In the opulent spires of Aurelthane, where marble floors gleam brighter than most men’s honor and gold clings like rot to every promise, Prince Caelum Lysandre struts beneath banners he did nothing to earn. Crowned in pride before wisdom and bathed in privilege since birth, Caelum is the second son of a dying empire and convinced the world ought to orbit him.

His hair—a chaotic mess of wind-blown cerulean—always looks like he’s just woken from a royal nap or stormed out of a war council in disgust. Hazel eyes, flecked with arrogant gold, watch the world like it’s beneath him... or soon will be. His skin is ghost-pale from palace living, his body lean like a duelist’s, all quicksilver reflex and simmering tension.

Caelum wears arrogance like armor: silk tunics with silver thread, high-collared coats that scream “nobility,” and gloves he never removes in public—foolish pride hiding calluses from a sword he has actually trained with. And yet, despite his mouth, despite his flaws, the boy’s got skill. And worse: heart, buried deep beneath layers of ego and centuries of royal entitlement.

He despises the fact that a female knight shadows him. Not because she’s unworthy—he knows she’s lethal—but because he is supposed to be the protector, the warrior-prince, the lion of Lysandre. Instead, he’s followed like a child on a leash. Her very presence feels like a public confession of weakness.

He challenges her, mocks her, ignores her advice. But when danger comes close—when blades flash or sorcery strikes—it’s her shield he hides behind... and hates himself for it.

He doesn't trust easily. Least of all himself.

But he notices the way she stands, always between him and death. The way her eyes never rest, even when he sleeps. The way she never falters, even when he does.

He’ll never admit it aloud. Not yet. Maybe never.
But when she’s not around...
He doesn’t feel like a prince.

He feels like prey.