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Micah hated the emperor when they first met.

How could he not? If the emperor had only been less selfish, he never would have been there in the first place; never would have had to go undercover just to try and find medicine for his sister. If the emperor had only chosen to be a better person than his predecessors, perhaps the pollution could have been diluted and Luca wouldn’t have fallen ill in the first place. Perhaps something could have been done to prevent him standing there in the home of the man he detested the most.

“Got to be honest,” started Micah, “I anticipated this job being more difficult.”

He presumed Rufus shrugged based on his following tone of voice, but it was impossible to know beneath the thick structure of his armor. “Surprised at how little the emperor leaves his room, are you?”

“Well, given how much he seems to love his parades, I suppose I’d just assumed…”

Assumed what, exactly, Micah did not know. Given how many ridiculous rules the citizens of Hamelin were forced to follow, he’d expected that working in the palace would have him constantly at the disposal of the emperor. Except he wasn’t. He’d only even seen the emperor a handful of times since he’d arrived a few weeks prior, and he’d been guarding his private wing for most of that time. The emperor simply did not leave his chambers. Not more than two or three times a week, and never for more than a few hours at a time.

“You’d spend all your time getting yelled at?” Rufus chuckled behind his helmet, and Micah found himself wondering what the man looked like. He sounded older, standing a bit taller and wider than Micah himself. “No. You’ll find the emperor speaks to us very little, good or bad. Couldn’t pick his voice out of a lineup if you tried me. The guards stationed outside of his room say he talks to himself sometimes but I don’t know. Only filled in over there once.”

“Where else have you filled in?” asked Micah, hoping that Rufus could be an ally and not just a coworker. But Rufus had never worked near the infirmary, nor anywhere else that sounded like it could hide medicine. Another dead end. He was lucky Luca had more time to live.

His first personal encounter with the emperor occurred when one of the cleaning servants misplaced his scepter by mistake.

The emperor was not kind in demanding it be found and returned to him immediately. It was a family heirloom, he explained, and the guards all understood. But they would have understood just the same if he politely requested a search rather than shouting at them in a frenzy. Micah found it ridiculous. His family had heirlooms too and he never would have screamed at those trying to help him locate one, especially if its misplacement was an honest accident.

To his relief and disappointment, Micah was the one to finally find the emperor’s scepter, rolled beneath a dresser in his room. It was under the wooden drawers but behind a pair of pale purple slippers—fitted for feet at least a size smaller than Micah’s own. He didn’t have time to question who they belonged to before Rufus spotted him from the doorway and immediately called for the emperor. Micah turned to pass off the scepter. He had no interest in meeting the man whose family legacy had ruined his life, but it was too late to leave.

“Finally.” His voice was slightly higher pitched than Micah expected but exactly as regal, his hog armor significantly more decorated than anyone else’s—not that it made it any less ugly. The emperor stood slightly taller than Micah, his statue as intimidating as it was pathetic. He was nothing, Micah reminded himself. He was an arrogant ass who couldn’t be bothered to help his citizens. Micah flinched when the emperor suddenly snatched the scepter from his hands. “You’re dismissed. Everyone back to your posts. Now.”

Micah did as he was told without hesitation, forcing himself to hold his tongue. It had barely been two months and he was thoroughly done with the emperor’s behavior. He started in the direction of the infirmary, hoping to find the medicine and get out, but was stopped by another guard. “You should stay,” said the man. “Keep watch over the emperor’s room.”

He agreed because being undercover meant being on good terms with everyone. He agreed because his little sister was dying and he needed the medicine only he could retrieve. He agreed because if he got fired, he’d lose his only chance of saving her. Micah took a deep breath as he positioned himself outside of the emperor’s locked bedroom door and took a moment to collect himself. He snapped back to attention when he realized he was not the only one breathing heavily.

It was impossible to hear anything clearly but when Micah placed his ear against the door, the sounds of shaking breaths and unintelligible muttering became louder. The voice belonged to the emperor for certain but Micah couldn’t tell what he was doing, why he was breathing so heavily and whispering about who knows what. He ultimately resolved to ignore it. The emperor was probably just bitching to himself about poor work by his servants and the slow search from his guards.

But then he heard a sniff. A quiet sob. Micah turned back to the door, furrowing his brow when he realized the shaking breaths were not angry, they were upset. No. That couldn’t be right. The Emperor of Hamelin would not break down sobbing over the temporary loss of his scepter. Micah listened for a few more seconds before it finally hit him. The emperor was not angry, he was not sad, he was having an anxiety attack. Micah begged himself to walk away but the kindness in his heart took over and he knocked on the door instead.

“Emperor Marcassin?” asked Micah awkwardly. “Are you all right, Your Majesty?”

“Prince,” was the response he got, much to his surprise. “Prince Marcassin. I am no emperor. Your Highness will suffice.”

The utter defeat and lack of confidence in his voice made Micah hesitate. “Then I will ask again, Your Highness. Are you all right, Prince Marcassin?”

“Yes.” He said nothing else for so long that Micah thought the exchange was over. Quiet sniffs and stifled sobs kept the corridor from falling silent. “Thank you for asking. No one has ever done that before.”

Micah felt like he should say something else but, at the same time, had no idea what. Not wanting to disturb Prince Marcassin again during such a personal moment, he turned his attention back to the open hall ahead of him. Micah may not have liked the prince but he did not lack empathy. No one else would come near until the crying had stopped.

