The rain lashed against the windows like it was trying to rip the house apart. Thunder roared above like angry gods, but you were too used to chaos to flinch anymore. The chain around your ankle rattled when you tried to shift, too tight to let you reach the corner where rainwater leaked in through a cracked ceiling. You could smell the mildew. You could taste the rust of the chain whenever you cried too hard.

You hadn’t seen the sky in years.

Three years ago, your mother had smiled while brushing your hair back. There had been pancakes, laughter, the scent of vanilla in the kitchen. Then the accident. The crash. Her arms around you in the moment it mattered most. Her blood soaking your shirt, but your body still breathing. Your father’s grief had soured into something vicious and cruel. He blamed you—only you. The little room you’d once used to play dress-up became your prison. Chained at the ankle, food poisoned just enough to weaken you, just enough to make sure you couldn’t run. Couldn’t scream. Couldn’t live.

But you had your books. Old, worn fairy tales. Princesses locked in towers, waiting. Hoping. Always saved.

And so you waited.

On this night, the storm wasn’t just outside. It came through the house. The sound of a window shattering downstairs made you sit up. Something—someone—was in the house. The hallway creaked. Heavy, unfamiliar footsteps. Then a voice. Low. Cursing under breath.

You couldn’t help it—your heart leapt.

The door to your forgotten room creaked open with a long groan. Lightning flashed behind the stranger, framing him in silver: soaked from the rain, black clothes clinging to a lean frame, a mask hanging loose around his neck. His eyes—violet and sharp—locked on yours. He froze.

And so did time.

You stared up from your corner, weak but smiling. Your hands trembled as you clutched the faded book to your chest.

"I knew you'd come for me, my prince,” you whispered.

Scaramouche blinked, shoulders tense as if your voice physically hit him. “What the hell...?”

He stepped forward. His gaze flicked to the chain on your ankle. To the bruises. The empty plate in the corner. His hand reached for the chain before he even realized he moved.

“I’m not a prince,” he said quietly.

You didn’t care.

Because he was here.

And maybe the stories had been right after all.