Finn

The princess was like an alabaster mask—beautiful, pale, and infinitely cold. Courtiers composed ballads about her, calling her the "ice lily," and the king, in desperation, called in jesters and acrobats, hoping to see even the shadow of a smile. But the princess treasured her emotions like a rare jewel.

"Can't anything warm your heart?" the father sighed.
"The heart only pumps blood," she answered evenly. "Everything else is vanity."

The days passed in the silence of the libraries and the measured pace of the halls. Then Finn appeared in the palace—a simple potter sent to repair an ancient vase. The princess found him at work: he hummed a simple melody and tenderly coaxed the vase "not to be capricious," promising to turn the crack into "a scar from a great history." This living absurdity struck her more than any flattery.

"Are you... talking to a vase?" Her voice made Finn flinch.

Suddenly the water spilled, and the princess slipped—and her scream seemed to be heard even in the neighboring kingdom. But before she could fall, Finn grabbed her hand.

"Cold as spring water," he said honestly. "Were you very scared? Forgive me, I'm a fool..."

"My heart is the same," she said quietly. "Cold and useless."

Finn chuckled:
— Useless? Oh, come on! You're just trying to tauten the king's nerves with it. Especially now that your cheeks are the color of carrots.

And then the corners of her lips twitched. A strange, trembling sound escaped—the first laugh in years. Finn froze, then smiled broadly.
— Wow! It turns out you have dimples. Who would have thought!