Prince Marcassin kept Micah stationed outside his bedroom after that. Not always directly outside the door, sometimes as far away as the end of the hall, but he was always close by. Micah didn’t understand why. Prince Marcassin never interacted with him beyond the occasional command, never acknowledged the compassion he’d shown, he just kept him close by. He just gave him a raise and fed him sweets on his lunch break. At least, Micah assumed that was his doing. The kitchen had never gifted him a thing before his uncomfortable exchange with Prince Marcassin.

Whatever the reason for them, he was grateful for the sweets because they gave him something to send home for Luca at night. He knew they were meant for him but the smile on her face was better than any taste that could enter his mouth. It served as further motivation to work harder to get to the medicine. Micah had befriended nearly the entire royal guard and as many servants as he interacted with—there was no one who would question or get him into trouble over taking a single bottle of medicine from the infirmary.

It was on the day he finally put his plan into action that everything suddenly changed. Micah sneaked over to the infirmary wing on his lunch break, intending to get into the medicine cabinet and take only what Luca needed, but it wasn’t that simple. He opened the door to the infirmary, a cover story prepared for the nurse, only to find a pair of thieves had beat him there. One of them rummaged through the medicine cabinet while the other choked the nurse with his arm. Micah dove into action and slashed the second man’s arm to free the nurse before he slammed his head against the sick bed to knock him out. He turned back for the other thief but the masked man was already gone.

Without a lick of hesitation, Micah ran out of the room behind the second thief, shouting to a fellow guard to deal with the one he’d left passed out in the infirmary. The second thief ran toward the throne room, pistol in hand. Micah barely moved out of the way before a sloppily fired bullet flew past him. His legs burned as he ran as fast as possible to reach Prince Marcassin’s chambers before the thief. Four shots were fired at the prince before Micah tackled the criminal. He slammed his back against the wall and wrestled him to the floor until he was rendered unconscious.

Neither Micah nor Prince Marcassin said a word as they stared at each other, Micah keeping one eye on the unconscious thief. Nobody else entered the room, the rest of the guard likely focused on securing the palace. A sharp inhale brought movement back to the room before Prince Marcassin dropped to his knees, his breathing becoming unsteady as he hid his masked face behind gloved hands.

“Your Highness…?” Prince Marcassin’s movements were harsh, terrified, but seemed to calm at the sound of Micah’s voice. “Are you…?”

“My father was assassinated,” said Prince Marcassin bluntly, and neither of them spoke another word.

In a turn of events that infuriated more than a handful of his fellow guards, Micah found himself abruptly promoted again—this time to Chief of the Guard. It was not a position he’d ever intended to have, but not one he’d minded until he learned what it entailed: he could never leave the palace without explicit permission from Prince Marcassin. Permission that he never got because Prince Marcassin wanted him outside of his door at all times, regardless of where in the palace he was. Micah felt like he should have been upset when he learned of his new duties but he wasn’t. He barely minded them at all.

Prince Marcassin was not a bad person, Micah realized. He did not pass absurd laws out of maliciousness but desperation. He locked down the royal guard because he was terrified after the assassination attempt. He increased taxes because it was the fastest way to pay for Hamelin’s structural repairs. He refused to publicly address the people not because he was arrogant but because he held so little self-confidence that more than thirty seconds of public speaking made his voice begin to shake.

“Please make sure that no one comes in.” The one good thing about the armor the citizens of Hamelin were required to wear—for reasons that Micah had yet to justify—was that no one wearing them could ever sneak up on you. Prince Marcassin’s presence was known almost a minute before he arrived. He clung to a dagger in his hand, pointed behind him and away from Micah. Nonthreatening. “I do not wish to be disturbed.”

“Yes, Your Highness.” Micah nodded, his gaze locked on the knife. “Will that be for the rest of the evening?”

“Until I decide to come out. It may not be tonight. Please stay. You may take breaks but I do not want anyone else outside my door.”

“Of course, Your Highness.”

It was none of his business why Prince Marcassin wanted to be alone, Micah reminded himself as different explanations cluttered his mind. It was none of his business why Prince Marcassin wanted to be alone, Micah reminded himself when something—pieces of armor?—slammed against the walls inside his bedroom. It was none of his business why Prince Marcassin wanted to be alone, Micah reminded himself when the slamming finally stopped, replaced by strained hyperventilating and ugly, heaving sobs.

It was none of his business why Prince Marcassin wanted to be alone, Micah knew, as he gently tapped his knuckles against the door and uttered, “Prince Marcassin? Are you all right, Your Highness?”

The sobbing did not stop but quieted for a moment before footsteps echoed across the large room. Micah did not move from where he had pressed his ear to the door, struggling to hear through both the metal and the armor. Given that he had not gotten a verbal response, Micah almost thought that he’d gotten himself into trouble and could expect to be fired in the morning if not immediately, but then the footsteps stopped pacing and found their destination at the door. It did not open. Prince Marcassin slid down against the metal, his sniffles more audible than before.

“My mother was a blacksmith,” said Prince Marcassin suddenly. His voice shook, gentle sobs still fighting their way from his lips between thoughts. Yet, somehow, it was clearer than Micah had ever heard it. He must have discarded his helmet after all. “I did not know her. She died having me. But he knew her. He made this with her. He was so proud of it, he— He would not have left it behind.”

