wood and the ever-present hint of lavender from the small vase that father insisted adorned his writing desk. Yet, no fragrant bloom could mask the staleness of his confinement, nor

but blinded by duty, demanded he reflect the ideal image of royal lineage a life of duty and decorum that left no room for his deepest desires. How

as a flicker in his gut that tightened at the word. 'The girl marked by fire,' said another voice, laced with disdain and confusion. There was power in that title, a haunting mystery that beckoned to him even amidst the giggles and glances exchanged over the polished silverware, he sensed a shifting tide. A girl who dared to bear the sc

by the chains of obligation that weighed down his soul? He imagined being out there with her, shunned by society, yet alive in ways that he could never experience confined within the palace walls. As his family indulged in polite conversation, Chris could barely taste the roast he chewed; his thoughts dan

m, much like the leaping fire that had seared Scarlet's own skin. Prince Chris often found himself alone, despite the throngs of people around him nobles from neighboring kingdoms, poets, and bards lured to the court by the promise of favor. Yet here, in the luminous shadows where Scarlet resided, he sensed a kindred spir

ldoria. The air inside the palace thickened with tension as debates among the courtiers echoed, each voice a reminder of restrictions meant to ensure stability, yet all Chris could see were the cracks in the facade showing him a fractured kingdom, a far cry from the noble image his family sought to uphold. Could Scarlet

brant reds and soft blacks on a canvas yearning for life, reflecting two souls who existed on opposite spectrums yet shared a fundamental truth: they both sought a home...and a love that felt genuine, without the bindings of expectation. It was within this unquenched longing that he first tasted the electrifying sensation of destiny. In the hours stretched ou

shackled he had grown, rooted in tradition that felt increasingly obsolete yet hauntingly familiar. Beneath the weight of rank and privilege, he craved authenticity, the marrow of real connection that echoed within the throes of absurd royal premises. With Scarlet's name ling

e would abandon the boundaries that stifled his spirit yearning for liberation. It was in that moment of resolve that he finally realised with fierce conviction that love, carved from such ferocious depths of sorrow as well as euphoria, would not just guide him toward Scarlet, it wo