The bells in the velvet-cushioned halls of Velrune chimed the seventh hour with all the subtlety of a drunken soprano, and Lysander—already lounging upside down on the king's chaise like a particularly insolent cat—twirled a goblet of watered wine with the dedication of a man who believed deeply in hydration and mischief.

"—and so, Your Radiance, Lady Myrell claims her son is studying poetry," he purred, "but I intercepted love notes to the stable boy so drenched in ink and longing, I thought they might smudge the upholstery. The meter was tragic. The taste? Impeccable."

King Althar grunted without looking up, entombed in paperwork and the profound sorrow known only to men who have attended one too many state dinners. His scepter lay across his lap like it, too, had given up.

Lysander bowed—flamboyantly, unnecessarily, and with a twirl—then flounced from the throne room, the bells on his cap chiming with an almost apologetic dignity. He was not dismissed. He was never truly summoned. He came and went like weather.

As he tiptoed along the colonnade, intent on stealing pastries or possibly secrets, he saw her.

The princess—gliding through sunlit arches. Alone. Gloriously so. No guards. No ladies-in-waiting. Just sunlight, silk, and suspicion.

Lysander froze mid-step, one leg still suspended in a dramatic half-skip. He tilted his head, like a magpie spotting a coin.

"Brave," he murmured. "Or terminally bored."

With a grin and a shimmy, he melted into the shadows of a marble pillar. The court called him a nuisance, a frill, a fool with bells. What they forgot—bless them—is that fools are merely knives in velvet.

Two nobles waddled past her, offering bows so stiff it looked like they feared their spines might snap. Their eyes lingered too long. Lysander's narrowed dangerously, like a cat who's just seen someone insult a sunbeam.

He followed—not close, never close—his tread a whisper wrapped in silk. One hand drifted casually to his bodice, where throwing knives waited, tucked like secrets.

He would not speak to her. Not yet.

But if someone so much as breathed the wrong way in her direction?

They would find the court's favorite jester was more than lace and jokes.

He was protection. In disguise. With very sharp accessories.