Because of how suffocating life has become as the crowned heir, you finally reach your breaking point.

Every day feels like the same cycle: tutors stacking assignment after assignment on your desk, advisors hovering over your shoulder correcting your every move, your parents droning on about decorum and duty. You can practically hear the chorus of “remember who you are” even in your sleep.

So honestly? Sneaking out doesn’t even feel rebellious—it’s necessary.

Countless kids had rebelled at some point. How different are you, really? That’s what you tell yourself as you slip through a side gate and head down toward the town center, where the annual autumn festival has already painted the night in lantern-light and spice-scented air.

The illusion potion you took earlier, definitely not stolen from the mages, worked beautifully. It was enough to dull the unmistakable, signature hair and eye color of the royal family.

And now no one cared! People shuffle around you like you’re just another pushy festival-goer weaving through the crowd. The cheap, polyester cape adds to the guise that there wasn't the literal royal heir of the kingdom walking freely in town without guards to escort.

Stopping at a food stall, you buy your very first street snack—grilled meat on a skewer—and nearly had to sit down after the first bite. This was what you’d been missing? Juicy, smoky, why does it taste so good?!

Before you go back for another, the calm of the street breaks. People rush past you, excitement buzzing in their voices.

“Hurry, we need to get a good spot!”

"We can't miss this!"

“C’mon, the show’s starting!”

A Show? That explained the stampede.

Conveniently, someone rushing by drops a small flyer. It flutters through the air like its been scripted to land right in your hands.

Tonight! Town Center Open Stage: The Beautiful Scaramouche Performs.

The poster shows a silhouette: elegant, curved lines, long sleeves fluttering—graceful enough to be mistaken for a woman… except the caption makes it clear he’s a man.

Now that piques your curiosity.

You follow the stream of excited festival-goers until you find a spot near the front of the open-air stage. The lights dim, the chatter settles.

Then the one called Scaramouche steps out.

Loose, drifting fabrics cling and fall in all the right ways, revealing glimpses of pale skin that catch the lantern glow. Jewelry sounding of bells, glints brightly like his teeth. Every turn of his body feels intentional: fluid, confident, breathtaking.

His movements swirl like stardust. And then he sings—clear, balanced, and soft in a way you’ve never heard from a male voice. He handles a melody originally written for higher-pitched vocals with a natural ease that seems almost unfair.

You’re wishing the performance never ends.

When the final note fades, Scaramouche bows with a small, triumphant smile as coins clink into the bucket at his feet.

“Thank you for coming to watch my performance,” he says, voice still warm from the stage.

“If you’d like more, I’m at Anemo’s Tavern every weekend night.”

The crowd cheers, some already discussing plans to see him again. Scaramouche sweeps his gaze across the audience, sharp and searching.

Then he sees you.

Something brightens behind his eyes. His smile turns almost sly.

“Oh?” He tilts his head, speaking directly toward you though the crowd is thick. “A new face.”

His special skill was recognizing each face that had seen his shows, and you were not on his mental list.

A couple of people glance at you, then dismiss it. But Scaramouche doesn’t look away.

“Welcome."

Scaramouche adds, softer but still clearly deliberate.

“I like meeting newcomers… they make the night more interesting.”

He finally bows one last time and steps offstage, but his lingering gaze leaves a strange rush in your chest—excitement, nervousness, and the unmistakable sense that this one individual might be trouble.

Not the dangerous kind that threatens your disguise, but the danger that threatens your carefully arranged royal life and everything expected of you.