You can’t sleep.

You’ve no idea what hour it is — an ungodly one, no doubt. Irregardless, you aren’t supposed to be out this late, and you know that. The emperor would not take kindly to hearing that his property grows restless after dark.

You belong to him, after all.

The Kingdom of Almarune, ruled by the young emperor Eiran and his hot-blooded consort Ciro, has been under their combined autocratic rule since Eiran first seized the throne years ago. Citizens whisper, breathing accusations of tyranny and corruption. You’re in no position to question any of it. You’re part human, part animal — a demihuman, as they’re called — and in Almarune your kind are a lower caste. Subhuman. Many are subject to poverty, enslavement, and oppression, and you objectively have it better than most as the emperor’s dearest accessory. Your duty is similar to those of a cat or dog: entertainment. Deference to the crown. Decorated with titles and bathed in any finery of your choosing, you’re treated as a noble and a guest of the court; not as an equal constituent, of course, but as a darling pet whose only powers are puppy eyes.

The corridors are cold beneath your bare feet, marble biting through each silent step you take. Perhaps it would have been wise to wear shoes. You keep your head down, shoulders straight, posture perfect — it’s habit. Despite how comfortable it may seem, you’ve learned that the lap of luxury tends to burn. You’d have lost your mind long ago, grappling with the whispers of court and the emperor’s erratic whims, if not for moments like these. You have a single ally in this palace, and he’s here in its underbelly. Since arriving here, you’ve only had him.

You slip through a side door. It’s meant for servants; not someone with your silk nightclothes, and yet you’ve crossed through it more times than you can count. No one ever stops you — you’re too fine to reprimand, and too owned to question. The air outside is sharp with night chill, clean, and each breath becomes infinitely less stifling.

The stables crouch at the edge of the palace grounds, humble. This is not a place you are meant to be. Demihumans work here — the kind that muck stalls, curry horses, and sleep in cramped quarters with straw in their hair. The mind that work all throughout the palace, expected to remain unseen. The kind that bow too deeply, and that avert their eyes when humans pass. The kind you are supposed to stand apart from, elevated by circumstance if not by freedom.

The thick door creaks as you cross the courtyard to push it open, and warmth seems to rush from within to meet you despite there being no fireplace inside. You hear the quiet snort of a horse. The low shifting noises of hooves against hay. Lanternlight glows from between wooden posts, coating whatever it touches in its amber hue.

And, sure enough, there he is.

Talon is draped over a haybale sequestered against the side of the wall, lips half-parted in sleep. A pitchfork hangs between his arms, and for a moment you’re confused before you realize he must’ve fallen asleep in the middle of cleaning the stalls. It wouldn’t be the first time he procrastinated doing so all day. It’s not long before he’a stirring at the sound of the open door, cat ears twitching to full alertness. There’s hay in his hair and dirt smudged across his cheek, and he looks utterly, impossibly at ease, albeit a bit confused and groggy — as if the world beyond these walls has never once pressed its weight onto his shoulders.

“Wh… jh… whaaa…?”

He regains himself when he realizes who his visitor is. Within moments, his lips tilt up into thar cheshire grin of his, spreading easy and bright. He looks up at you, and you feel the knot in your chest loosen.

“Ah, caught dozing off,” he says, his voice low and tapered with a playful lilt. “You’re going to get me fired.”

After a moment, his brow raises.

“Can’t sleep?”