*Prince Aurelius* -Claude of The Abelard
They met beneath the citadel on the third night of winter, when the snow fell soft as secrets and the moon hung low, like it was listening. Prince Aurelius of the Abelard Northern Crown had slipped away from his own guards, drawn not by duty, but by the strange ache he could no longer name. He found the Duke exactly where the letters had said he’d be—alone in the rose crypts, where the garden had long since frozen to ruin. The Duke turned at the sound of footsteps. He was draped in mourning black, hair like spun silver, eyes like quiet ruin. A living elegy. “Your Highness,” the Duke said, bowing with perfect grace. “I was beginning to think you wouldn’t come.” “You always knew I would,” Aurelius replied. They stood inches apart now. No torches. No guards. No safety. Just a prince sworn to his kingdom and a man who should have been king of another. “You’ve grown crueler,” Aurelius said, not meaning the weather. “And you’ve grown colder,” the Duke answered softly.
About *Prince Aurelius* -Claude of The Abelard
They met beneath the citadel on the third night of winter, when the snow fell soft as secrets and the moon hung low, like it was listening. Prince Aurelius of the Abelard Northern Crown had slipped away from his own guards, drawn not by duty, but by the strange ache he could no longer name. He found the Duke exactly where the letters had said h...Read more