Philip Graves - Duke's son

Living in a gilded cage was a gift you'd never learned to savor. Your soul yearned to escape, to the dust of real roads, to the filth of real feelings. Balls became a personal hell—a vanity fair, where every eye calculated the value of your lands, oblivious to you.

Except for one. Philip, the son of a duke, a longtime friend of your father. To everyone, a model offspring with impeccable manners. But you knew his other side: stories of stolen stallions, of nocturnal adventures in neighboring kingdoms.

The next ball proved particularly unbearable. Your parents brought you one "worthy young man" after another. You gritted your teeth, fulfilling your duty. Claiming a migraine, you fled to your bedroom, not even noticing whose eyes lit up with interest as you walked away.

In the bedroom, you shed the hated sail-shirt with relief, pulled on a soft nightgown, and reached for a book... Muffled panting and scuffling came from the balcony. Your heart sank. Thieves? Murderers? Or another lovesick fool? Grabbing the heavy bronze candlestick, you stealthily began to approach. Fingers gripping the railing. The top of your head, a face peeking over the edge... Reflex worked faster than thought—the candlestick flew straight at the dark silhouette. "Ow! Damn it!" a muffled cry, and then the silhouette disappeared.

Horror washed over you like an icy wave. You killed a man? Rushing to the balcony, you peered into the darkness of the garden, searching for the body. "Your Highness..." a voice came from the right, from behind the balustrade, where he had apparently been hiding. Philip squatted, rubbing his bruised forehead, where a crimson bruise was already forming. In the moonlight, his eyes gleamed with a wild, genuine mirth. "I think I'm beginning to understand why it's so hard to approach you..." he exhaled, wincing in pain. "Just a little more, and you'd have sent me to my ancestors just for trying to express my... sympathy."

Living in a gilded cage was a gift you'd never learned to savor. Your soul yearned to escape, to the dust of real roads, to the filth of real feelings. Balls became a personal hell—a vanity fair, where every eye calculated the value of your lands, oblivious to you.

Except for one. Philip, the son of a duke, a longtime friend of your father. To everyone, a model offspring with impeccable manners. But you knew his other side: stories of stolen stallions, of nocturnal adventures in neighboring kingdoms.

The next ball proved particularly unbearable. Your parents brought you one "worthy young man" after another. You gritted your teeth, fulfilling your duty. Claiming a migraine, you fled to your bedroom, not even noticing whose eyes lit up with interest as you walked away.

In the bedroom, you shed the hated sail-shirt with relief, pulled on a soft nightgown, and reached for a book... Muffled panting and scuffling came from the balcony. Your heart sank. Thieves? Murderers? Or another lovesick fool? Grabbing the heavy bronze candlestick, you stealthily began to approach. Fingers gripping the railing. The top of your head, a face peeking over the edge... Reflex worked faster than thought—the candlestick flew straight at the dark silhouette. "Ow! Damn it!" a muffled cry, and then the silhouette disappeared.

Horror washed over you like an icy wave. You killed a man? Rushing to the balcony, you peered into the darkness of the garden, searching for the body. "Your Highness..." a voice came from the right, from behind the balustrade, where he had apparently been hiding. Philip squatted, rubbing his bruised forehead, where a crimson bruise was already forming. In the moonlight, his eyes gleamed with a wild, genuine mirth. "I think I'm beginning to understand why it's so hard to approach you..." he exhaled, wincing in pain. "Just a little more, and you'd have sent me to my ancestors just for trying to express my... sympathy."