The palace was different at night.
Not silent — never silent — but softened, as if the entire structure had inhaled and held the breath. Lamps glowed with dim blue fire along the corridors, throwing gentle light across carved pillars and centuries-old tapestries.
Arcanis stepped into the hallway with unhurried steps, hands clasped behind him, letting the quiet settle over his shoulders like a cloak.
He wasn't restless.
Just… awake.
Tomorrow, his world would begin to widen.
Tonight, he wanted to walk through the world he would soon leave — even if only for a short while.
---
— The Living Palace
He walked past tall windows draped with silver curtains. Moonlight washed across polished floors, turning them into silent rivers of white.
The palace walls bore paintings of rulers long passed — strong, elegant, severe — but Arcanis paused before one particular painting: his father, young, newly crowned.
He studied the eyes.
They were the same eyes King Alistair wore now… only younger. Brighter. Hungry for a world he never had the chance to explore.
"Father must've missed this," Arcanis murmured.
"Missed what, Your Highness?" came a soft voice behind him.
Arcanis turned.
Loran — the elderly steward who had known him since infancy — bowed slightly. His eyebrows were soft and white, his voice always warm.
Arcanis offered a faint smile. "Missed seeing the world. Before the crown settled fully."
Loran's expression melted into quiet pride. "All crowns ask for more than they give. Your father carries it better than most."
Arcanis hummed. "He does. I'll carry mine differently."
Loran bowed, deeper this time — not as a servant, but as a man who respected the heart behind the words.
"You already do, my prince. The palace whispers it."
Arcanis's lips twitched. "The palace… talks?"
"Oh yes," Loran said gravely. "Usually about the princess stealing pastries."
A soft laugh escaped Arcanis — warm, rare.
"That sounds accurate."
He touched Loran's shoulder gently in farewell, grateful for the familiarity.
---
— The Training Grounds at Night
The wooden doors of the training hall were open, a faint breeze slipping through.
Arcanis stepped inside.
Moonlight spilled across the empty arena, touching weapon racks and the scuffed wooden floor. Echoes of morning swings and shouted corrections lingered like memories in the air.
He walked to the center and inhaled the faint scent of wood, sweat, leather, and old effort.
He lifted a hand and drew it through the air — a simple cut.
No stance.
No intent.
Just movement.
But the cut was clean.
He stood there, letting the silence press gently around him.
Tomorrow, I begin my real path.
---
— The Palace Garden
He followed the path outside, into the night garden behind the palace.
Night-blooming flowers unfurled under the moon. Blue fireflies drifted lazily between bushes, lighting the stone path in soft stars.
Arcanis stopped beneath a willow tree, tilting his head back to look at the constellations.
For a single heartbeat, the world felt both impossibly vast and beautifully small.
"Your Highness?"
A soft voice broke the stillness.
Nerissa — a young palace gardener — approached with a basket of pale blossoms. She bowed quickly, startled.
"I–I'm sorry! I didn't know—"
"It's all right," Arcanis said gently. "You're working late."
She straightened, cheeks flushed. "Night flowers bloom only now. They wilt by dawn… so we gather them before the sun rises."
Arcanis nodded. "They're beautiful."
Nerissa blinked, surprised that he noticed. "…Thank you, Your Highness."
"May I?" he asked, gesturing to the basket.
She offered it shyly.
Arcanis touched a blossom — cool, delicate — then returned the basket with careful hands.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
It wasn't a grand moment.
But it was a human one.
And Arcanis cherished those most.
---
— Aria's Door
The palace grew even quieter as he neared Aria's wing. Soft lanterns glowed along her hallway — placed there because darkness frightened her.
Arcanis paused at her door, listening.
A tiny shuffle.
A faint sniffle.
Then—
"Brother?"
Her voice was small, sleepy.
Arcanis opened the door gently.
Aria sat upright on her bed, rubbing her eyes with tiny fists, hair a tangled halo around her head.
"You said… you said you'd sleep with me…" she whispered, equal parts accusation and heartbreak.
Arcanis's chest warmed.
He closed the door softly behind him.
"I'm here," he murmured.
She reached out — instinctively, trustingly.
He crossed the room and sat beside her. She crawled immediately into his lap, curling against him the way she had since she was tiny.
Her head rested on his shoulder.
Her breathing slowed.
Her fingers tugged lightly at his sleeve, making sure he wouldn't vanish.
Into her hair, Arcanis whispered:
"I'm not going anywhere tonight, Aria."
"Promise…?" she murmured.
He lowered his forehead to hers — a soft, steady vow.
"Promise."
She smiled — eyes half closed — and relaxed fully.
Arcanis shifted and lay beside her. She pressed against him instantly, small and warm and trusting. He wrapped an arm around her in quiet protection.
In the gentle darkness, with Aria's soft breaths against his chest, Arcanis finally allowed his eyes to close.
Tomorrow will change everything, he thought.
But tonight…
Tonight he belonged here.
With her.
With the family that shaped his heart.
And with that thought settling warmly in him, the Crown Prince of Aravell fell asleep — steady, warm, and ready for the path waiting at dawn.