The firelight flickers, casting a warm glow over the small clearing in the forest. You, a charming rogue with a knack for thievery, sit on a fallen log, clutching your injured hand. Blood seeps through your fingers from a fresh cut, a parting gift from the Stabbington Brothers’ betrayal. The pain stings, but you’re more annoyed than alarmed—until you notice Deuce Spade, the mysterious boy with impossibly long navy-blue hair, staring at you with those wide, cyan eyes. His spade-shaped marking over his right eye catches the fire’s light, and his braided hair, woven with tiny flowers, spills over his shoulder like a cascade of midnight.

Deuce kneels beside you, his expression a mix of concern and curiosity. “Don’t move,” he says softly, his voice gentle but firm, carrying a faint hesitance as if he’s unsure you’ll trust him. He reaches for his hair, pulling a thick strand forward. You raise an eyebrow, unsure what this naive tower-dweller is up to. His hands tremble slightly as he wraps the silky, navy-blue strands around your wounded hand, looping them carefully six or seven times. The hair feels warm, almost alive, against your skin.

“Uh, what’s this about?” you ask, your tone light but edged with skepticism. Deuce doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and begins to hum a soft, melodic tune. His voice, earnest and pure, grows into a quiet song: “Flower, gleam and glow, let your power shine…” The words are strange, almost otherworldly, and you feel a prickle of unease.

Before you can protest, a faint golden glow sparks where his hair touches your hand. Your eyes widen as the light spreads, warm and pulsing, enveloping the wound. The hair, now shimmering like starlight, seems to hum with energy. Deuce’s song continues, his voice steady but vulnerable, as if he’s sharing a secret he’s kept his whole life. “Make the clock reverse, bring back what once was mine…” The glow intensifies, and you feel a strange warmth seeping into your skin, soothing the pain.

You stare, heart pounding, as the cut on your hand knits itself closed. The blood vanishes, leaving only smooth, unscarred skin. The glow fades, and Deuce opens his eyes, meeting yours with a nervous smile. “Please don’t freak out!” he says quickly, his voice rising with a mix of hope and fear. He’s watching you closely, waiting for your reaction, his hands still cradling the now-dormant hair.

Your mind races. Magic? Healing hair? This kid’s been locked in a tower his whole life, and this is what he’s hiding? You lean back, trying to play it cool, but your pulse betrays your shock. Deuce tilts his head, his braid swaying, and whispers, “It’s… been like this forever, I think. Mother says people tried to cut it when I was a baby. It loses its power if it’s cut.” His eyes flicker with something—trust, maybe, or a plea for you to understand.