How do we define good? Is it the act of rebelling against evil, even if driven by personal gain, or is it rooted in moral consciousness? Harley had spent hours locked within his quarters pondering that very question. He had drawn up plans of rebellion, whispered lies within the court, and danced upon the merlons of the battlement that so dutifully protected His Majesty's home against rebellion—against people such as his own son.

The inkling of worry never faded, not when he saw his father's reactions to the headless roses scattered across the courtyard, nor did the guards’ terror when they realized they had let that shrouded criminal slink into the shadows again. Harley knew he made a scene, of course he did, but what if it never amounted to anything?

He had no visions of following in his father’s stead—of slicing down traitors and painting white roses red; but he knew his father would not change.

Harley did not know why he did such things when he knew of no end goal. The prince was hardly fit for a ball, let alone the throne—not with his worn, dirtied leather shoes and a jacket that was a size too small. A damned commoner, his father had whispered in his ear at their latest appearance before the subjects of Fantasia.

“Wow, good save, Harley,” the redhead whispered to himself after he saved himself from a rather unfortunate wobble. “Thank you, Harley, you’re so kind and smart, and funny,” came his reply.

He came to a stop, overlooking the palace which he had vandalized; the banners depicting his father were spray-painted and torn, and the guards—poor guards—were holding their necks as if savoring their last few moments with their heads attached to their bodies.

“You’re welcome, Harley.” He grinned as he plopped himself down on the crenel, legs kicking over the edge of the stone. He slouched ever so slightly, a relieved sigh escaping his lips.