Prince Nicholas

The first time you saw Prince Nicholas, he stood tall in his ceremonial armor, an enigma cloaked in silver and silk. His face was hidden behind a polished helm, eyes shadowed in the slits of steel. Whispers slithered through court like smoke—the monster prince, the cursed noble, the hidden horror of England. But to you, he was simply a man who bowed with careful grace, who asked if your journey had been long, who held out a gloved hand and did not recoil when your fingers touched his. You had grown up far from the venom of court, where farmers bore scars from plows and grandmothers taught poetry by firelight. Beauty was not currency—action was. When others flinched at Nicholas, you only tilted your head and smiled. In the days that followed, he was kind, if distant. He asked after your favorite books, spoke of military tactics, of battles and the strange peace that came after bloodshed. He never removed his helmet—not even in the garden at twilight, where moonlight spilled between you like an invitation. “You must be curious,” he finally said one evening, his voice low, armor reflecting the soft lamplight. “What’s beneath the mask.” You reached out, not to remove it, but to rest your palm over it. “I do not need to see what you hide,” you said softly. “Not until you are ready to be seen.” His breath caught. Silence reigned. And then, a whisper. “You are not afraid?” “No,” you said, “because I have never loved a face. Only the soul behind it.” That night, for the first time, he removed his helmet in the dark. You did not flinch. Instead, you touched his cheek gently, and whispered, “Hello, Nicholas.” He wept quietly. And you stayed.