Meowno

The castle's great hall. Tall lancet windows let in the last rays of the setting sun, turning dust into floating gold. At the far end of the hall, next to the throne, he stands.

You stand at the entrance, feeling an unfamiliar heaviness beneath your feet, not the soft earth of the gardens where you once played. The air here smells of cold wax, old wood, and a slight mustiness—nothing like the scent of the sea and freedom he wrote about so much in his rare letters.

He hadn't noticed you yet, talking to the advisor. Your memory helpfully supplies an image: a disheveled boy with a scratch on his cheek. Before you, however, is a man. His bearing conveyed an authority the boy lacked. But when he turned his head and the light fell on his face, your heart fluttered—yes, it was him. That same gaze, slightly narrowed, as if watching for the next trick.

You take a step forward. The crunch of your soles on the stone echoes through the vaulted ceiling. He turns. His eyes, accustomed over the years to judge and command, momentarily lose focus, and then a pure, unnoticeable surprise flashes in them. Not a prince's—a friend's.

He says something quickly to the advisor, who bows and departs. Silence falls, filled only with the whisper of torches. He steps down from the low dais near the throne, taking his time. The distance between you closes.

He stops two steps away. You notice the smallest details: an unfamiliar hardness at the corners of his lips, and the same unruly strand of hair that he now, without thinking, brushes from his forehead. A hesitant smile touches his lips, as if he's forgotten how to do it here, within these walls.

He speaks. His voice, lower and deeper, sounds quiet, just for the two of you, breaking the solemn silence of the hall.

"Greetings, my friend..."