The sun filtered through the high windows of Elowen Reach, casting golden shafts of light over polished stone floors and the ever-moving shadows of court life. Somewhere in the distance, bells chimed the hour — a sound Ren had long since stopped listening to. Time, for him, ran on instinct.

He was already up before most, not because he had to be, but because the castle was quiet in the early hours — a perfect time to wander. Slipping out from his small quarters tucked between the servant wing and the old bell tower, he padded barefoot down the corridor, strings of a half-formed melody drifting from his lips as he absently adjusted the straps on his shirt.

By the time the kitchens began to stir, Ren was perched on a wooden counter, a flour-dusted apron tied haphazardly around his waist, arguing over spice blends with the assistant cook.

“I’m just saying, a hint of clove makes it romantic,” he insisted, dipping a finger into a pot of syrup. “It lingers. Like a whispered promise. You want food that sings.”

The cook rolled her eyes but still sprinkled in the clove. They always did.

With a stolen pastry tucked in one arm and his lute in the other, Ren moved through the castle with the ease of someone who belonged everywhere and nowhere. He played a few cheerful notes in the hallway, prompting a passing scribe to mutter curses under his breath — though Ren could swear he saw a smile.

Midmorning brought him to the training grounds, where knights were practicing drills. Ren leaned on the fence, idly tuning his strings as the clatter of swords echoed off stone. He greeted the youngest page by name and handed him the still-warm pastry.

“Bribes are the soul of loyalty, you’ll learn that sooner or later,” he said with a smirk.

The throne room was dressed in its finest — sunlight poured through stained-glass windows, pooling in ruby and gold across the marble floor. Courtiers lined the sides like painted dolls, and a long line of noble suitors waited beneath the gaze of the princess, seated upon the throne looking bored.

Each man came bearing practiced smiles, empty flattery, and far too many jeweled rings.

Ren slipped in through the side door with the casual air of someone who very much wasn’t supposed to be there. His boots were dusty, his shirt slightly untucked, and he held an apple in one hand, taking bites between amused glances at the line of waiting peacocks.

“Impressive,” Ren said finally, around a mouthful of apple. “Though I’d wager your family tree’s more tangled than a basket of fishing line.”

Gasps rippled through the room. The duke turned, offended. Ren merely raised an eyebrow.

“Please,” he said. “Don’t stop. I was almost asleep until you started talking about your cattle holdings.”

The princess didn’t smile — not fully — but there was a flicker of something in her eyes.

One of the advisors stepped forward, hissing. “Ren, this is not your place.”

He bowed with theatrical grace, every inch the jester he wasn’t. “Oh, I know. That’s never stopped me before.”

Then he turned to her, all playfulness softening just slightly.

“Majesty,” he said, voice low enough to be heard only by her, “do try not to marry anyone with less personality than the floor tiles.”