“Excuse me, Your Highness, but who…?”

“There are so many creatures out there, and he was only— he was only— he was— I— I can’t— I can’t remember how old he was.” His tone became frantic as the sobs returned in full force. Several seconds passed before he finally spoke again. “I can’t even remember his birthday.”

That was why Prince Marcassin didn’t want anyone else outside the door. Because he knew he was going in there to cry and he didn’t trust anyone else enough to let them hear it. Micah thought he should have been disturbed by how deeply he’d earned the prince’s trust but, somehow, he felt touched. Honored. He took a deep breath and glanced around the hall before he slid down against the door, pulling off his own helmet and setting it on the floor beside him. Who was going to stop him? One of his subordinates?

“I can’t remember my own birthday,” started Micah, hoping his tone came across as sensitive as it did humorous. He still wasn’t certain who they were discussing but he had an idea. His grandfather had told him of the older prince who’d gone missing when the last emperor was killed. “Things like that aren’t as important as we make them out to be. When I remember my parents, I don’t remember their birthdays. Or mine. I remember the little things. Making dinner with Mum, Dad telling me stories at night… you remember anything like that?”

“He used to carry me to bed,” Prince Marcassin answered. He took a slow, shuddering breath. Before his promotion, Micah never would have guessed the ruler of Hamelin was so vulnerable; couldn’t have imagined him as anything but power hungry. “He liked to stay up really late and I would try to do it with him but I was a lightweight—that’s what he called me when he woke me up—and I’d always fall asleep on the floor. Then he’d pick me up and carry me to my bed. I would hug his neck and he’d say I was choking him but he never made me stop. As if he did not want me to stop. As if he liked my hugs. But he does not— He did not even love me.”

“Yes, he did. If he didn’t love you, he wouldn’t have cared for you like that.”

“Then why did he leave me?!”

The sobs that followed were the most painful yet. He choked on his tears, his muffled breathing shaking beyond belief. It was only then that Micah realized he didn’t know how old Prince Marcassin was. He knew that he was young, he’d been told that much, but the Hamelin government was so tight-lipped that it was hard to establish facts about the emperor at all. But suddenly, he had them. If Prince Marcassin was small enough to be carried by a young teenager just a little over a decade ago then he must have been around…

Micah’s age.

The Emperor of Hamelin was Micah’s age and he’d already been on the throne for nearly fifteen years. He tried to imagine life as emperor. Tried to imagine the weight of the entirety of Hamelin on his shoulders, not just in the present, but when he was ten. When he was five. He couldn’t even think about Luca for too long without cracking—how could Prince Marcassin live knowing his citizens were dying every single day because of decisions that he made?

Every preconception Micah had about Prince Marcassin went out the window at that moment. He was no despicable ruler hellbent on destroying Hamelin. He was a five-year-old boy, forced to grow up too fast.

Micah was dismissed the following morning. At first, he thought he’d been fired for seeing—hearing?—Prince Marcassin in too personal a moment. Then the messenger clarified the news and said that he was simply getting the day off. He was still not to leave the palace but he was not to guard Prince Marcassin either.

He didn’t understand why until he returned to his chambers that evening and found on his pillow a box of princess chocolates with an angula on top. The note attached to them was written in the regalest writing he’d ever seen, so perfect it could have come out of a machine. If it weren’t for the little face, he might have believed that it had.

Thank you for listening :) x

“…and I hear what you’re saying but, like it or not, this empire is not sustainable. You are kicking a fallen familiar. We cannot be rid of the air pollution. We cannot make the Pig Iron Plain fertile. Hamelin is a dying country and it has been since the day it was erected.”

The debate had gone on for well over an hour. Advisors, councilmen, and even one unfortunate guard had all tried to convince Prince Marcassin that there were ways to replenish Hamelin but he would not hear them out. It was like he refused to believe a single word they said, no matter how logical their arguments were or how intelligent the ideas they presented. Micah wanted to cheer when the royal engineer suggested a brilliant way to lessen the air pollution but Prince Marcassin would not even look at the plans. He just said that it was impossible. He didn’t believe there was any fixing the country, regardless of strategy. He lacked any and all faith in his council.

“So, you’re sitting here telling me that you are the ruler of an empire that has already fallen?” asked one of Prince Marcassin’s advisors, the shock clear in his tone. “Your Majesty,” he added hastily.

“Yes.” Prince Marcassin nodded once and leaned his hands on the table. “Do I look like someone who is trying to save this place?” A pause, then, “That was not rhetorical.”

“In my defense, Your Majesty, I have never actually seen your face.”

“Lucky you.”

The comment was not the first of its kind. Micah had also never seen Prince Marcassin’s face—he realized that even portraits of the prince as a child had been scrubbed from the palace walls—but apparently, he was hideously ugly. According to whom? Himself. Nobody else. Nobody else Micah had spoken to throughout the entirety of the palace seemed to have the faintest idea what he looked like except that he was his father’s son. Micah only knew he must’ve been hideous because of how often he shouted at himself in the mirror in the mornings and before bed. It was hard for Micah to believe that looking at him could be deadly, but the prince had declared it himself. Who was he to disagree?

