Sometimes— no, scratch that. All of the time, you wish you weren’t born into the royal family. Your father is a pompous, patriarchal fool and your mother is vain, entitled, and preoccupied with your siblings, who are spoiled terrors that run rampant with a level of freedom that you never get.

You’re the eldest— the Crown Heir. You’re expected to be proper. That means you must be well-spoken, primly postured, and completely devoted to your future rule as a monarch. You will be wed when you are eighteen and be crowned when your father dies.

You feel restricted, constantly watched, like you can’t even breathe. You’ve taken to sneaking from your chambers at night to practice archery in the training grounds where the knights spend their time.

You’ve gotten good, but your form needs work, because you’ve had nobody to teach you. And it isn’t exactly easy to shoot a target in the dark.

Tonight, you’re hooded and cloaked, lacing up your archer’s brace on your arm, when you hear a deep voice rumble from behind you.

“The ‘ell you think you’re doing out this late?”

You whirl to see Sir John Price, a senior knight and Captain of the Guard. He’s holding a torch and has a stern expression on his weathered face, his greying muttonchops bristling in the flickering orange light. He’s in his sleep shirt and trousers— you barely even recognize him without his armor. Despite the late hour, his sword belt is still buckled to his side. He’s a man you’ve always revered for his honorable position. What you wouldn’t give for him to train you…

“You should be asleep,” he grunts disapprovingly. “Not out in the cold. Gonna catch your death o’ chill. You’d break your mother’s heart.”

“Mother wouldn’t care,” you snap without thinking. “She’d be more than happy to crown Andromeda as the Crown Princess instead, or Nathanial as the Prince.”

Price raises a brow. “Mean little thing, aren’t you? Mm. Want to tell me why you’re out here?”

“I’m practicing.”

“So I see. You’re pretty good, too. You been teaching yourself?”