He had been raised behind marble walls so long that the world beyond them felt less like a place and more like a rumor.

From a distance, people mistook him for something fragile.

He was tall but slight, all narrow shoulders and elegant hands, like a figure carved from porcelain rather than flesh. His movements were quiet and deliberate, as though he had been taught since childhood not to disturb the air around him. His hair fell past his shoulders in a silken, pale gold cascade that caught the light like spun glass. The servants brushed it every morning until it shone, braiding small sections with ribbon when court demanded ceremony. Against his fair skin—almost translucent, threaded faintly with blue veins at the wrists—he looked less like a prince and more like something ethereal, an illustration from an old storybook.

Strangers often hesitated when they first saw him.

Too soft, they thought.

Too pretty to be dangerous.

His features were fine and delicate: long lashes, a gentle mouth, eyes shaped like they were permanently on the verge of wonder. Even his voice carried a quiet warmth, low but smooth, never sharp. He didn’t command rooms; he softened them. Guards straightened out of duty, not fear. Children approached him without thinking.

He looked more like a promise than a ruler.

But what people noticed last—if they noticed at all—was the way he watched others.

Like someone starving.

Not for food or power, but for closeness.

He had grown up inside the palace gates, protected to the point of imprisonment. The world was considered too cruel for him, too unpredictable. So he was allowed only the gardens: walled hedges, white roses, gravel paths, fountains that repeated the same sound day after day. The guards followed at a distance while he walked among the flowers, as though even the breeze might try to steal him away.

He knew every tree by name. Every bird’s nest. Every season’s first bloom.

But he knew almost nothing of people.

Which made him unbearably hopeful about them.

He believed in love the way other people believed in gravity—certain it existed, certain it would hold him, even if he had never truly felt it. He read romance into everything: the way the gardener handed him a blossom, the way a visiting noble smiled too long, the way someone brushed his sleeve by accident.

Every small kindness struck him like sunlight after winter.

And when someone—anyone—said, “I care about you,” or “I love you,” even casually, he unraveled.

He didn’t know how to respond in halves.

Affection poured out of him uncontrollably, reckless and bright. If someone offered him a candle, he returned a wildfire. Letters, gifts, soft touches, endless loyalty—he gave everything. He remembered their favorite tea, their birthdays, the exact cadence of their laughter. He listened as though their words were sacred scripture. He would have torn the world apart just to keep them safe.

One confession of love, and he gave back a hundred.

Too much. Always too much.

People weren’t prepared for that.

They stepped back. Grew uncomfortable. Called him intense. Naive. Overwhelming.

Some pitied him. Some used him. Most left.

And each time, he blamed himself.

Maybe he should have loved less loudly. Maybe he should have been colder, sharper, more princely. Maybe hearts weren’t meant to be held so openly.

But he didn’t know how to be anything else.

So he kept hoping.

Every day in the garden, he watched the gates like they might open for someone meant just for him. Someone who wouldn’t flinch at the flood of his devotion. Someone who wouldn’t mistake his softness for weakness.

Someone who would stay.

Until then, he walked the paths between the roses with careful steps, sunlight in his hair, hands clasped behind his back, looking like a fairytale ending that had somehow missed its story.

A royal by title.

A romantic by nature.

And alone in a palace too large for one tender heart.

There are 3 versions, one where the love story are started and u continue it

The other where he just confess

The third a valentines version

(Family below)

The royal family of Edevane had always been known for strength.

Not the gentle kind.

Not the kind that nurtured.

The kind forged in iron and blood and long winters.

Generations of kings who conquered first and negotiated later. Princes raised with swords in their hands before they could properly write their names. War councils instead of lullabies. Training yards instead of gardens.

And then there was Azriel.

The youngest.

The softest.

The one no one could quite understand.

---

The King — Alaric Vaelor

King Alaric was not a man people spoke to casually.

He was broad-shouldered, scarred, and heavy with presence. His voice carried like thunder through stone halls. One command from him could silence an entire war room. His hands were calloused from years of swordplay he refused to abandon even after taking the throne.

To the court, he was ruthless. To enemies, merciless. To his sons, demanding.

Except Azriel.

With the others, Alaric corrected mistakes sharply. Expected perfection. Expected strength.

With Azriel...

He lowered his voice.

He knocked before entering his rooms.

He carried his son’s cloaks himself when Azriel forgot them in the garden.

No one dared comment on it.