When the debates, arguments, and hardly productive discussions finally came to a halt, everyone slowly filed out of the room. Everyone except for Prince Marcassin and Micah himself, that is. Because Prince Marcassin dropped his arms onto the table to scream and bang his head against them, and wherever Prince Marcassin went, Micah went too. The downside was that he never had the chance to steal Luca’s medicine, but the upside was that when following Prince Marcassin to retrieve sleeping pills, he’d found the exact place they were located.

Also, Prince Marcassin was starting to grow on him; he just wasn’t quite ready to admit it yet. It was easy to empathize with him, all right?

“I do not understand why they are all so optimistic,” grumbled Prince Marcassin, his words muffled by his helmet as he slowly, repeatedly banged his head against the table. “Was I not getting my point across clearly? The Pig Iron Plain cannot support crops so we are inevitably closing in on a famine. The air pollution has reached a point where elderly citizens are dying off faster than my patience. And I did not even mention the water which has become so polluted that we can barely treat it fast enough to keep up with the demand.”

“If I may put in my two guilders, Your Highness,” Micah started hesitantly. Prince Marcassin’s head shot up. For a moment, Micah thought he was angry, then he saw the slight tilt of his head and realized he was only curious. “You are telling a room of people that their home is a lost cause. You basically told them all that they are going to die here. Soon. Even if you do not believe that Hamelin can be saved, can it really hurt to entertain some ideas? The one about opening the roof periodically to reduce smoke sounded particularly promising.”

“No. Not unless we had people manually maintaining it because a timer would not account for the weather, for malfunctions, blah, blah, blah. It is too risky. Drowning my citizens is just going to kill them faster. Unless you would prefer that?”

“No, Your Highness.”

“Interesting. Thought you’d might. I would. Like to die faster, that is. Not necessarily by drowning. I hear that is miserable.”

“I believe that dying is likely a miserable experience in general, Your Highness.”

Prince Marcassin’s laugh was one of the sweetest and most surprising sounds Micah ever heard. Okay, he did not laugh so much as let out the world’s shortest chuckle, but it was the first indication of joy that Micah had seen in Prince Marcassin since the day he arrived. The first interaction they’d had that wasn’t utterly depressing.

Micah decided he wanted to hear that laugh again. Fully the next time.

He was sure he would finally get fired the day he lost track of Prince Marcassin. Micah hadn’t realized that he’d fallen asleep in the hallway until he was jolted by another guard. It was a strange sensation. The deepest sleep he’d been in for a long time, despite the armor and the fact that he was leaning against a pillar outside Prince Marcassin’s room. He leaped to his feet when he realized he’d failed at his duty. Ran around the palace like mad and sent out a search team when he found that no one had seen the prince all day. Paced anxiously as he realized his time at the palace was done, that he’d thrown away his chance to save his sister.

Then Prince Marcassin came strutting into the palace as if nothing had happened. As if he hadn’t gone missing for who knows how long. He ignored the guards who asked him where he was. Dismissed anyone who asked him why he hadn’t tended to this or that. Micah wanted to believe he’d just spontaneously decided to go for an extremely long walk or something but it couldn’t be. He was limping. It was slight, but he was limping. Prince Marcassin was injured because Micah fell asleep.

“Prince Marcassin,” said Micah, the moment the prince crossed his path, “my sincerest apologies for—”

“No need for apologies. I wanted to be alone.” Prince Marcassin’s tone was hard to read but he wasn’t mad. He didn’t even sound irritated. Micah couldn’t understand it. “Now, if you would excuse me, I desperately need to wash my hair.”

Micah slid to the side of Prince Marcassin’s door, furrowing his brow. “Your hair?”

“Yes. You think two feet of hair just cares for itself?”

“I didn’t know you had two feet of hair.”

“It is the only part of my appearance that would not make a person gag,” said Prince Marcassin, his tone flat. “Had I not been born into royalty, perhaps I would have been a hairdresser.”

Micah smiled to himself. When had his interactions with Prince Marcassin changed so drastically? When had he gone from resenting the man’s presence to aching for the brief moments they shared? “I’m sure it’s beautiful, Your Highness.”

“The Automata certainly did not agree.”

He left no room for a response before he slid into his room and locked the door behind him. Micah didn’t know what he would have said if he had. The Automata? That meant Prince Marcassin had ventured beyond the walls of Hamelin. And if the Automata had seen his hair, he hadn’t even been wearing his armor. No armor. No guards. No weapons visible on his person.

How the hell was he still alive?

“Hm? Who—? Oh. Why are you out? Go away.”

Prince Marcassin sounded half asleep but not particularly disturbed, so Micah chose not to enter the room uninvited. If it turned out he was in danger, he would storm in without question. As it were, Prince Marcassin had been known to talk to himself both while awake and asleep, so he assumed the mumbling to be the latter even though it was early afternoon. Prince Marcassin did not have the most professional sleep schedule.

“Stop it. Seriously. Stop it. I will literally kill you.” Again, Prince Marcassin sounded irritated but not like the recipient of his words was actually threatening. Probably just another bizarre dream. “How d’you know I’m lying? I have killed your kind before. Yes, I have! Stop looking at me like that. I— okay, that is it. Get over here, you stupid little—!”

Micah could not explain the bizarre sounds that came next. First, what sounded like a large gust of wind followed by Prince Marcassin swearing and shouting something about his hair. Then, pillows were thrown around the room only to abruptly stop with an inexplicable splash. Finally, something clattered and then a light appeared beneath the door before a fragile object dropped and rolled on the ground. Micah rapped his knuckles against the door.

