Prologue: The Strange Princess and the Wanderer

The night spilled like thick ink over the domed palace of Loxinitro. From the distant banquet hall, the faint strains of music seeped through layers of stone walls, whispering into Ioanna’s ears like restless insects.

She slipped quietly from the opulent velvet bed, her bare feet grazing the cold marble. Her toes curled, her body instinctively lowering itself. In the flickering candlelight, her eyes gleamed sly and alive, and the curve on her lips held a freedom no one could take away. For a moment, she was not a princess trapped in a golden cage—she was a wild hawk ready to leap into the dark.

Tiptoeing toward the door, she pressed two fingers softly against it and eased open a small gap. She leaned close, one half of her face bathed in shadows, scanning the empty corridor.

The hallway stretched out silent and deserted—like a corridor of forgotten time. The flames did not move. Her tense breath left her chest, and the smile on her lips deepened. “Perfect. No one.” She slipped through the doorway, skirts fluttering, moving fast but noiselessly—her feet as light as a cat crossing snow.

After fifty steps, she braked sharply at the corner, nearly stumbling. Instinctively, she pressed into a recess in the wall—just as her sleeve brushed against a marble statue, making it tilt.

Her heart seized. Her pupils widened. Her hands shot out like arrows, catching the sculpture before it could fall. The chill stone numbed her fingertips; she clamped her mouth shut to smother a gasp. Her heartbeat thundered like war drums, sweat beading down her back. “That was close,” she scolded herself, yet in her eyes burned the breathless thrill of survival.

Down the corridor, servants shuffled with trays, guards’ armor clinked like crystal. She flattened herself against the wall, thin as a pressed leaf between pages, waiting for the bustle to fade.

Her eyes tracked the movement of every body like a hunter studying prey, counting footsteps, lips tight, focus sharp—utterly unlike any sheltered court girl.

When the last soldier turned his back, she sprang forward. Her skirts spun through the air; by the time he glanced back, she had already vanished into the shadows.

“As if I’d attend that boring banquet,” she muttered. In one smooth motion, she vaulted onto the windowsill—every step and grip perfectly rehearsed from countless nights before.

She leapt into the night. Air roared past her ears; her skirt fluttered like a dark-winged moth. She landed on a narrow ledge, hands gripping the stone edge, lowering herself down the wall in silence until her boots touched ground as quietly as a drop of water meeting still lake.

Running along the castle’s outer wall, her hair streamed in the wind like a black banner. Ahead, a crooked tower rose in the moonlight.

The moment she saw it, her gaze softened—there was tenderness in her eyes, the kind that belongs only to secrets. It was a place forgotten, wild grass sprouting between stones, the walls aged like a wrinkled face. But that decay was her refuge, the reason no one came, the reason she could finally breathe.

“Someday, I’ll leave this place.” Her voice was no louder than a whisper, but each word fell heavy as stone—into the night, into her heart’s deepest corner.

As she rested her chin on folded hands, staring at the moon, she suddenly noticed a rider in the distance—small as an ant, then slowly growing as he approached the castle. She leaned forward, curious, wondering what stories this stranger might carry.

The wind brought music from afar as Jeffrey Grant rode toward Loxinitro’s outer walls. Unhurried, calm, like someone who had made peace with time itself.

He had no destination—or perhaps all his destinations were dreams. Every year since the fire that had swallowed his childhood, a nameless face appeared in his sleep, pulling him from city to city like an invisible thread.

As he reined his horse to a stop, his amber eyes caught sight of the old tower. Someone was on its roof—not a guard, not a maid. A figure leaning on the edge, chin in hands, staring into the distance—like a bird unaware of its cage.

Jeffery dismounted quietly, tied his horse to a nearby tree, and sat down by the wall. He looked up at her without a word.

He waited, long enough for the wind to change direction twice.

Finally, he spoke—his voice deep and calm, meant for no one in particular, as if talking to the night itself.

“At this hour, the palace must be quite lively.”

He didn’t look at her—only the same moon she watched. The faint scar on his temple glimmered pale under the light, his lips hinting at a quiet smile, one that somehow mattered to the figure above.

The princess froze.

“…Are you talking to me?” she called down, uncertain if he was real or part of her reverie.

Jeffery lifted his head. His amber gaze met hers—steady, respectful, calm. “The sound of a feast comes from that direction,” he said, pausing ever so slightly, “and yet you’re the only one outside.”

He fell silent again—neither demanding nor explaining—simply leaving space for her to fill.

His fingers rested loosely on his knee, the wind tousled his dark curls, and the pale scar remained quiet in the moonlight. He looked like someone who had waited too long—or like someone who was done waiting. But inside, the moment he saw her silhouette, something deep within him stilled—as if the dream had finally taken form.

“I’m Ioanna,” she said after a moment, deciding there was no harm in talking to a stranger.

“I just didn’t want to attend the banquet. It’s dreadfully dull.” She sighed. “Not that you’d understand—royal dinners can be painfully boring.”

Jeffery repeated her name softly, almost to himself: “Ioanna.” It was as if he were testing a memory, placing it gently somewhere inside. For a fleeting second, emotion flickered in his eyes—but he hid it quickly, saying only, “Anna.”

He spoke her name as though it were meant to be shortened, meant to belong to him.

“A royal banquet,” he said evenly, “so you’re sneaking out to this forgotten tower for air.”

His tone wasn’t questioning—it was simply true.

After a pause, he added, “I’ve never been to one myself. But a room full of people wearing masks—before it feels boring, it first has to feel safe.”

He let the words hang, eyes returning to the moon, leaving her to decide what they meant.

“It’s the first time someone’s called me that,” Anna murmured, smiling—a small, mischievous smile.

“This tower…” she glanced around, “I come here when I’m tired of pretending. Nobody bothers to fix it.”

Jeffery laughed softly. Not mocking—simply amused, as if she had touched something true. He followed her gaze toward the crumbling corner, weeds sprouting from cracks. The moonlight revealed her tousled hair and bright eyes, no longer royal—just alive.

“Then I’ll keep calling you that,” he said quietly, like it was already decided.

The wind changed again; his curls shifted, the scar caught the light. He said nothing more, simply stayed with her in that fragile stillness—the way only wanderers do, belonging everywhere and nowhere.

When Anna started scanning the surroundings, she suddenly stiffened. “I have to go.” She brushed the hair from her face and vanished from the tower without another word.

Jeffery watched her disappear. He didn’t try to stop her. He stayed where he was, looking at the empty spot she’d left—only moonlight remained, soft and silent, as if she had never been there.

After a moment, he stood, dusting off his clothes, walked back to his horse, and stroked its neck. Before mounting, he glanced once more at the tower. Empty again. The wind carried everything away except the moon.

His amber eyes glimmered faintly in the dark, and his throat moved with a restrained word unsaid.

He mounted the horse, tightened the reins, and trotted toward the trees.

“Anna.”

He whispered her name into the night—no one heard, and no one needed to.

The word lingered on his tongue, like a promise to himself.

Tomorrow, he would return.