The streets of Mermaid’s Cove pulsed with the rhythm of morning—fishermen hauling nets and baskets, vendors shouting their prices over the din, children darting between crates like squirrels let loose.
And through it all walked two men who looked like they’d stepped out of a royal portrait.
The Prince moved with effortless grace, his polished boots catching the sunlight with each step. He walked like someone born to be watched—calm, confident, untouched by dust or noise.
Beside him, Cassian kept a half-step behind—coat crisp, pen already in hand—silently taking stock of the town’s layout. Every alley, every storefront, every potential threat. He missed nothing.
But it wasn’t the architecture that caught Lucien’s attention.
It was the people.
They stared, of course—how could they not? A prince, strolling through their sunlit market square like a man on holiday.
Children peeked out from behind crates of oranges. Old women paused their gossip. Shopkeepers leaned out of their stalls. Every pair of eyes followed him.
But no one bowed.
No one flinched.
There was no fear in their eyes.
No rigid spines. No trembling hands. No breathless murmur of Your Highness.
Just… curiosity. Quiet, polite curiosity.
As if he were some rare and lovely creature that had wandered out of a fable and into their fish-scented, salt-kissed corner of the world.
Lucien slowed, lips parting slightly. “Hm.”
Cassian didn’t look up from his notes. “Problem?”
“No,” Lucien said, watching a heavyset woman at a nearby fruit stall arranging lemons. “Just… unexpected.”
She looked up, caught his gaze—and smiled.
Not a nervous, court-trained smile. A real one. Warm, unhurried. Entirely genuine.
“She’s not afraid,” Lucien murmured. “None of them are.”
Cassian blinked. “Should they be?”
“They’re commoners, Cassian,” Lucien replied, his voice calm. “And I’m a prince.”
Cassian scribbled a note in the margin of his parchment. “Perhaps etiquette is different in the south.”
Lucien chuckled softly. “Perhaps.”
They passed a flower stall next—bundles of dried herbs hanging above scattered petals. An old man tending the shop gave Lucien a simple nod. Not a bow. Not even a slight dip of the head.
Just quiet acknowledgment—as if to say: You’re welcome here. But that’s all.
Lucien’s smile turned wry. “This is interesting. Cassian—do you think they realize what sort of authority I represent?”
“Highly doubtful,” Cassian said dryly.
“Good,” Lucien murmured, eyes drifting up toward the distant hill. There, nestled among green and stone, was a red-roofed cottage. “I think I like it that way.”
They walked on. The breeze brought the scent of sea salt and warm bread, and something faintly floral—lavender, maybe.
The town was small, but it breathed. It lived. Not just in motion, but in spirit. Without banners. Without patrols. Without the heavy silence of fear.
Cassian said something about merchant clustering and building density. Lucien wasn’t listening.
He was watching a girl with a basket of seaweed humming to herself.
She glanced his way. No awe. No interest, even. Just a polite flicker of recognition.
Then she moved on without missing a step.
Lucien tilted his head. “This place feels… untouched.”
“By imperial reach?” Cassian asked, adjusting his glasses.
“No,” Lucien said. “Unburdened.”
Cassian made a sound halfway between skepticism and disapproval. “Sounds inefficient.”
“They just have their own kind of order.” Lucien said, a rare, almost boyish smile forming.
They rounded a corner near the fountain, where the market thinned. A group of children were trying to balance fish on their heads, daring each other not to laugh.
One tripped. A fish slapped the cobblestones with a wet plop.
The others shrieked with laughter.
No guards rushed over. No adults shouted.
An old man stepped around the mess, chuckling softly.
Lucien breathed in deep. “Look at them.”
Cassian raised an eyebrow. “What about them?”
“It’s a world,” Lucien said. “Their own little world, spinning quietly by the sea… pretending the Empire doesn’t exist.”
“And yet,” Cassian said, “here we are.”
Lucien’s eyes narrowed faintly. “Like a drop of ink in clear water. I wonder how long it’ll take before the ripples show.”
They had only taken a few more steps when a voice called out.
“Excuse me! Young man in the fancy coat!”
Lucien turned, brows lifting.
An elderly woman with keen eyes and a basket full of dried clams waved him over, like she’d known him for years.
“You dropped this,” she said, holding up a silver button.
Lucien instinctively touched his cuff. One button was indeed missing.
He stepped forward and accepted it with a short, courteous bow. “Thank you, madam. That was very sharp of you.”
