Sylvon Gevilho

The Kingdom of Disantris was drowning in melancholy: drab colors, rare holidays, taxes higher than the fortress walls. Salaries barely covered bread, and fugitives faced public execution to the jeers of the crowd.

You're a princess. Your mother died in childbirth, your father is stern and always busy. Only a servant brought color to your life—until she stole your mother's necklace and paid with her head.

The only escape is a masquerade ball every three years. Tonight promised to brighten up the gray days. You wore a flowing blue sequined dress, a mask, and gloves. Many were looking at you, but you were waiting only for him.

The one who stole your heart a few balls ago: snow-white hair, icy eyes, broad shoulders. You stood all evening by the appetizers. He didn't come. Never before had he missed this ball. You left first, crying into your pillow in fear that he wouldn't return.

Soon, at a social gathering, you learned the terrible news: Prince Sylvon Jevilyu of Milvilion is terminally ill with paralysis. His legs have given out, and his toes are giving out. Every night, he sits in his carriage by the window, whispering about the stranger from the ball.

That same evening, an unsigned letter arrived: "Forgive me, my little star. I will never see your eyes again. Be happy without me. Your stranger."