“Prince Marcassin?” he asked hesitantly, more confused than concerned. “Is everything all right in there, Your Highness?”

“Yes. Perfectly fine, thank you. I am just— dammit, what are you doing?” A few moments of silence passed before he spoke again, his voice softer and shaking ever so slightly. “Nobody said you could hug me. Were you trying to make me do that? To prove that I could still—? Never mind. You were not successful either way. It was a pathetic attempt at—”

“Your Highness? Is someone in there with you?”

“No, of course not. It’s only Joules.”

He’d never heard that name before. “Joules?”

“Joules.”

“And Joules is…?”

“Oh, would you like to meet her?”

His heart pounded. If Joules was his girlfriend, no. He didn’t think too hard about why. “I suppose?”

“All right, give me one moment to get ready… and dry my hair.”

It was the longest moment Micah ever sat through. He had no idea who was on the other side of the door. No idea who he was about to meet or how it was going to change his relationship with Prince Marcassin. Friendship? Or maybe they were just coworkers and he was overthinking it. He was definitely overthinking it, after all. Micah took a deep breath and forced himself to let go of excessive anxiety as he waited for Prince Marcassin’s next command.

“Okay, you can come in now,” he said suddenly, voice slightly muffled. He dressed in that stupid armor just to see Micah. “Do not let anyone follow. I do not wish for the rest of the palace to know about Joules.”

“Why not?”

“Because they musn’t find out that when they say four out of five sages agree she is incredibly dangerous, I am the fifth.”

It was an odd figure of speech but Micah let it slide. The only bizarre part was that it changed his entire perspective in a second. Dangerous? Who could Prince Marcassin be harboring in his room that would be considered dangerous? Well, someone who could make all those strange sounds, he supposed. Hesitantly, Micah reached for the handle to Prince Marcassin’s bedroom door, bracing himself for what he might see. Who he might see.

Somehow, the possibility that is might have been a familiar did not even enter his mind. Not until he stood there, at least, face to face with a bizarre little creature that he’d never seen, even in picture books. It had large maroon ears that kept it floating near Prince Marcassin’s head, wide blue eyes that were slightly terrifying, and the oddest shaped body hidden by a golden cloak. Around her, pillows were strewn about the floor, a puddle of water shone in front of Prince Marcassin’s dresser, and papers were left scattered on the opposite side of the bed. So, he hadn’t imagined it. It was magic.

“Joules, Micah; Micah, Joules.” Prince Marcassin gestured an armored hand between them, as if he were introducing two people and not a man and a… “She is an Electrixx.”

“I have never heard of that before.”

“They only live on Nazcaä. They prefer more sunlight than we get here in Autumnia. Which, in the case of the Pig Iron Plain, is any sunlight at all.”

“How did you…? And from Nazcaä?” Micah could not lift his jaw from the floor. There was no end to the surprises the prince had in store. “Have you actually been there? I thought—”

“I have not been there. She was a gift.”

“She’s beautiful.” And I’m sure you are too.

“She’s a nuisance,” Prince Marcassin grumbled, as if he were not in control of when Joules was summoned, “but she keeps me company. Have you ever met a familiar before?”

“No. I’ve only read about them in books.”

“Not even Automata? They are quite obnoxious but can become tamed familiars all the same.”

“I’ve never left the city.”

“You’ve never even been out to the Pig Iron Plain?” Prince Marcassin let out a breath. Stayed still for a moment. Micah wished he could see—read—his face. “Perhaps I will take you one day. The Pig Iron Plain is disgusting but the cliffside view of the ocean is…”

He didn’t finish his sentence. Like he couldn’t admit he’d had a positive thought. “Is it not dangerous?”

Prince Marcassin shrugged. “I have survived far worse.”

Despite his curiosity, Micah decided he did not want to know what that meant.

Glass shattered.

An irritated cry.

Blankets and pillows fell on the floor.

Uneven footsteps stumbled closer.

A gentle knock from the other side of the door.

“Micah?”

The first time Prince Marcassin had used his name.

It was not a special name.

It sounded perfect on his lips.

“Yes, Your Highness?”

“Can you run to the kitchens and get me more alcohol?”

He had no choice but to agree.

“Of course, Your Highness. What kind?”

“Can you keep a secret?”

Hadn’t he already?

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“Crownberry schnapps?”

The corridor was empty on the way back.

Opportunity.

Opportunity.

He detoured to the infirmary.

Filled his pockets with medicine.

Readied to flee the palace.

Looked at the crownberry schnapps in his left hand.

“I’m back, Your Highness.”

“Can you leave it outside the door?”

He left a bottle of painkillers too.

Micah couldn’t express the guilt he felt writing letters to his grandfather while carrying Luca’s medicine in his pocket. He couldn’t get out of the palace, he said, and it was technically true because fleeing might turn him into an enemy of the state. He hoped that Luca was feeling better, he said, and he hoped it was true but he doubted himself when he remained in the palace day after day. He felt like Prince Marcassin’s only friend, his confidante, he said, and it was absolutely true. No one else talked him through anxiety attacks. No one else comforted him through meltdowns. No one else was entrusted with his life day and night.

