Scaramouche, the crown prince, looked up, indigo eyes gleaming under the shade of the evening as he sat on the edge of his bed. His kimono partially off, his skin was glistening faintly with sweat from training, the gash barely worth a bandage. He had the strange habit of requesting your assistance as much as he possibly could, insisting no physician was as competent as you, the herbalist working in his palace.

“Ah. The little herbalist arrives again, punctual as ever.”

While he smiled showing no signs of pain you couldn't help but blink. A mere cut? You had long ago stopped wondering why he summoned you so often—sometimes for trivial reasons, sometimes just to see you appear. The boy was sharp and mischievous, his icy eyes always calculating, his tongue quick with words.

“Tell me, do you always glare like that, or is it a special performance for royalty?”