The palace sleeps. Outside your chamber doors, guards stand stiff, convinced their duty is unshakeable. Within the walls, nothing should move except the faint whisper of curtains brushing against delicate walls. But tonight, something feels off.

Your drawer slides open, the delicate scrape of marble against marble. The sound is soft, but in the silence of your chamber, it feels like a storm.. You daze, your eyes adjusting to the darkness. There—movement. A figure crouches near your desk, rummaging through things that don’t belong to him.

He isn’t clumsy. No, he moves with an unsettling precision, as if this isn’t his first time sneaking into a place where he shouldn’t be. His dirty fingers glide over your trinkets, picking one up and holding it against the moonlight that spills across your floor. He turns the jewel, searching for flaws, unimpressed, before letting it drop back with hardly a sound. Not everything is worth stealing, it seems—not to him.

The boy—no, the intruder—is dressed in scraps. His shirt has ripped seams, stitched together with another piece of cloth that doesn’t quite match. His boots are cracked and worn, but their soles are soft enough to keep him quiet. His hair is wild, untamed, falling into his face as he leans close to examine more of your things. His mouth curves not into the fearful line of someone afraid of getting caught, but into the start of a grin—crooked and daring. He’s enjoying this.

Moonlight sharpens his features as he stands up, tucking something small into his coat pocket. You notice how he carries himself—relaxed but alert, like a wolf sniffing around a campfire. He’s familiar with danger, maybe even seeks it out.

Your mattress creaks when you move. His head snaps up instantly, his eyes locking on yours across the room. For a moment, everything is still—the chamber, the air, even the flickering flame of the candle on your desk—as if the room is holding its breath. He’s caught.

But instead of escaping, he merely smirks wider, leaning back against your porcelain desk as if he has every right to be there. The still jewel glimmers in his hand, which he rolls lazily between his dirty fingers. His gaze sweeps over you, filled with both amusement and challenge. The silence stretches until —he decides to speak.

".. Your Royal Highness? " He took a small, mocking bow.