prince do you wish to be? One remembered, or one forgotten?"
Aerion rose, bowing stiffly, but said nothing.
***
He wandered the halls afterward, not to return to his chambers, but to lose himself in the corridors. He knew every creak of the floorboards and which marble busts had cracks in their noses. He passed through a servants' hallway, lit only by slit windows and the occasional brass lantern. Fewer nobles walked here—only kitchen boys, footmen, and scurrying chambermaids.
His mind still swirled with the tutor's words, with the memory of Cyrien's sigh, with the echo of his own failure to be what everyone seemed to want. His hands clenched at his sides.
And that's when he heard it: a voice.
Someone was humming softly from the next chamber—a strange little tune, half-melody, half-rhythm. Curious, Aerion turned the corner.
It was the archival annex, barely used anymore. Dust hung in golden shafts of light. A boy—perhaps his age or a year younger—stood on a stool by the far shelf, arms full of scrolls nearly too large for him to carry. His dark hair was tousled, sleeves rolled to the elbow, a bit of ink smudged across his cheek.
The boy didn't notice Aerion at first. But the prince noticed something else.
There, beside the boy on the table—half-unrolled—was a map. But not a formal one. It was clearly sketched by hand, faint and unfinished. The lines of a coastline. A mountain range in miniature. Notes written in tiny, precise script in the margins.
Aerion's breath caught.
He stepped closer.
And just like that—the door to his world cracked open.
***
Aerion lingered in the doorway of the archival annex, caught somewhere between royal protocol and a rare, impossible curiosity.
The other boy still hadn't noticed him.
He stood precariously on the last rung of a worn wooden stool, trying to wedge a rolled manuscript onto the upper shelf. His tongue poked slightly from the corner of his mouth in concentration. The scrolls in his arms were beginning to slip.
Aerion took a single step forward.
"Careful," he said, the word more breath than command.
The boy jolted in surprise.
The scrolls tumbled from his arms in a flurry of parchment and ribbon. One landed squarely on his head with a soft thump. The boy slipped from the stool—but landed on his feet, with a grunt and a thud. A moment of awkward silence followed as he looked up at his accidental witness.
Aerion blinked. "I didn't mean to startle you."
"I wasn't startled," the boy replied quickly. Then, after a pause, "Maybe a little."
His voice was warm, boyish, and tinged with the accent of the southern wards—gentle vowels, careful consonants. His eyes were a sharp amber-brown, bright with mischief and sunlit fields. He didn't lower his gaze, not even when recognition dawned.
"You're the prince," he said, slowly. "Aren't you?"
Aerion hesitated.
He hated how often people said that—not as a name, but as a title, a role, a wall.
"Yes," he replied. "Prince Aerion."
The boy brushed his hands on his tunic—plain, beige linen patched neatly at the sleeves—and gave a lopsided, awkward bow. "I'm—uh—Coriel. My mum works in the laundry halls. I run errands for Master Vellian and the library clerks. Sometimes I clean the lamps."
Coriel. The name sounded like wind against silk.
"I see," Aerion said. Then his eyes flicked toward the table. "Is that your map?"
Coriel followed his gaze, then went very still.
"Oh. Um… yeah. I mean—it's not finished. I was just—" He moved quickly, reaching to roll it up, but Aerion stepped closer.
"Don't."
Coriel froze, one hand on the scroll.
Aerion reached out, gently brushing his fingers along the parchment's edge. The paper was cheap, but the ink was careful, delicate. The outline of the coastline reminded him of the curve of a sleeping fox. There were labels in the corners—Ravenlight Bay, The Drowned Coast, Sunfire Plains—names that didn't exist. Not yet.
Aerion looked up, something unreadable flickering in his expression. "You made all this?"
Coriel shifted his weight, uncertain. "I… like drawing places I've never seen. Or places that could be real. I know it's silly—"
"It's not," Aerion interrupted, his voice quiet but firm. "It's not silly at all."
That silence returned—but this time, it was different. Not hollow. Shared.
"You do this too?" Coriel asked carefully.
Aerion gave a soft, almost guilty smile. "Not anymore. I used to."
"What stopped you?"
The question was gentle, but it struck with the force of a hammer. Aerion looked down.
"Everyone else."
Coriel nodded, as if that made perfect sense. "Well," he said after a moment, "they haven't seen the Sunfire Plains. So maybe their opinion doesn't count."
Aerion snorted—then clapped a hand over his mouth, surprised at the sound. A laugh. A real one. It had been days.
Coriel smiled at that, a little crooked and shy. Then he pulled over a small bench. "Do you want to… maybe… help me finish this part? I can't decide if it should be mountains or a lake."
Aerion hesitated.
If anyone saw him now—a prince sitting beside a servant, working on imaginary geography—it would be another lecture, another disapproving sigh, another quiet warning about propriety and posture and how he was not ordinary.
But in this dusty, forgotten annex, with parchment and sunlight and ink-smudged fingers, it felt more real than any court banquet or crown-polished decree.
So he sat.
Their shoulders brushed slightly as they leaned over the parchment. Coriel handed him a quill. Aerion dipped it into the ink with a steadiness that surprised even himself.
"I think," he said, "it should be a mountain. A tall one. Something you can see from every shore."
Coriel looked at him sideways. "Like a watchtower?"
"Like a promise," Aerion replied, without thinking.
Coriel didn't answer—but his smile said everything.