The palace lights glimmered like captured stars across the polished marble courtyard. Ornate carriages rolled by, music and chatter echoed faintly from within, but six figures remained just outside the entrance—delayed, again.
Prince Keith of Liberty, tall and broad-shouldered with deep-set eyes and a sharply cut jaw, paced restlessly. His dark ash-brown hair, neatly styled, framed a face carved in resolve. His steel-grey eyes did not wander — they assessed. Judged. Measured. And gave nothing away. A prince built not of fire, but a controlled burn. His raven-black tuxedo was pressed to perfection—just like the scowl that had settled on his face.
"We're already late. How much longer are we supposed to wait?" he muttered, adjusting his cufflinks with a snap. "We can't waste the entire evening waiting for him."
A calm voice answered, smooth as silk.
"Patience, Prince Keith. You'll wrinkle your jacket if you keep twitching like that."
Prince Edward of Charles stood composed beside him, hands folded behind his back. His warm chestnut hair lay in gentle layers, always neatly brushed, and his hazel-green eyes carried a look of thoughtfulness that could disarm the most rigid of walls. His white-and-purple tuxedo shimmered under the palace lanterns, tailored with understated elegance.
Keith shot him a look. "You'd stay calm even if the palace were on fire."
"Because shouting doesn't put out flames," Edward replied simply.
A chuckle escaped from behind them.
"Though in Keith's case, it might start one," came the dry, amused voice of Prince Nicholas of Delmere.
Leaning against a marble column, Nicholas had a lean build. His platinum-blonde hair held glints of silver, wind-kissed and cool. And his icy violet-blue eyes, rare and sharp, gave the impression that he saw everything. His red-brown tuxedo was clean but modestly cut.
He smirked. "Frankly, I'm impressed he hasn't exploded yet."
"Don't start, Nicholas. I expect sense from you, not sarcasm." Keith growled, turning toward him.
Nicholas raised an eyebrow. "I study human behavior. Watching yours is like watching a volcano threaten to erupt every few minutes. Fascinating."
Before Keith could retort, a quiet presence joined the circle.
"Leave him be," came a soft voice.
Prince Wysten of Phillips stepped forward—tall, pale, and introspective, his ash-blonde hair fell lightly near his eyes, curtain-like and soft. There was a delicate stillness in him — not fragile, but intentional. Blue-grey eyes, distant and quiet, drifted often as if seeking meaning in things unsaid. His snow-white tuxedo matched his composed silence.
"You're always this restless, Keith. Same lines, different occasion." he said as he nodded to the others.
Keith folded his arms tightly. "Where exactly were you, Wysten?"
Wysten's lips twitched into a rare, subtle smirk. "I was here the whole time. Maybe if you weren't monologuing, you'd have noticed."
Nicholas coughed into his hand, amused. "Touché."
"Oh, wonderful," Keith snapped. "Now you two are forming a comedy club."
"And now you're drawing more attention," said a firm, grounded voice from behind.
Prince Jacen of Hemsley approached, his steps crisp and purposeful. His jet-black hair, smoothed back with ease, matched the depth of his hazel eyes — warm, yet reserved, like autumn dusk. His presence didn't demand attention. It earned it. He stood tall without arrogance, a quiet fortress in flesh and bone. He wore a rich green tuxedo.
"Welcome, Prince Jacen," Edward greeted with a respectful nod.
"Thank you, Prince Edward," Jacen replied, then looked to Keith. "Don't drag me into your impatience. It's five minutes, not five hours."
Keith frowned. "I'm not dragging anyone into anything."
"You are," Jacen replied flatly. "Like always. You pick the wrong battles."
"Oh, save me the lecture," Keith muttered, eyes narrowing.
Jacen raised an eyebrow. "Then stop giving me material."
"Well, well, if it isn't my favorite royal wrestling match." said a cheerful voice from behind, stopping them mid-bicker.
They all turned.
Prince Robert of Altaria strolled toward them with a lazy, practiced grin. His navy-blue tux shimmered with silver threads, perfectly complimenting his sun-warmed honey-blonde hair curled slightly at the edges, defying all attempts at regal order. A glint of sky-blue in his eyes reflected mischief, charm, and the kind of boyish light that rarely dulled Hands in his pockets, he exuded charm and recklessness in equal measure.
"Miss me, Keithster?" he said with a grin.
"You're impossible!" Keith snapped, throwing his hands up. "How many times must I tell you not to call me that—and you're late! Do you even own a watch?"
Robert shrugged playfully. "I have three. I just don't like any of them."
"You were supposed to be here an hour ago."
"Yeah, but if I were Keithster, we wouldn't be having this lovely little reunion."
"You're insufferable! And stop calling me that!" Keith barked, cheeks reddening.
"Which part of me bothers you most?" Robert asked, tilting his head innocently. "My timing, or my face?" Robert only grinned wider.
"That's enough," Edward stepped between them, his voice carrying quiet authority. "Let's not ruin the night before it begins."
With a final glare at Robert, Keith turned toward the entrance. The group finally fell into steps toward the entrance stairs. These were the six crown princes of the great kingdoms—each carrying the weight of legacy, power, and secrets. Little did they know the night ahead would change everything they believed about alliances, loyalty—and perhaps even destiny.