The palace never truly slept, but it was never awake for him either.
From the moment the seventh prince was born, the halls had learned to whisper.
Servants lowered their voices when he passed. Curtains were drawn tighter. Candles flickered as if uneasy in his presence. Even the stone walls seemed to recoil, cold beneath his fingertips, as though they remembered the night of his birth better than anyone else.
A night that had ended in death.
The woman who carried him had died screaming, her body unable to bear the thing growing inside her. A demon-child, they said. A cursed pregnancy. A sin that should never have been allowed to live.
Yet he had lived.
The king never forgave that.
Now, eighteen years later, the seventh prince stood alone at the edge of the grand ballroom, dressed in black and gold—colors chosen not for him, but for appearances. His reflection stared back from a tall mirror between marble columns: dark hair falling into sharp eyes, pale skin untouched by warmth, a face too calm for someone so deeply unwanted.
He looked like a prince.
He did not feel like one.
Laughter rippled through the ballroom behind him. Nobles danced beneath crystal chandeliers, silk skirts swirling, polished shoes gliding across the floor. Music filled the air—bright, cheerful, alive. Everything he was not.
He glanced toward the throne set aside for his father.
The king sat tall, dignified, his expression carved from stone. He did not look at his youngest son. He never did. To the king, the seventh prince was not flesh and blood, but a reminder—a living wound that refused to close.
Attend the ball, his father had commanded earlier that day.
Smile when spoken to. Do not embarrass me.
No words of pride. No warmth. Only duty.
The prince's fingers curled slowly at his side.
He had learned long ago not to expect more.
As the music swelled and voices grew louder, the weight in his chest became unbearable. He slipped away quietly, unnoticed, as he always was, moving through side corridors lit only by moonlight spilling through tall windows.
The farther he walked from the ballroom, the quieter the palace became.
Then he heard it.
A sound so gentle it barely felt real.
Piano keys—soft, deliberate. Not meant for performance. Not meant for applause. Each note carried a quiet ache, as though the music itself was breathing.
The prince froze.
The melody pulled at something deep within him, something he did not have words for. Slowly, almost fearfully, he followed the sound down a dim corridor until he reached a door left slightly open.
Warm light spilled out.
Inside, a young man sat at the piano.
Golden hair caught the candlelight, soft and unguarded. His posture was relaxed, fingers gliding across the keys with effortless grace. When he sang, his voice was low and clear, carrying emotion without force—as if he sang only because silence would hurt too much.
The prince watched from the doorway, heart pounding.
He had never seen someone like this before.
As if sensing him, the musician faltered. The final note lingered in the air before fading. Slowly, he turned.
Their eyes met.
The prince waited for the usual reaction—fear, disgust, recognition. For the whisper of demon-born to settle between them.
But the musician only looked at him.
Curious. Calm. Unafraid.
"Were you listening?" the young man asked softly.
The prince swallowed. "I didn't mean to intrude."
"You're not intruding," the musician replied, standing. "No one comes here."
A pause stretched between them.
Then, for the first time in his life, the seventh prince realized something terrifying.
This stranger did not see him as a curse.
And somehow, that frightened him more than hatred ever had.