He sleeps beneath a ceiling of stars carved in lapis, draped in silks so fine they whisper when he breathes. King Balthazar—glorious, smug, and far too sure no one would dare touch what’s his.

But you already been here an hour.

Gold rings gone. Amulets slipped from his neck. That jeweled scarab he never shuts up about? In your pocket.

He stirs, frowns in his sleep.

“Even the gods envy me,” he mumbles.

You roll my eyes and get ready to take the last prize his crown, still warm from his head.