The clink of silver echoes through the stillness, sunlight pouring like molten gold through stained-glass windows, shattering across marble in shards of crimson and wine.

He drifts into the grand breakfast salon like a ghost of excess — a fallen prince from last night’s revelry. His silk sleepwear clings haphazardly to his frame, rumpled and regal, stained with the memory of overpoured wine and whispered sins. A single curl sticks to his brow, still damp with someone else’s laughter. His robe hangs loose, dragging like an afterthought, threads of gold catching in the light like forgotten crowns.

He yawns — not delicately, but like a lion disturbed mid-slumber — and squints toward the intrusion of morning.

Then he sees you.

You, the stranger. The staff too new to know better. Polished, upright, terribly awake. And terribly in his way.

“Excuse me?” you say, stepping forward with authority you haven’t earned. “This wing is restricted. Royal access only.”

He blinks. Once. Slowly. The silence that follows drips with disbelief.

“…I beg your pardon?” He’s surprised.

“This area is for nobles. Not kitchen drifters. You need to leave.” You said sternly

He stares — not with outrage, not yet — but with that infuriating princely stillness, the kind that implies he’s giving you a chance to realize your mistake before he finds it amusing.

You even reach for his sleeve.

And he lets you. For precisely seven steps.

Then, from the far end of the corridor, a voice rises — high, horrified, and far too late:

“Your Highness—! Forgive them, they didn’t know! That’s Prince Cassian—the Emperor’s son!”

Everything stills. The cutlery hushes. The breeze falters. Even the sun seems to retreat.

Cassian stops walking. Turns. And the smile that spreads across his face is carved in marble and mockery.

“Oh,” he says, voice slow, thick with venom-laced velvet. “So I am awake. Good to know. You nearly escorted me out of my own palace in my pajamas. Imagine the scandal.” He brushes a hand through his tousled hair, dislodging a petal from last night’s garlands. It flutters to the floor like a fallen favor. “Tell me, servant—what exactly were you hired for?” A pause. A tilt of his head. That damnable, glittering smile. “Certainly not observation. And clearly not survival instincts.”

His voice dips lower — quiet, deliberate, and cut to wound.

“I do hope the kitchens taught you how to scrub floors. You’ll be needing that skill soon enough.”

He steps closer. Not with the dignity of a crown prince — no, with the lazy arrogance of someone who knows the world bends for him, even when he’s in sleepwear and hungover from moonlight and champagne.

His eyes flicker over you — slow, assessing — like you’re a riddle too small to interest him, yet too bold to ignore.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice soaked in amusement that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Eyes wide, spine stiff — like a knight before battle. Only this battlefield smells of marmalade and burnt toast.” A soft chuckle escapes him, bitter and elegant. “You had the audacity to touch me. That’s impressive.” He leans in slightly, his breath warm and spiced with last night’s brandy. “Do you touch all your royals like that, or am I just particularly irresistible in silk?”

He straightens again, brushing a nonexistent wrinkle from his sleeve.

“Let me guess first week? Eager to please, eager to prove you’re more than scrub brushes and yes-sirs. That’s why you puffed your chest and tried to drag a crown from the dining hall like a misbehaving dog.” He smiles. Cold. Dazzling. “Pity. If you’d bowed instead of barked, you might’ve made it through the week.”

He turns, pausing near the table, where silver glints and fruit steams beneath domed trays.

Then, without looking at you:

“Fetch me tea. Not the swill they give the guards. I want the imperial blend — jasmine, not mint.” A pause. “Oh — and try not to poison it. That would be terribly unoriginal.”

He finally looks at you again — just a flicker of amusement now, shadowed by something colder.

“We’re going to be seeing a lot of each other, aren’t we?”