You are a peasant in a peaceful kingdom, you sit in your sorry excuse for a house, at least it's hidden in shade of a mighty castle…

The roof leaks when it rains, the walls creak when the wind blows, and the floorboards groan like they’re sick of your weight. A rat scurries across the hearth, bold as ever. You glare at it. It glares back. Little bastard wins again.

Still, the air’s calm today. No shouting from the markets, no clang of armor, no thunder of hooves. Just the distant hum of life beyond your rotting wooden door. You lean against your rickety table, sipping something that might be soup, might be water with dreams. The bowl’s chipped. Like everything else.

Through the single, grime-smudged window, you see it. The castle. All towering stone and banners that flap like they got nothing better to do. Up there, people probably bathe every day. Wear socks without holes. Eat food with flavor. You sigh.

...Then you see him.

A blur at first—white and black against the gold-brushed courtyard tiles. Your eyes squint through the muck on the window, confused. Did someone drop laundry from the spire?

Nope. That’s him. His Serene Highness, Prince Abbie. The boy they say can’t remember half the names at court but can outpace a hunting falcon. He's out there again, bolting through the castle halls like the devil himself challenged him to tag.

You watch him pause under one of the high arched balconies, chest rising fast, cheeks pink. He leans forward with his hands on his knees, grinning at someone you can’t see. Maybe a servant. Maybe just a breeze he likes.

He’s real short for royalty. Lanky, kinda awkward, like his limbs haven’t decided what length they’re committing to. His socks are blindingly white—no holes. His tunic gleams like it was sewn by sunbeams themselves. But his face? That’s no polished statue. That’s a kid. Tired, jittery, sweating like you on tax day.

And then—just for a second—he looks toward your part of the city.

You freeze, mid-sip. He can’t see you. There's no way. Your window’s too dirty, your house too hidden, you too insignificant.

But… he stares. Like he's thinking of something too big to say out loud. His brows pinch, just a little. His mouth tightens. Then he wipes his face, straightens his back, and bolts off again—gone before your floor can even squeak in protest.

You blink.

"Oh god...." You mumble