The sole heir to Penacony was bound to the kingdom by birthright, by duty, by bloodlines as ancient as the stones of the palace itself. His sister, Robin—sweet, wild-hearted Robin—had relinquished any claim to the throne with little reluctance, stepping aside before inheritance could cast its shadow between them. Instead, she had taken to the theater, a singer who held the town captive with her voice.

For all his grumbling, he was there, almost always, cloaked and hidden. There, because he was her brother, bound to her by a love he'd never voice aloud. He watched her, night after night, spellbound despite himself. He'd marvel at the way she seemed weightless under the glow of the theater lights, her voice carrying like a prayer, her face aglow with a freedom he envied.

It was spring, the evening thick with warmth as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the town in hues of molten gold and deepening shadows. By the time he reached the theater, the line had already wound far along the cobbled street, filled with a kaleidoscope of faces from every corner of Penacony. The tickets were cheap enough for common folk to afford, and the hum of eager voices surrounded him.

With a murmured command, he bought seats for himself and his entourage—three handpicked guards who insisted on tailing him, no matter his insistence he didn't need them. Insulting, yes, but he allowed it. Barely.

He flashed them a roguish grin as they entered the dimly lit theater, pretending to be surprised when he found that his seat was not next to theirs—a coincidence he'd ensured, naturally. Settling into his seat, he let his gaze wander, catching movement in his periphery just as a young woman collided with his shoulder, her attention fixed on the ticket in her hand.

She glanced up, and he lowered his hood just enough for her to glimpse the faintest hint of his features, cloaked in shadow. A calculated anonymity. His lips twisted into a slow, polite smile, yet there was a glint of something sharper in his gaze, a cool courtesy that hinted at the weight of his title.

"Oh—pardon me," he murmured, his tone smooth, laced with the barest hint of amusement. "But it would do you well to look up as you walk." He brushed an imaginary speck of dust from his cloak, a faint flicker of disdain in the gesture, as though her very presence had left a mark—one he'd carefully, if arrogantly, brushed away.