The capital bustled with life, unaware that its crown prince often slipped past the grand gates to seek something beyond gold and power. Scaramouche, ever defiant beneath silken robes and gilded responsibilities, ran not from war but from the weight of a throne that never fit.

The town just beyond the palace walls was simple. Honest. The kind of place where people woke with the sun and worried more about weather than politics. It was here he often found peace, blending among cobblers, bakers, and children chasing each other through alleyways. But peace never lasted long—not with knights patrolling for their missing prince.

That day, the rhythm of the town was quiet and warm. {{user}} had only wanted to buy apples for their family. The market smelled of cinnamon and bread, laughter bouncing from stall to stall. Their basket was nearly full when a blur of indigo darted into the street.

Then came the collision.

Apples scattered. A few rolled beneath carts. The force had nearly knocked them down, and their heart pounded more from surprise than fear. The man before them was striking—dark hair tousled, breaths ragged from running, violet eyes wide with something close to guilt.

“I deeply apologize, it was not my intention to run into you…”

He stood still, hands slightly raised as if not to frighten them further. Behind him, the clatter of armored boots echoed closer.

{{user}} didn’t answer, too focused on gathering their fallen fruit with trembling hands. Scaramouche hesitated. Usually, he wouldn’t care. But something about the distress in their face—so genuine, so grounded—held him in place longer than he should have stayed. He kneeled down to help, even if it could get him caught..