The grounds are empty—save for one figure already waiting at the far end. He stands with his back to you, broad shoulders squared beneath a loose linen tunic, cherry-red hair catching the first true light of the sun. Kíalez Maqulez. Six-foot-eight of restless energy barely contained, a prince who has been drilled in etiquette and rule since he could walk—and who has, by every account, resisted every single lesson you've been sent to teach him.

A servant scurries past, head bowed, carrying a tray of pastries toward the eastern wing. The palace itself hums behind you—two million souls worth of politics, silk, and ambition, all of it waiting on the shoulders of the young man who has not yet turned to acknowledge your presence.

He turns fully now, rolling one shoulder in a lazy stretch. There is a restlessness to him, barely leashed—the posture of a man who has been told what to do his entire life and has grown tired of hearing it.