“And so, the myth of the Weeping Diamond of Eldoria persists,” Daisy said, her voice dripping with the practiced sarcasm that had earned her podcast, ‘Past Imperfect,’ a cult following. “Supposedly, any non-royal who touches it is doomed to a life of heartbreak. A clever little bit of PR, if you ask me. A supernatural security system cooked up by a king who was probably tired of his courtiers getting sticky fingers around the crown jewels.”

She leaned closer to the microphone in her cramped, sound-proofed closet-turned-studio, the scent of old sweaters and expensive audio equipment mingling in the air. “Time to open the lines. You’re listening to ‘Past Imperfect.’ Convince me I’m wrong.”

The phone lines lit up instantly. Her producer, Mel, patched the first one through. “Go ahead, caller, you’re on with Daisy.”

“Good evening, Daisy.” The voice was smooth, a low timber with an accent she couldn’t quite place—faintly British, but rounded out with something warmer, more melodic. It sounded like old money and good manners. “I’m calling from Eldoria.”

Daisy sat up straighter. “Oh, a local! Fantastic. Come to defend your national cautionary tale?”

A soft chuckle came through her headphones. “Not defend, merely... clarify. You see, the curse isn’t about heartbreak. It’s about truth.”

“Truth?” Daisy scoffed, swirling in her chair. “That’s even more poetic and equally unbelievable.”

“Is it? The legend says the diamond weeps, not for the person who touches it, but for the lies they tell afterward. It was commissioned by Queen Isabella the Honest. The story goes that it exposed a treacherous courtier who swore a false oath upon it. His life unraveled not from heartbreak, but because his web of deceit was made visible to all. The story was never a warning against theft, but against falsehood.”

The detail was so specific, so obscure, it wasn't in any of the history books she’d scoured. Daisy was momentarily speechless, a rare and uncomfortable state. “And you know this how?”

“Let’s just say my family has lived here for a very, very long time. We tend to hold onto the original versions of stories.” There was a smile in his voice. “You have a wonderfully... spirited take on history, by the way. It’s quite refreshing.”

“Spirited,” she repeated, a grin finally breaking across her face. “That’s a polite word for it. What’s your name, caller?”

“You can call me Al,” he said. “Just Al.”

“Well, ‘Just Al from Eldoria,’ you’ve given me something to think about. Don’t be a stranger.”

He wasn’t. Al became a regular. To Daisy’s listeners, he was the charming, silver-tongued mystery man who called in every few weeks to offer corrections or add color to her historical takedowns. Their on-air relationship blossomed into a masterclass in witty banter. He’d challenge her cynicism, she’d poke holes in his romanticism. They debated the politics of the French Revolution, the true inventor of the printing press, and the best way to eat a pastry—a debate that ended with Daisy laughing so hard Mel had to cut to a commercial break.

She found herself anticipating his calls, her heart giving a stupid little lurch whenever the Eldorian accent filled her ears. She knew nothing about him, except that he was intelligent, funny, and possessed an encyclopedic knowledge of European history that rivaled her own. He was her favorite sparring partner, her anonymous friend.

“The response to our Eldorian correspondent has been overwhelming,” Mel announced one Tuesday, sliding a sheet of paper onto Daisy’s desk. “The network loves him. They’re floating an idea. A contest.”

Daisy eyed the paper. In bold letters, it read: “WIN A WEEK IN ELDORIA, THE LAND OF LEGENDS!”

“A trip?” Daisy raised an eyebrow. “A bit on the nose, isn’t it?”

“It’s brilliant!” Mel insisted. “And you’re the host. The winner of the random draw gets an all-expenses-paid trip, and you go with them to record a series of on-location episodes. The Eldorian tourism board is sponsoring the whole thing. They’re even providing a local historian as a guide.”

Across the ocean, in a study paneled with dark, polished wood, Prince Alaric listened to the podcast announcing the contest, a slow smile spreading across his face. He minimized the audio stream and clicked on a secure messaging app.

“Gregor,” he typed to his aide-de-camp. “Regarding the ‘Past Imperfect’ podcast contest. I want you to ensure the most deserving candidate wins.”

A reply came back moments later. “And who might that be, Your Highness?”

Alaric looked out the window at the sprawling palace gardens. “The host, of course. Arrange it. And clear my schedule for that week. I’ve just been hired as a tour guide.”

The email informing Daisy she had ‘won’ her own contest was, according to Mel, a hilarious fluke of the random-draw software. Daisy knew it was a promotional stunt, but she didn’t care. She was going to Eldoria.

She stepped off the plane into air so clean and crisp it felt like a tonic. The airport in the capital city of Alva was small and efficient, all blond wood and glass, with a stunning view of the snow-dusted mountains that ringed the valley. She saw a man standing just past the baggage claim, holding a simple sign that read ‘DAISY.’

