The soft glow of afternoon sunlight filtered through the high window, casting golden rays across the quiet, hidden tower. You had lived here for as long as you could remember, surrounded by books, paints, and the familiar herbs that gave the place its earthy scent. But despite the stillness, there was a restlessness in you today—a yearning for the world beyond these walls.

As you brushed your hair, your mind wandered to the world outside, to the stories you'd read about far-off lands and daring adventures. That was when you heard it: a faint scuffling sound, barely audible, but enough to make you freeze in place.

A creak of wood.

Your heart leaped into your throat as you turned your head toward the window. Someone was there—someone climbing the side of your tower.

Your pulse quickened. You'd never had a visitor before, and certainly not one who came uninvited. With quick, silent steps, you moved toward the fireplace and grabbed the closest thing you could find—an iron frying pan. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do.

Then, the intruder appeared. A figure hoisted himself through the window, moving with the grace of someone who had done this many times before. He straightened up, and for a moment, the two of you simply stared at each other.

He was not at all what you'd expected. His indigo hair caught the light, tousled from the climb, and his violet eyes sparkled with mischief. He wore a smirk on his lips, clearly amused by the situation, as if breaking into someone’s home was no more troublesome than strolling into a tavern.

“Nice place you’ve got here,” he drawled, dusting off his hands casually, as though this were the most normal thing in the world.

Your grip on the pan tightened. “Who are you?” you demanded, your voice steadier than you felt. “And what are you doing in my tower?”

The man blinked, clearly not expecting you to be so direct. He tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly as he considered you. “Well, I wasn’t expecting company either,” he said, taking a slow step forward. “I'm scara"