Fairy tales often begin with "Once upon a time."
But this story is not one of them.

—

Once, between two kingdoms divided by a mist-veiled mountain range, two children were born under a full moon—
One, a small ray of sunshine.
The other, a sliver of moonlight that nearly wasn't.

In Lunaria, they say the moon on the night of Gawin's birth shone so brightly that an old owl fell off its tree—an omen of misfortune.

In Solestra, they tell of a sun so scorching on the day Prince Joss was born, it burned down an entire field of wild strawberries in the southern woods. But no one mourned—because wild strawberries weren't worth much anyway.

Perhaps from these celestial anomalies, fate sketched out two lives—equal in contrast and bound for collision.

—

Solestra, land of sunlight, white stone, and grand histories etched onto palace ceilings, was where Joss was born. Crown prince. First-born. He entered the world to blaring trumpets and thirty-one cannon salutes—a prime number, favoured by his father, the King.

Joss grew up surrounded by duty and expectation.
He studied diligently, fenced gracefully, and possessed a rare gift: staying silent whenever he didn't want to say something stupid.

—

Lunaria, in contrast, was the kingdom of moonlight, misty gardens, and peacocks that wandered palace courtyards at will. Its palaces were built of blue-grey marble, their domes moss-covered, their halls soft with silver-thread carpets.

Here, people walked gently, spoke in whispers, ate with silver spoons and even gentler words.

And Gawin—the youngest royal child—fit in with none of it.

From the very beginning, he rebelled in silence.
Although he was raised in silk and satin, the role he was assigned did not truly belong to them.

Gawin was the youngest prince.
But due to a prophecy made during a stormy night by the royal seer, he had never been allowed to live as one.

"This child's life is as fragile as the last petal of autumn. If raised as a typical boy, he shall perish young.
But if nurtured as a noble maiden, far from hardship and worldly stress, the curse may lift... when the child turns eighteen."

The seer collapsed into a six-day coma after speaking those words.
It was convincing enough.

And so, Gawin became... Princess Kaween.

—

In the palace, everyone knew of Princess Kaween: elegant, graceful, and serene.
What they didn't know was that she was never really a she.

From dresses and posture to penmanship and protocol, Gawin was moulded into the perfect princess: quiet, demure, and untouchably poised.

No one had seen her up close in years.
No one... except Gawin himself.

Who hated wigs.
Regularly scaled the palace walls.
And once tried digging a tunnel with a spoon. (It failed, but deserves acknowledgment.)

The prophecy had wedged itself into his life like a blade.

He wore lace-tiered dresses before he could walk.
Were taught never to sit with legs wider than two handspans.
To smile just enough.
Speak only when spoken to.
And absolutely no tree climbing. (He did. Thrice. Fell twice. No regrets.)

At eighteen, Gawin had become accustomed to life as a glittering shadow.
But being used to something doesn't mean one can bear it.

—

When Gawin turned eighteen, the curse was said to be "near its expiration." He was finally allowed to leave the women's quarters—
Even to see sunlight past 7 a.m.

That should have marked the beginning of freedom.
But instead—

One spring evening, during a celebratory feast, the King of Lunaria had just a bit too much honey wine.

Amid the laughter, he turned to the guest of honour—none other than the King of Solestra—and, in a tone so casual it could've been mistaken for a toast among old friends, he said:

"My daughter, Princess Kaween... shall be Solestra's noble bride. Two kingdoms united, peace eternal. I give you my word!"

Spoken by a king sprawled half off his velvet throne,
Speech slurring, tongue tangled, entirely soused.

Received by a neighbouring king with a military reputation and a sun-scorched land, who grinned, raised his goblet, and drank in agreement.

Some promises are poetry.
Others are the unintended byproducts of ten jugs of mead and a peacock dancing in rhythm.

—

Gawin returned to his room, shut the door, sat down, and screamed silently:

"I cannot believe—I just got promised to another kingdom because my father downed ten jugs of honey wine and a bird twirled on cue!"

—

The next morning, the King of Lunaria awoke with a headache that felt like the prophecy had slapped him with fifty royal chronicles.
And realized—he'd accidentally bartered off his child.

Specifically... his son.

But since no one in the court knew Princess Kaween was actually Prince Gawin, the promise stood.
Legally.
Horrifyingly.

The palace atmosphere was best described as: "What have we done, dear heavens?"

The King banged his forehead three times, hoping it would sober him, then rushed to apologize to his youngest child—
With the expression of a man who had just sent his kid on a one-way study abroad trip... by accident.

"Son... I misspoke."

"You misspoke by selling me off? Go cancel it!"

"But they already sent a thank-you letter."

"They don't know I'm a male yet, that's why they're thankful!!!"

Gawin exhaled, fingers brushing the old lace veil still folded neatly in the corner of the room.

He picked it up. Folded it tighter.
Then said, with the clarity of someone who already saw five moves ahead:

"I'll go."
"You'll... marry?"
"No. I'll run."

—

Meanwhile, across the mountains in sunlit Solestra, Prince Joss sat in a marble-tiled study, holding a lukewarm cup of mint tea.

In front of him lay an official letter of betrothal—beautifully worded and formally signed.
Along with a portrait of Princess Kaween.

She was drawn with delicate fingers, downcast eyes, and an air of pious femininity that suggested a lifetime spent embroidering roses and humming wistful songs.

Her hair curled like ocean waves.
Her expression is soft as moonlight.

Though in Joss's kingdom, wind strong enough to make your hair ripple like that would also blow a guard's helmet off.

Joss studied the portrait in silence.
Then folded it and sighed—like a prince who had just discovered he was getting married to someone else's main character.

"Your bride-to-be," the King said. "Princess Kaween. Virtuous. Graceful. A boon to our family name."

Joss placed the cup down, folded the paper, and gave a polite, diplomatic smile.

"Father, I believe Solestra's reputation will survive... even if I don't marry a girl I've never met."

"But you've seen her portrait!"

"A painting is not a person.
And in that painting... her eyes look somewhere far away.
Not toward me."

Joss was known for his calm.
But that didn't mean his heart wasn't restless.

He dreamed of a love not drawn in treaty lines—
Not planned, not arranged, but found.

A chance touch.
A glance that made you pause.

"I'm not against marriage for peace," he said.
"I'm just... not ready to play the lead in a love story where I didn't get to choose the other protagonist."

What he didn't know was—
The person he would have chosen...
Had already stepped out of that story.

Leaving empty promises behind.
And wandering into moonlight.

Where masks would hide every name—
And one waltz would begin a tale neither of them could have foreseen.