“Noticed it the moment you passed my stall,” she said with a sniff. “You noble types are always too well-tailored. If something’s out of place, it stands out.”
Lucien laughed softly. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
She gave him a smirk. “You’re not as full of hot air as I expected. Good.”
Then she turned and walked off, humming something off-key.
Lucien stared after her, button in hand.
Cassian gave him a sidelong glance. “A flattering review.”
“This town might be bad for my ego,” Lucien said mildly.
“You did say you liked it this way, Your Highness.” Cassian’s lips quirked upward—barely noticeable, but there.
Lucien didn’t answer.
His eyes were on the road again—past the fountain, past the harbor, toward the red-roofed cottage on the hill.
Something about it tugged at him. Familiar, though it shouldn’t be.
He narrowed his eyes.
“…Cassian.”
“Yes, Your Highness?”
“Send a quiet inquiry to the local guildmaster. No formal meetings. Just ask if the Saintess is taking appointments.”
Cassian glanced up from his notes. “You’re convinced she exists now?”
Lucien’s golden eyes gleamed faintly. “I’m convinced something’s calling me.”
Cassian didn’t sigh—but his silence was the kind that felt like one.
“Very well. I’ll be discreet.”
Lucien gave a short nod.
Then turned to look at the townsfolk again.
They were laughing.
Living.
And the Prince was beginning to understand why he hadn’t felt at home anywhere else.
While they continued to explore the town—up on the hill, above the square and the sea-sprayed rooftops, Mira sat on the sun-warmed garden step of the red-roofed cottage, a spoon in her mouth and a bowl of beef stew cooling in her lap.
The wind played with the loose strands of her hair, tugging them gently across her cheek.
It carried the usual notes from town—laughter, the clatter of crates, the scent of fish and flour and salt.
Somewhere down there, someone was butchering a lute again. Off-key. Enthusiastic.
She stirred the stew absently. Took another bite. Chewed.
Something’s off today.
It wasn’t loud. Wasn’t obvious. No thunder in the sky, no mana tremors underfoot.
Just… a shift. A soft one. Like a thread being tugged on a sleeve you hadn’t realized was unraveling.
She squinted toward the horizon, then stood slowly, dusting her skirt with one hand and balancing the bowl in the other.
The gloves on her fingers still hummed faintly, like they remembered the morning’s spells better than she did.
At the edge of the garden wall, she stopped and looked down.
The marketplace was its usual self—vibrant, chaotic, loud. Fishmongers shouting prices, children chasing each other with sticks, the baker throwing flour at pigeons again. Nothing seemed out of place.
But then—she saw them.
Two figures turning the corner near the fountain.
One of them glittered. There was no better word for it.
Sunlight bounced off his boots, his buttons, even his hair. Tall, smooth, expensive. He looked like he’d been styled by a royal tailor with too much time on their hands.
The long coat, deep blue with silver trim, didn’t belong here—at least not outside of a painting.
The man beside him was the opposite. Stark black, stiff shoulders, glasses that glinted like a drawn blade. Calculating. Cold.
The kind of man who probably knew exactly how many spoons were missing from the inn kitchen and already had a list of suspects.
Mira leaned forward slightly, bowl forgotten in her hands.
That’s the prince, isn’t it? She thought.
She studied him. He wasn’t barking orders. Wasn’t walking like he owned the place, even though, technically, he probably did.
No guards. No trumpets. Just him, taking in the town like it was a curiosity.
He’s watching, she thought. But not like normal nobles do.
Her brow furrowed. "Hm… That’s quite a surprise. I thought royalty were supposed to be cocky. Arrogant. Glowing with entitlement.”
She glanced again.
Lucien looked amused. Thoughtful, even. Like he was trying to solve a puzzle no one had asked him to.
So what are you really doing here, Your Highness?
She pressed her fingers together and felt a soft flicker of heat rise through her gloves. Not aggressive. Not defensive. Just… alert for something about to step forward from behind the curtain.
You’d better not bring trouble to my town.
“Miraaa~!”
The call came from inside the house, familiar and exasperated.
Her mother.
“You left your stew half-eaten again!”
Mira sighed. “I’m coming, I’m coming!”
She took one last look at the square. Lucien was standing now, holding something an old clam-seller had handed him.
She couldn't see what it was.
But it didn’t matter anyway.
She turned away and stepped back into the cottage. The stew was lukewarm. The laundry wasn’t going to hang itself. She still had three mana flasks to sterilize and carrots to cut before dinner.
Royalty or not, the chores came first!
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