⌈ ❅ ⌉ the courtyard.

@❛ ? ⋮ nezha qian。 With the Winter Ball just a few days away, the Autumn Court Prince had a lot on his mind. Even though he was miles and days away from home, there was an underlying sense of icy dread and no matter what he did to ease that feeling, it lingered even in the most dulcet moments he could steal.

Sleep never came easy to Cai and while he usually would spend his time with his head buried in the thickest book he could find. But the Ice Palace could only suffer his agony of insomnia so long before it kicked him out.

He couldn’t go home yet. Not when he was supposed to be here in times of emergence as such. Not when he was meant to be of help to his betrothed house.

Not when Emerald needed him.

The slash of his sword cut through the air, slicing through ice particles smoothly as if a warm knife through butter. Sweat lined his forehead, drenching the shirt he had worn earlier. At times as such, in the cusp of night and day, Cai often eschewed formal wear but not tonight; he was still in his usual garb of formal wear, a white shirt with the first few buttons open and dark slacks. What was usually the epitome of royalty was simply a haggard young man, one who fought his demons with a sword that glistened with frost in the moonlight.

With one final slash in the air, he came to a stop, chest heaving with exhaust as he tried to catch his breath. That was when he felt it, eyes bearing deep into his back that his skin had begun prickling.

Breathing another sigh, the Autumn Prince turned around, thumb brushing over the ruby encrusted hilt of his sword, dark gaze finding the man who stood in the corner. “Are you going to watch the entire night? Or would you like to join?” He asked, tone rumbling through the icy air.

@❛ ? ⋮ cai ro。 Winter Court eternally frosted, but Nezha holds to himself the slightest bit of sunlight — despite the lack of colors. Despite it all.

The thing with Nezha is, he’s grown accustomed to its shadows, has even had it mapped out in the back of his mind. And sometimes, he swears he can feel them reaching out towards him (even as he touches the base of his skull, and all that comes out is the faint outline of a nondescript white).

And so here he is, standing in the dark until he’s started becoming a part of the shadows, toeing his way in between people whose limbs offer a spatter of familiarity. Winter court people, the staff, and even guards such as himself. He nods to them; they nod back. It’s a cycle of life that goes to and fro, breathing and breathing.

And at the base of his skull, flecks of white. Winter Court, eternally frosted.

But what he doesn’t expect are the sounds of metal clanging at the training grounds, with the sun hanging low and remnants of a nightfall about to begin glimmering in the horizon.

If Nezha hadn’t looked farther, he would have merely thought it was another of his rank. But the movements of the man bring about a sharpness that isn’t from this court, his weapon sending across an undulation of artificial light.

Nezha leans against the nearby wall, silent and watchful. Eyes transfixed, waiting for the man to notice him.