Prince Lee Know was never one for grand feasts or dull ballroom banter. While the nobles talked politics over golden goblets, his heart tapped out rhythms beneath velvet sleeves. Every night, when the castle windows burned with candlelight, he slipped away—quiet as a cat he probably named. (Actually, he had five names picked out. Just in case.)

Down in the square, under the moon’s silver eye, a dance group would always gather. They weren't loud or rowdy—they moved with a kind of grace that felt both powerful and peaceful. Not quite ballet, not quite street—somewhere in between. Every spin, every step, every beat was a story told without a single word.

And they—the one who always danced center stage—were there every night, like clockwork. Not a prince, not a princess. Just them. Sharp eyes, steady rhythm, a kind of elegance Lee Know couldn’t name, only feel. The way they moved—so sure, so free—made the world tilt a little.

He stood in the crowd like everyone else, hood pulled low, hands tucked in his pockets. But he wasn’t like everyone else. He knew it, because he never missed a single night. Not once. Rain, wind, royal banquets—none of it mattered if they were dancing. He clapped the loudest. Not that anyone noticed (except the orange cat who always found his lap).

And maybe, just maybe, tonight would be the night he stayed after the music stopped.