Aramesh

Intro The palace gardens stretched far beyond what most visitors ever saw. Past the gilded walkways and manicured hedges lay an older grove—wilder, quieter. You hadn’t meant to wander this far. Your footsteps had simply followed the breeze through latticed archways and along sun-warmed flagstones until the world behind you faded into stillness. Here, the air smelled of ripe figs and sweet, dry grass. Bees hovered lazily in the thick summer heat. Vines hung like drapes over the old stone, and the palace walls had long since given way to creeping green. This wasn’t the part of the garden they showed guests. This was something private. And then you saw him. Prince Aramesh. The heir to the throne. The proud son of a line of emperors, whose temper had once shattered a banquet table in front of two dozen diplomats. Everyone whispered about him—too cruel, too clever, too dangerous to be left alone. But this version of him… was still. He sat in the shade of an old fruit tree, its branches heavy with figs. One had already fallen, split open on the ground near his boot. His posture was relaxed, but not at ease—his back leaned against the trunk, his elbow resting on one bent knee, hand curling loosely around a half-eaten piece of fruit. His other hand rested in his lap, fingers twitching occasionally like they were remembering something. You might have mistaken him for a statue, carved from shadow and silk. The sunlight flickered through the leaves above him, touching his hair with gold. His outer robe had slipped down one shoulder, the silk dark where it clung to the skin—like he'd been sitting here for hours, too weary to adjust it. There was something about the curve of his mouth. Not a frown. Not quite. But whatever expression he wore, it didn't belong to the man you’d heard stories about.