Her breath caught. He was taller than she’d imagined, with an easy posture that spoke of quiet confidence. He had kind eyes the color of warm whiskey and dark hair that fell across his forehead with an appealing sort of disregard. He wore a simple navy jacket and worn-in leather boots. He was handsome in a way that felt unfair, like a pleasant landscape you could happily look at all day.

“Daisy?” he asked, and the voice—that voice, live and in person, without the crackle of a phone line—was a physical force, washing over her with a warmth that started in her ears and spread straight to her toes.

“Al?” she managed, her professional composure deserting her entirely. “You’re my tour guide?”

“The tourism board felt I had the most relevant experience,” he said, the corner of his mouth ticking up in that familiar, charming way she had only ever heard. “I’m a bit of a history buff.”

The week was a blur of magic. Al didn’t take her to the polished, tourist-ready castles. He took her to the overgrown ruins of a watchtower on a windswept cliff, where he told her the story of a forgotten queen who spied on her enemies from that very spot. He didn’t take her to the five-star restaurants advertised in the brochures. He led her down a cobblestone alley to a tiny bakery that had been run by the same family for two hundred years, where they sold flaky, almond-filled croissants that tasted like heaven. The scent of them, warm and buttery, seemed to follow Daisy everywhere.

They talked endlessly. She told him about her tiny apartment, her meddling family, her dream of turning her podcast into something bigger. He talked about the pressures of his family’s ‘business,’ the weight of expectation, the longing for a life that was just his own. He was guarded about the specifics, but the feelings were universal.

“You know, for a guy from a fairytale kingdom, you’re surprisingly down-to-earth,” she said one afternoon. They were sitting on a low stone wall overlooking the city, sharing a bottle of local cider. The sun was warm on her face, and the sound of a distant church bell echoed through the valley.

“And for a world-class cynic, you seem to be enjoying the fairytale,” he countered, his shoulder brushing against hers. A jolt, sharp and sweet, shot through her.

“It’s the guide,” she admitted, her voice softer than she intended. “He’s very persuasive.”

His whiskey-colored eyes met hers, and the playful energy between them shifted into something deeper, more potent. The world seemed to narrow to the few inches between their faces. He leaned in, his gaze dropping to her lips, and her heart hammered against her ribs. This was it. This was the moment that would change everything.

Then a stray tourist, map flapping in the breeze, stumbled past them, loudly asking for directions to the palace. The moment shattered. Al leaned back, clearing his throat, a faint flush on his cheeks.

“The palace,” he said, his voice a little strained. “Right. That’s our last stop.”

For the final night of her trip, the tourism board had secured her a ticket to the Royal Charity Ball. “It’s the social event of the year,” Al explained, an odd tension in his voice. “You can’t leave Eldoria without seeing the inside of the gilded cage.”

“My thoughts exactly,” she’d quipped, though the thought of seeing him in a tuxedo sent a forbidden thrill through her.

When he arrived at her hotel room to escort her, she understood the destructive power of a perfectly tailored suit. He looked less like a tour guide and more like a myth come to life. He cleaned up beautifully, impossibly. His eyes widened slightly when he saw her in the simple, elegant navy dress she’d bought for the occasion.

“You look…” he started, then stopped. “Wow.”

“You’re not so bad yourself, tour guide,” she managed, her mouth suddenly dry.

They rode to the palace in a sleek black car, the easy silence between them now humming with a new, unspoken electricity. The palace was an explosion of light and grandeur, a floodlit behemoth of stone and history looming against the night sky.

They stood before the towering, ornate doors of the grand ballroom, the muffled sound of a waltz and the murmur of hundreds of voices filtering through. Daisy felt a giddy, nervous flutter. She was a girl from a closet-studio about to crash a royal ball with the most amazing man she’d ever met.

She gave him a playful nudge. “Alright, Al. Let’s go see how the other half lives. Try not to bow to anyone unless they’re holding a tray of canapés.”

He didn’t smile. He looked at her, his expression a complicated mix of affection and deep, profound regret. “Daisy, there’s something I—”

Before he could finish, a man in a crisp uniform materialized at his side, bowing low from the waist. “Your Highness,” the man said, his voice steeped in reverence. “They are ready for your entrance.”

Daisy’s playful smile froze on her face. *Your Highness?*

The great oak doors swung open. Light and music flooded the vestibule. Inside, the entire ballroom—a sea of glittering gowns and military dress uniforms—turned as one. Every single person, from the orchestra members to the white-gloved servers, sank into a deep, synchronized bow.

Daisy stared, her mind refusing to process the scene. They weren’t bowing to the open doors. They were bowing to the man beside her. They were bowing to Al.

Her charming, down-to-earth tour guide. Her anonymous caller. The man who knew so much about royal history because it was his own. Her Al was Prince Alaric, Crown Prince of Eldoria.