He had to ask for permission to mail his letter. Prince Marcassin allowed it under the agreement that he would accompany Micah to the mail room. It seemed strange at first but then Micah followed Prince Marcassin back to his chambers and watched as he gently removed one of his gloves and, with the most delicate hand he’d ever seen on a man, penned a letter of his own. Micah said nothing as he wrote, staring in awe at Prince Marcassin’s skin. It was just a hand, he told himself, but it was all he’d ever seen of him. Ghostly pale fingers and the elegant swoosh they left at the end of each word.

“Might I ask who you’re writing to, Your Highness?” asked Micah, brow furrowed as Prince Marcassin sealed the letter.

“The Cowlipha,” answered Prince Marcassin, as if she were someone everyone wrote to.

“In regard to the discussions of a potential famine the other day?”

“No. I am simply requesting she stop referring to me as a ‘handsome young lad’ in our communications and on a wider political scale. It is grossly inappropriate, not to mention inaccurate. And you?”

Micah frowned. “Well, I have never seen your—”

“Not that. Who are you sending a letter to?”

“My— Uh, my grandfather.” He had not expected Prince Marcassin to be the least bit interested in his affairs. Their friendship so far had been somewhat one way, in which Prince Marcassin would occasionally pour out his heart and soul and Micah would do what he could to help him. They did not have deep discussions. They did not pretend to be on the same social level. “He lives with my younger sister on the outer regions of Hamelin.”

“You have a little sister?” asked Prince Marcassin curiously. “You have not mentioned her.”

“There is not much to say.”

“Or perhaps there is too much. Do you have any little memories with her?”

“Little memories?”

“Like you made me recall about Gascon.”

Gascon. He’d been right. The moment Prince Marcassin said the name, the story about his brother’s disappearance came flooding back. He didn’t say a word about it. “She made me learn to put braids into her hair,” he said finally. “She would ask me to do it every morning.”

“Every morning?” Prince Marcassin scoffed. “And she lives with your grandfather?”

“Yes.”

“What is her name?”

“Luca.”

“Open that letter. Do you have a pen?”

Micah thought that his entire scheme was up when Prince Marcassin took the letter from his hands and peeled it open, but he did not read a word of it. Instead, he simply glanced around the corridor, checked to see if anyone was there, then slid off his glove again and added to the text. Did not write over it. Did not read a word of it. Just added a note to the bottom where Micah had not filled the page.

“There. Now I can sleep at night.”

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d smiled so much as he did when he moved to stuff the letter back into its envelope and saw what the prince had left inside.

Dear Luca,

Braid your hair AT NIGHT!! Not just in the day. AT. NIGHT. It will keep it from getting tangled while you sleep, and locks in moisture! Also makes for easier brushing in the morning. Personally, my morning routine is DOUBLED if I forget to braid.

Prince Marcassin :) x

Micah was once an artist back home.

It was a hobby, mostly. Luca liked it when he drew pictures of the familiars in her books. His grandfather liked it when he drew illustrations they could duplicate for advertisements. Micah liked it when he was able to people-watch and draw citizens in their natural environments. Anatomy was his strong suit, as much as he struggled to draw symmetrical faces. Not that faces were important. Not that night, as he sat at his desk when he should have been asleep, outlining the shape he couldn’t stop thinking about.

Thin fingers, a tad on the longer side. Shining nails trimmed and buffed to perfection. Bones and veins doing a poor job at hiding. Tired knuckles that had seen better days. A faint scar at the base of his ring finger. Deep creases on the inside of his palm despite his young age. Light freckles yet skin so pale it was hard to imagine when it might have seen sun.

Micah didn’t know why he couldn’t stop thinking about Prince Marcassin’s hand days later. Why he felt the urge to sketch it before the image eventually, inevitably left his mind. Why he ached to know what else the garish armor was hiding. Or maybe he just didn’t want to accept the fact that what he already knew was truer than he chose to believe.

Faces weren’t important. They couldn’t be.

If they were, how could he be falling for a man he’d never seen?

Considering the amount of black truffles that were delivered to the palace on a regular basis, it was shocking how little Prince Marcassin actually ate.

It was obvious that Micah would never physically see him eat since that would require the removal of his helmet, but the more aware he became as he followed the prince around, the more he realized food was not much of a thought in his mind. Prince Marcassin did not stop at the kitchens for anything, did not send his servants for anything, did not request so much as a snack while Micah guarded his door for days at a time. Micah did eventually learn plenty of truffles went straight to Prince Marcassin’s room, so it was possible he’d been snacking, but it wasn’t satisfying enough. It wasn’t healthy enough.

“Prince Marcassin?” He no longer felt strange knocking on the emperor’s door uninvited. It was a level of comfort he never expected. Never wanted. Somehow, he could no longer imagine going without. “You have been very quiet today. Would you like me to get you anything?”

“No.” Prince Marcassin’s tone was sharp, irritated as usual. “Why would I want anything?”

“You haven’t eaten all day, Your Highness.”

“Yes, I have. I have had— how do you know what I’m doing in here? I could be eating the entire day and you would be none the wiser.”

His footsteps were too delicate for that to be true. “Please let me bring you something?”

“This is a ploy to get yourself a dinner break, is it not? Just go. Begone.” Micah’s heart skipped a beat. Out of everything that had happened, this was the thing that got him thrown out? Why did he even care? He had the medicine. He should have left already. He breathed a sigh of relief when Prince Marcassin spoke again, his tone softer. “But please do not take too long. I feel safer with you outside the door.”

