The palace of Velmora rose like a silver mirage in the heart of the capital, its towers piercing the sky, its banners dancing in winds heavy with power. Nobles came and went through marble halls, their footsteps echoing with purpose. Servants whispered behind silk-draped corridors. Generals and scholars paraded through war rooms and libraries alike.
But far from the throne room and the court's laughter—hidden in the western wing where no guests ever wandered—lived a prince the kingdom had forgotten.
Prince Kael.
The second son of King Theralis.
And the boy who could not walk.
From birth, Kael's legs had failed him. No magic nor medicine could fix what the gods themselves had ordained. He was intelligent, fluent in seven languages, and could play the harp like a bard—yet none of it mattered. To the world, he was a cursed child, a shame to the crown.
So, the king kept him hidden.
The wing Kael lived in was beautiful—filled with art, books, and soft music. But no one visited it except his old tutor and a quiet servant named Maren.
Kael had no friends.
No knights.
No freedom.
Only the sound of birds outside his window… and the turning pages of books he had read a hundred times.
---
He often sat in his high-backed chair by the garden balcony, watching the sky shift from gray to gold. His hair, dark as midnight, fell over his eyes, and his fingers often drummed silently against the polished armrest.
> "You're thinking again," said Maren one afternoon, placing tea beside him.
Kael gave a dry smile. "Isn't that all I'm allowed to do?"
Maren, kind and older than most, simply sighed. "You were born with a mind sharper than blades, Highness. And a heart softer than most."
Kael turned to the garden below, watching a robin flit across the hedges.
> "And yet both are caged."
---
He didn't hate his father, not truly.
He understood politics.
Understood that a crippled prince weakened a kingdom's image.
But understanding didn't soothe the ache in his bones. It didn't quiet the endless echo of what could never be.
At night, he'd lie in bed staring at the ceiling carved with stars.
> "Is this all I am?" he'd whisper.
Then, one night, it came.
The dream.
---
It began in a field of white flowers, swaying under moonlight. He stood—stood—on legs that felt like air, like strength. No pain, no weakness. For the first time in his life, he felt whole.
And there, among the blossoms, was a girl.
She had eyes like dawn and a soul that felt… familiar.
She smiled, not with pity, but with something deeper—recognition.
Though he tried to speak, no words came. Only a feeling, one he hadn't known he was missing:
> Home.
He reached for her.
She faded.
He woke up gasping.
---
> "It was just a dream," he whispered to himself. "Just another trick of the mind."
But dreams don't leave warmth behind.
For days, Kael couldn't forget her face. He tried to sketch her from memory—the curve of her cheek, the softness in her eyes. Each time, it felt more real.
> "Who are you?" he asked the paper, his voice low.
---
The dreams returned. Again and again.
Always the same girl. Always that strange peace.
And slowly, Kael changed.
He began refusing his sedatives at night, hoping not to blur the dreams. He requested books on fate, on soul bonds, even on the Celestial Realm, though most priests would scoff at such superstition.
But deep in his heart, something stirred.
A memory he never lived. A name he never knew—
But longed to speak.
---
One afternoon, he asked Maren, "Do you believe in divine matches?"
The old servant blinked. "You mean… lovers chosen by the gods?"
Kael nodded, fingers curled tight around his cane.
Maren hesitated, then said gently, "Some say the gods weave red threads between hearts. Invisible, unbreakable, no matter time or distance."
Kael's voice barely rose above a whisper.
> "What if I'm tied to someone out there… and I've already met her?"
Maren looked at him for a long moment, then bowed. "Then may the gods bring her to you, Highness."
---
In the celestial halls above, the divine watched in silence.
One goddess smiled softly.
One god closed his eyes.
And the threads tightened.