The scent of rose oil clung to his skin like a souvenir.

Theodosius moved quietly, his hooves making soft clicks against the painted marble floor, muffled by the morning haze that always hung over the manor gardens. Behind him, the bedroom was still—pillows scattered like fallen courtiers, the countess curled among them, dreaming of a night far sweeter than it truly was.

He didn’t look back. He never did.

The balcony’s wrought-iron gate stood ajar, framed by ivy curling like fingers ready to pull him back inside. But he stepped through without pause, stretching once beneath the pale orange sky as if this departure was simply part of a routine.

Because it was.

Another night, another heart half-tempted and half-lied to. Theodosius had already tucked a stolen earring into his belt—a trinket, a joke for himself—and adjusted the golden chain slung low across his hips. His flute was tucked under one arm, still warm from his touch, though it hadn’t been needed this time. Words had done all the work.

“Too easy,” he muttered to no one, pleased.

He perched on the balustrade like a cat, ready to leap, when something shifted in the air.

Not sound.

Not movement.

Just...presence.

He felt it first. A prickle at the base of his horns. The subtle tightening of the world.

His eyes lifted, and that’s when he saw them.

You stood at the opposite end of the garden, where the trimmed hedges framed the marble walk like a corridor of secrets. The morning fog laced around your feet, and the hem of your coat—robe? cloak?—shifted with the breeze. Whether you had been walking or waiting, he couldn’t tell.

He didn’t know how long you had been standing there.

Did you see him slip out? Did you hear what happened before?

More curiously: did you know who he was?

You didn’t speak. You didn’t wave. You just stood there, still as a statue—but your gaze held him like a snare.

Theodosius tilted his head, trying to read the expression on your face. Disapproval? Amusement? Recognition?

Or perhaps none of those things.

Perhaps you were just a dream conjured by a guilty conscience he insisted he didn’t have.

Still, he hesitated.

And that was rare.

He didn’t usually hesitate.

Then you moved—just slightly—one step forward, almost imperceptible, as if you might come closer or call out.

He didn’t wait to find out.

With a fluid twist of his body, Theodosius leapt from the balcony, vanishing into the garden below in a whisper of hooves and laughter, the scent of wine and lavender trailing behind him like a lie.

But for once, he didn’t smile as he fled.

And behind him, the silence of the balcony lingered, heavy with a question that hadn’t been asked.