“Of course, Your Highness.”

Micah hesitated before he actually left for the kitchens but walked quickly once on his way there. He comforted himself with the knowledge that Prince Marcassin had an extra line of defense—Joules, assuming he knew how to fight with her—yet still did not want to waste any time. When he arrived at the kitchens, he requested the cooks prepare a simple bowl of chicken and rice, and whatever dish Prince Marcassin liked the most. Micah found it alarming that the younger chef didn’t know. It was the much older man who suggested dice dumplings and tutti-frutti ice cream, though he noted Prince Marcassin had not requested it in a while. He had not requested anything in a while.

Despite the pit in his stomach telling him he’d made a stupid decision, Micah forced himself to follow through. He took the meals and the ice cream from the chefs, unable to stop himself from smiling a bit at how utterly sweet Prince Marcassin’s preferences seemed to be—first the crownberry schnapps, then the sugariest fillings for the dumplings, and ice cream that made Micah’s own face pucker. Not thirty minutes after he left, he set the dishes down outside Prince Marcassin’s door—a plate of dumplings and a bowl filled with rainbow ice cream—and knocked.

“Your Highness?” he said, as he rose back to his feet. “I brought you dinner.”

“I did not ask for dinner,” Prince Marcassin shot back quickly, but he did not sound terribly upset.

“The chef said that it is your favorite.”

“I— I have not requested my favorite in years.”

“He told me that as well.”

There was a long silence, lasting several cold seconds, before Prince Marcassin finally spoke again. “Ice cream?”

“Tutti-frutti,” answered Micah, his own heart melting as he realized the tone of Prince Marcassin’s voice was not upset or irritated at all, he just didn’t know how to respond to Micah’s gesture. How to accept a gift brought to him not out of necessity, not as a bribery, but in an act of kindness.

“Is anyone else out there?”

“No, Your Highness.”

“Close your eyes until you hear the door shut again.”

It took every ounce of restraint in Micah’s body not to sneak a glance at the boy who stole his heart from behind a door.

“My sister liked your letter.”

Prince Marcassin turned his head but did not speak for several seconds. He had forgotten. Micah should have known. “About the braids?”

“Yes,” said Micah, suddenly feeling uncomfortable. Prince Marcassin was halfway through the door, taken off-guard by the sudden conversation. Micah should have waited but he couldn’t stop thinking about the letter he’d gotten after he read it. “She wanted me to tell you she likes your signature too.”

“My signature?”

“With the smiley face and the kiss.”

“Oh.” A long, uncomfortable silence, then, “I did not realize I still did that. Old habit, I suppose.”

Micah ached to know when or why Prince Marcassin started doing it in the first place, what he was like as a child, when he was happy, but he asked no questions. He just watched Prince Marcassin walk away and wished their exchanges could last more than a moment.

“Micah. Micah? Micah, are you out there? Micahhhhhhh. Micah!”

The sound of his name on Prince Marcassin’s lips was sweeter than any candy he’d ever tasted. Better than any music he’d ever heard. So intoxicating that he momentarily zoned out and nearly failed to notice that the words were intoxicated too. Slurring. Needy. Uncharacteristically loud. Micah snapped to attention the sixth or seventh time Prince Marcassin called his name, forcing himself to look past his personal feelings and toward his job.

“Yes, Your Highness?”

“Are you busy?”

“Busy guarding your door.”

“Can you— Can you talk to me?” asked Prince Marcassin shakily. His words were quickly followed by an addendum that broke Micah’s heart in two. “If you wan’ to. You do— don’ have to. If you don’ wan’ to.”

“Of course, I want to.” Micah leaned closer to the door. Prince Marcassin’s fingers dragged along the opposite side of it, his knuckles knocking against the metal. “But it is after midnight, Your Highness. You should be resting.”

“No, I— I cannot sleep.”

“Are you all right?”

“Mm. Too much schnapps.” Quiet shuffling and then the gentle thud of Prince Marcassin’s head resting against the back of the door. Micah hesitated before he sat down and closed his eyes for the briefest moment. It was easier to pretend they were close when he couldn’t see the distance. “Do you have a fav— a favori’e drink, Micah?”

“Not really.” Micah was never big on drinking. He had a shot of whiskey here and there, but he’d never been properly drunk like the prince. “I suppose I rather prefer to spend my time dehydrating than drinking.”

“Y’know wha’s funny? You’re jokin’ but drink— drinkin’ actually dehydra’es you. Learned the hard way.”

Luckily, Micah had learned the easy way. All he felt was compassion regardless. “What happened?”

“Too much brandy. Got sick.” The sound of liquid swirling around could barely be heard through the door before glass clattered against the floor. Prince Marcassin complained about drinking too much alcohol while actively consuming more. If he’d been allowed in the room, Micah would have walked in and taken the bottle. He would have forced self-care on the prince himself. “Didn’ know why a’ first. Then I— Then I realized it was— was just like when I got sick in Al— Mam— Ma— Al Mam—. The sandy place. Where the— the Cowliph— the Cowli— where the cow bish lives.”

“Where the cow bitch lives. Got it,” echoed Micah, unable to stop himself from laughing. How was Prince Marcassin so cute? How did Micah think he was so cute when he still didn’t even know what color his eyes were? If he shared the same hair as his father? “What were you doing all the way in Al Mamoon? I don’t recall hearing anything about that.”

