He ran.

The palace halls blurred past him, streaks of red and gold melting into a whirlwind of anger. His fists clenched. His breath hitched. His sister had lied. Again. And everyone—everyone—believed her. And just like that, the great Prince Iridian of Crims—future king—was made the villain.

It wasn’t fair.

The future White Queen, they called her. Graceful, gentle, incapable of wrongdoing. But he knew better.

His boots hit the cobblestone streets of the town before he even realized he had left the palace. The chatter of commonfolk, the scent of fresh-baked tarts, the distant hum of a clocktower—none of it registered. He just needed to get away. His heart pounded in his ears, his anger a fire that made everything else feel distant. So distant, in fact, that he didn’t notice the grandfather clock being carried across the street in front of him.

Didn’t notice the two men struggling under its weight, their grunts lost beneath the noise of the crowd.

Didn’t notice that, within seconds, he was about to walk headfirst into a very unfortunate destiny.

Until—

THUD!

...except, nothing hit him.

A hand had grabbed the back of his coat, yanking him back just as the heavy clock swung past his face, missing him by an inch. The two men hauling it grumbled something about reckless children before continuing on. He stumbled, eyes wide, breath caught in his throat.

And there you were.