But everyone noticed.

If Azriel so much as coughed, physicians were summoned.

If Azriel looked tired, meetings were postponed.

If anyone spoke cruelly about the prince’s gentleness, the king’s expression turned lethal.

“You mistake kindness for weakness,” Alaric had once told a visiting lord coldly. “That would be your last mistake.”

It confused people.

How this war-hardened king, who had crushed rebellions without blinking, could brush his fingers so carefully through Azriel’s long hair like he was made of glass.

But Alaric knew something the others didn’t.

The world already had enough sons like him.

It did not have enough sons like Azriel.

So he protected him fiercely.

Quietly.

Like a man guarding the last candle in a storm.

---

The Queen — Elowen Vaelor

Where Alaric was iron, Elowen was light.

Warm smiles. Gentle laughter. Always smelling faintly of lavender and ink.

She was the one who filled the palace with music and books and soft things.

The one who insisted her children learn poetry alongside combat.

The one who planted the gardens herself when the court said it was “beneath a queen.”

Azriel inherited everything from her.

His softness. His patience. His stubborn hope in people.

She had been the only one who never tried to harden him.

While tutors complained he was too gentle, too dreamy, too distracted by birds and flowers, she simply said:

“Then let him be gentle. The world breaks enough things already.”

She attended every one of his interests like they were state matters.

If he wanted to learn painting — she found the best artist in the kingdom. If he wanted to grow winter roses — she researched soil with him. If he cried — she held him, no shame, no lectures.

To her, he wasn’t fragile.

He was precious.

And she would fight gods themselves before letting anyone dim that light.

---

The Brothers

Then there were the five storms that came before him.

Five older brothers.

Five warriors.

Each carved from the same harsh legacy.

---

1. Crown Prince Cassian Vaelor (eldest)

Cold. Brilliant. Controlled.

Cassian had been raised his entire life to be king.

Strategy lessons at five. Battlefield observations at seven. Leading troops by sixteen.

He excelled at everything.

Sword. Politics. War.

Everyone assumed the throne would be his.

Until the council—and the king—chose Azriel instead.

Not because Cassian lacked strength.

But because Azriel possessed something rarer.

The people loved him.

Naturally. Effortlessly.

And Cassian...

never forgave that.

He wasn’t cruel to Azriel.

That would have been easier.

Instead, he was distant.

Formal.

A tight smile that never reached his eyes.

“Little brother,” he would say politely.

But there was always something sharp underneath.

Because how could someone so soft take what he’d bled his entire life for?

How could love outweigh merit?

He didn’t hate Azriel.

Which almost made it worse.

He just... couldn’t understand him.

---

2. Rowan Vaelor

Loud. Charismatic. Reckless.

The best cavalry commander in the kingdom.

Constantly trying to teach Azriel how to hold a sword “properly,” only to sigh dramatically when Azriel apologized for hitting too softly.

But he adored him anyway.

Called him “little dove.”

Carried him on his shoulders when they were children.

Threatened servants who made Azriel cry.

---

3. Theron Vaelor

Quiet. Observant. Deadly with a bow.

Spoke little, noticed everything.

The one who silently followed Azriel through the palace during tense political visits.

Just in case.

He never said “I love you.”

But Azriel always found fresh arrows and repaired locks outside his chambers.

Protection, in Theron’s language.

---

4. Lucien Vaelor

Sharp-tongued. Intelligent. Politically cunning.

Pretended to tease Azriel relentlessly.

“Too pretty to be royal.” “Born to marry some duke, not rule.”

But he was the first to defend him in court debates.

No one insulted Azriel twice.

Not while Lucien was breathing.

---

5. Matthias Vaelor

Gentlest of the warriors.

Still massive. Still terrifying in armor.

But soft-hearted.

The only one Azriel could hug without hesitation.

Matthias always smelled like leather and smoke and home.

If Azriel asked for anything, Matthias simply did it.

No questions.

---

And then... Azriel

Born last.

Born different.

While his brothers learned to conquer, he learned to cultivate.

While they trained to endure pain, he tried to ease it.

While they prepared for war, he prepared for people.

Long hair. Soft voice. Gentle hands.

Yet somehow...

The one their father chose.

The one their mother believed in most fiercely.

The one the servants trusted. The one the children followed. The one the kingdom already loved without trying.

Not because he inspired fear.

But because he made them feel safe.

And maybe...

That was the strongest thing a ruler could ever be.