The first snow fell gently on the courtyard of Elyndor Palace.Beneath the bright light of the moon, a young man stood in the corridor, his gaze fixed on the greenhouse filled only with roses.
He wore a dark blue coat laced with golden patterns, his shoulders already dusted with snow.His golden hair swayed lightly in the cold wind, and his blue eyes gleamed—almost brighter than the moonlight.
Mikhael Lucien d'Argenthal, the crown prince.Or perhaps… just a decaying heir of a fading throne.
His breath broke through the snowy air.An old palace gardener approached him, trembling from the cold.
"Isn't it cold here, young master?" the old man asked.
Mikhael said nothing. Only the sound of the wind filled the silence.He didn't ignore him out of pride—but because he felt… nothing.
Branley, the royal gardener, watched his expressionless eyes stare straight ahead, not even acknowledging his question.
Branley looked up at the sky and slid his hands into his coat pockets.He took a long, quiet breath.
"Hey... didn't you visit the greenhouse today?" he asked gently.
Mikhael turned his head slightly."I always hesitate to go inside," he answered.
"I'm afraid… if I go in, something I don't want to happen will come true."
Branley fell silent for a moment."You know, young master," he said softly, "there are wounds that don't bleed—they're called fear. But there's a light that can reach them… it's called hope.
Fear is like darkness at night… because we turn our backs on the light.But once we turn around, we realize—fear isn't the darkness itself, but how long we've let it grow on its own."
Mikhael listened in silence.Then, without a word, he turned and walked away.
Branley simply watched his fading figure."That boy…" he muttered, walking back to his quarters while lighting a match.
Inside his private chamber, Mikhael approached the table near the balcony.A small box rested there.
He opened it gently.A single rose—wilted, yet still alive.
Mikhael stared at it for a long while. His eyes began to glisten.Hurriedly, he closed the box again.
He shut his eyes and pressed his forehead against it.My fear grows deeper… this is getting harder, he thought.
He returned the rose box to its place, the sound of his footsteps heavy as he walked out of the room.
He stopped before a door—two golden-paneled wings with a sword engraved between them.No guards stood at its post, unlike the others.
Mikhael slowly pushed the door open, careful not to make a sound.
The room was quiet, lit only by a single lamp above the bed.On the elegant bed lay a woman in white garments. Her face soft, beautiful, peaceful.
Mikhael moved toward the chair beside her.He removed his coat and placed it gently over the chair, then sat down.
He took her hand into his and gently caressed its back.
"Mother… good evening. How are you today? I waited all day hoping your beautiful eyes would open…"His voice was flat, yet tender.
Mikhael furrowed his brows, his eyes glassing over again."I'm so tired of waiting. Just once… please, look at me again… I miss you…"
He kissed the back of her hand.
The door creaked open softly.Mikhael quickly wiped his eyes.
An older woman stepped in, holding a tray with warm tea, bread, and some medicine.
"You got here before me, young master…"
Marianne, the former head maid of the palace—still faithfully serving Mikhael and his mother.
She carefully placed the tea, bread, and medicine on the table beside the bed.
"Eat. You probably haven't eaten all day. Even if you don't eat… you're still the heir to the throne."She smiled.
"Ah…" Mikhael paused. "Thank you…"
He didn't look at her. His eyes remained fixed on his mother.
"Marianne… you don't have to stay by our side.""I know," she replied softly, "but the last petal of the rose hasn't frozen completely."
"They treat me and my mother like ghosts, Marianne… as if we don't exist…"Mikhael's voice trembled slightly.
"They don't know your heart, young master.Not your father, nor the palace nobles.But I do. And your mother does.
As long as someone in Elyndor still loves you,there will always be those who see you—not the crown you wear, but the soul within you."
Mikhael was momentarily stunned, then bowed his head and picked up the bread, nibbling at it slowly.
Marianne walked toward the door."Drink the tea while it's still warm…" she smiled.
The gentle sound of the door closing brought a strange comfort.
For a moment, warmth crept back into Mikhael's heart—a feeling long forgotten.
After giving his mother her medicine, Mikhael put on his coat again, kissed her forehead, and left the room.
As he made his way back, he wandered in thought.
Have I lost all hope?Is there no more path left?How do I even find "it"?There's no clue. Nothing.
Mikhael entered his room, undressed, and changed into a white shirt and black trousers—something more casual.
He stepped onto the balcony and leaned on the cold railing.
Taking a deep breath, he exhaled slowly.
"Where else should I look for you, white rose?It's been two years, and you've shown no sign…"
His voice broke the stillness of the falling snow.
He looked up at the sky and closed his eyes.
"For the gods of Elyndor, for the eternal kingdom, and for the curse that will be broken…O gods! Show me the path to reclaim magic again!I swear upon my life and death—I will bring peace back to this earth!"
His voice was soft, sincere.He ruffled his hair and muttered,
"Ahh… this foolish thing I say every day…I guess I'm still enchanted by old royal tales.
But mother always told me they were true stories…"
Mikhael gave a faint smile—as if still hoping for something.
He stretched his body and walked back inside, closing the balcony door.Then, he threw himself onto his elegant bed.
That night, the night when Mikhael made his final plea—the rose box on his table began to tremble.For the second time in history—the rose glowed.