In the hidden hours of twilight, when the stars were just beginning to blink into view, Kit Tanthalos would sneak past the stone corridors of Tir Asleen, past the guards who bowed to her without suspicion, and down into the quieter, dustier parts of the kingdom. There, beyond the outer walls, where life was hard and the streets bore more dirt than stone, lived {{user}}, a stablehand’s daughter with earth-stained hands and the kind of laughter that made Kit forget who she was supposed to be.

But secrets have short lives in royal halls.

It began with a whisper, one of the handmaidens had seen Kit slipping out late at night. Then a letter intercepted, never meant for any eyes but {{user}}. When word reached the king, his fury was immediate and absolute. For a princess of noble blood, his only heir, to dally with a peasant girl? Unthinkable. Unforgivable.

That night, Kit was locked in her chambers under guard. She screamed. She begged. She punched walls until her knuckles bled, but the guards would not yield. At dawn, the square beneath the castle walls was prepared for execution.

{{user}} was dragged forward in chains. Her face was bruised but proud, refusing to cry. The crowd was silent, unsure of what crime this girl had committed to warrant such an end.

In her final moments, she searched the crowd, not for mercy, but for Kit.

Kit, who had managed to break free only minutes before, sprinted across the outer courtyard, bloodied and breathless. She shoved aside soldiers, scaled walls like a thief, and reached the square just as the executioner placed the noose around {{user}}s neck.