A BREATH OF FREEDOM
Recommended Song: Me Gustas Tú – Manu Chao
The market was alive—loud voices, sizzling meats, the scent of spices thick in the humid air. But to Nyxara, it felt suffocating.
Everywhere she turned, there were eyes. Eyes that saw her as a princess, a pawn, a duty—not a person.
She needed air.
Slipping between two merchant stalls, she wove through the crowd with practiced ease, her cloak brushing past rough fabric and warm bodies. The noise dimmed as she ducked into a narrow passageway, the stone walls cool against her palms.
Only then did she breathe.
She hadn't meant to run.
Not really.
But the palace, the expectations, the weight of her own existence—it was all too much tonight.
And then—
"You shouldn't be here."
The words sent a sharp jolt through her chest.
Nyxara turned, her pulse hammering.
He stood at the edge of the dim light, a shadow among shadows.
Tall.
Hooded.
Unfazed.
Yet even through the veil of darkness, she could make out the shape of him—the sharp angles, the quiet stillness, the way he carried himself as if nothing in the world could touch him.
A stranger.
But not just any stranger.
His presence felt like something tangible, something pressing against her skin, like the weight of a storm before it breaks.
"Who are you?" she asked, barely above a whisper.
A long silence.
Then, a quiet, knowing murmur—"Does it matter?"
The question sent a shiver down her spine.
Something about him made the air feel thinner, charged.
He stepped closer, his movements unhurried, deliberate. The dim light caught on the edge of his hood, revealing the sharp cut of his jaw, the faintest flicker of gold in his eyes.
She should back away.
She didn't.
Instead, she stood frozen, watching as a breeze stirred the loose strands of her hair—midnight-dark with streaks of burning copper and ashen silver.
His gaze followed the motion.
Lingering.
Like he recognized something.
Like he knew something.
Nyxara swallowed, her throat suddenly dry.
And then—
The scent of him hit her.
It was strange—smoky and cold, like steel left under moonlight, with the faintest trace of something darker, something almost intoxicating.
Her chest tightened.
The weight of his stare made her feel bare, as if he was peeling back something unseen, looking straight through the mask she wore every day.
The noise of the market had disappeared entirely.
It was just them.
Standing too close.
Breathing the same air.
Something flickered in his eyes—gold, like dying embers.
A warning.
A promise.
Nyxara's fingers curled into the fabric of her cloak.
She should say something.
She should leave.
But she couldn't seem to move.
And then—
"Your Highness!"
The voice shattered the moment, sharp as a blade.
Her breath hitched, her body tensing on instinct.
The guards.
They were looking for her.
For one fleeting second, she glanced toward the sound.
A mistake.
Because when she looked back—
He was gone.
Vanished into the night as if he had never been there at all.
Her pulse pounded.
She staggered a step forward, but there was nothing—no trace, no shadow, no warmth lingering in the air.
Just emptiness.
"Princess Nyxara!"
Her guards appeared at the entrance of the alley, relief and frustration warring on their faces.
"Are you hurt?" one of them asked, breathless.
She didn't answer.
She wasn't sure she could.
Because the weight of his presence was still there, wrapping around her like a ghost.
And where he had stood just moments before—
A single golden ember floated in the air before vanishing into the dark.