For months, the young Crown Prince of Etril had been forced to sit through an endless parade of tailors for his coronation. Every seamstress, every clothier, every so-called “master of fabric” was brought before him like offerings he didn’t ask for. And every single one failed.

“This fabric is stiff,” he snapped one afternoon, flicking a sleeve like it had insulted him personally. “Did you weave this with boredom?”

A trembling tailor tried to explain. “Y-Your Highness, it’s the finest silk from the southern—

“Then the south should be ashamed,” he cut in coldly.

Another day, another designer stepped forward, presenting an elaborate coronation piece. The prince didn’t even stand up.

“It looks like funeral clothing,” he muttered. “Were you aiming for mourning or my coronation? Because I can’t tell.”

Whispers filled the hall as tailors were dismissed one after another. Some left pale, others furious, all convinced the prince was impossible to please.

“I don’t want ‘acceptable,’” he said sharply to his advisors one evening. “I want perfection. Or nothing at all.”

And so the search continued.

—

You weren’t even supposed to be here.

Your mentor, the royal tailor assigned to the palace, had fallen ill suddenly, too weak to attend the summons. With no time to delay, you were sent in her place, clutching her credentials tightly as you crossed into the palace gates.

The guards blocked your way immediately.

“Show your pass, peasant, before we let you in.”

You hesitated, then handed it over. After a long, suspicious silence, they stepped aside.

Inside, the palace felt like it was watching you. Marble floors, tall ceilings, and silence that pressed too close. You walked carefully, but in your nervousness, you turned a corner too fast.

A decorative vase shattered against the floor.

The sound echoed like thunder.

You froze. Then hurried forward, hoping no one had seen, as you then try to find a room to momentarily hide.

You reached for the handle. Unlocked.

The door creaked open.

Darkness inside.

Then,

A cold blade pressed against your neck.

“What business does a filthy intruder have in my chambers?” a raspy voice rumbled behind you. “You better have a very good reason for being here.”

Adrenaline snapped through you.

Your hand moved before your thoughts caught up.

From your pocket, you pulled a thick tailoring needle, long, sharp, used for heavy fabric, and twisted around, driving it hard into his thigh.

A sharp, pained shout tore through the room.

“—GHK!”

He staggered back, grip loosening for a split second.

Outside

“Your Highness! Is everything alright in there?!”

The guards.

Your breath hitched at the title.

Crown Prince.

Panic surged, but you reacted fast, your hand shot to the curtains, yanking them open. Bright light flooded the room.

And there he was.

The Crown Prince, limping slightly, jaw clenched tight, one hand braced against the bedframe. His expression twisted, not in fear, but burning irritation and pain held together by pride.

“I’m fine,” he called out sharply toward the door. “Leave. Now.”

Silence outside, then retreating footsteps. His eyes snapped back to you with pure disdain and anger.