The prince didn't return to his wing that night.
No guards followed.
No servants lingered.
No Elara waited with cutting words or gentle truths.
He walked alone through halls carved for rulers — halls that made kings feel like ants.
And when he reached the furthest door in the eastern wing — the room with no windows — he slipped inside and let the silence crush him.
---
No mirror hung on the wall.
He didn't need one.
He knew what he looked like.
Beautiful. Broken. Chosen. Trapped.
He sat on the edge of the chaise and stared at his hands.
The same hands that waved in parades. That signed laws. That touched Elara's shoulder in the garden, once, like it meant nothing.
That didn't stop her execution the first time.
That didn't stop his mother now.
That never held anything but performance.
---
He didn't scream.
He didn't cry.
He just—
Unraveled.
Like silk too tightly wound.
---
He pulled the ring off his finger and threw it against the floor.
It didn't make a sound.
He laughed at that.
"Even that knows how to stay silent."
He looked at the ceiling. At nothing.
And whispered—
"What am I without her?"
No answer.
Because no one was there.
---
And that's when the steps came.
Too soft to be guards. Too slow to be the Empress.
He stood. Instantly. Like a puppet yanked by strings.
His voice brightened. A sun sliding back into the sky.
"Forgive me—was just rehearsing a monologue for court. Tragic prince loses his mind, terribly cliché, I know—"
But no one entered.
The footsteps passed.
And he was alone again.
Still smiling.
---
He sat back down.
Alone.
Still beautiful.
Still broken.
Still the boy in the golden collar, wondering if anyone would notice when he finally stopped pretending.