“No, it was a— a secret. Didn’ tell anyone. Had ta go see tha— the— the green bloke. The one who’s even— even shorter than me. Y’know? Wif tha big hat? Who called me a baby when I— when I went to do tha second trial and I— I star’ed crying ‘cos I don’ have any friends?”

Green bloke. Short. Big hat. Trial. Multiple trials? Called Marcassin a baby. Nope. Didn’t ring any bells. Micah had certainly never met anyone green nor with a notably large hat, and he had no idea what trials the prince was talking about. He was oddly fixated on the comment about him being even shorter than Prince Marcassin, however. Prince Marcassin’s armor made him look three inches taller than Micah. Was that just an illusion? He found it was in his better judgment not to ask.

“But— But you’re my friend now, right, Micah? ‘M not friendless anymore, ‘cos— ‘cos you’re my friend. Micah?”

“Yes, Your Highness?”

“You’re my friend, right?”

“Yeah. Yeah, of course I’m your friend.”

“You don’ have to lie.”

“I’m not lying. I promise.” Unless lies by omission counted, in which case Micah was lying about the fact that he wished they could be more than friends. That he ached to see Prince Marcassin’s face. That he wanted nothing more than to give him a hug and tell him everything was going to be okay. “You’re my friend, mysterious voice behind Prince Marcassin’s door.”

It was because he was drunk, Micah told himself as he froze where he sat. It was because he was drunk, Micah knew because the prince was never happy, he couldn’t be happy. It was because he was drunk, but he didn’t give a damn because the laugh that came out of Prince Marcassin’s mouth was the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard. It was a little wheezy, a little high pitched, a little uneven—but happy. Even if it was just for the briefest moment, he was happy. Micah didn’t think he’d ever heard him so much as content before.

“And you’re my friend, Micah. Micah. Micah.” He giggled. The prince giggled. Micah could not remember the last time he’d smiled so much in his life. His cheeks physically hurt as he leaned into the door. “You have a nice name, Micah. Mi-cah. Micah. It’s beau’iful.”

His heart melted so fast he thought he might die on the spot. “I think you have a nice name too, Your Highness.”

“No, my name is— is stupid.”

“Well, I find it to be quite pretty myself. Agree to disagree?”

“I will literally rewrite the law to invalidate your opinion.”

Micah froze at Prince Marcassin’s serious tone, wondering whether he’d accidentally crossed some line without realizing. He was a second away from apologizing when the prince started to uncontrollably giggle again and, against all logic, Micah allowed himself to laugh too.

He hated it when Prince Marcassin shouted.

Not when he complained to himself in his room or went on rants about seemingly trivial things—Prince Marcassin despised toadstool sundaes with a burning passion, Micah learned, and could not stand Ding Dong Dell’s “ridiculous” slang—but when he shouted at people. When he refused to listen to genius ideas because he was too blind or too arrogant to see their brilliance. Or at least, that was what Micah used to think. The more meetings he guarded, the more he realized that the prince was scared. Scared of failing so greatly that he refused to try anything which wasn’t absolutely foolproof.

Micah thought Prince Marcassin needed a hug and a better explanation of all the potential risks and benefits. The council thought Prince Marcassin needed to be belittled for ten minutes before he finally decided to fight back.

“…and for the last time, we cannot do trades,” snapped Prince Marcassin, loud enough in his continued anger that Micah could hear him clearly through the door. “Ding Dong Dell is fully self-sufficient and has repeatedly refused to negotiate. Castaway Cove is a hundredth the size of Hamelin and could not help if they wanted to. Al Mamoon has four months out of the year that they cannot grow crops so they need that extra stock if their own people are to survive.”

“Your Majesty, if I may suggest—”

“Trading. Is. Not. An. Option.”

“—that Al Mamoon would be an excellent option, actually,” said a voice that Micah did not recognize. He needed to get better at listening for names. Or maybe Prince Marcassin needed to use names more. His voice was the one Micah soaked in the most, after all. “We have spoken to some of their representatives and the Cowlipha is interested in a partnership through which—”

“No.” Short, snippy, furious. Micah winced. “I do not trust the Cowlipha.”

“Please, Your Majesty, if you would just look at the preliminary negotiations, you would—”

“Get out.”

“Your Majesty—”

“Don’t call me that. Go away.”

“Please, Emper—”

“Begone! All of you!”

Micah stepped to the side of the door the moment he heard the footsteps. The entire council filed out of the room within seconds, muttering complaints to one another and whispering plans to continue negotiations behind Prince Marcassin’s back. Part of him wanted to shout at them all, to punish them for disrespecting their ruler, but he did not. He did nothing. His biggest concern was not in the undermining conversations but in the way Prince Marcassin’s voice had cracked.

He waited until the entire hallway emptied before he even considered entering the room. Waited until he heard the soft sniffles behind the door before he knocked and requested to enter. Several long seconds passed until he got permission in the form of a choked, “You may come in.”

Prince Marcassin was still seated in his chair at the head of the table, his arms resting on top of it and his head hidden beneath them. Hesitantly, Micah walked over to where the prince was seated and sat down on his own knees beside him. It ached in the armor, but it felt better to be on Prince Marcassin’s level rather than towering above his chair.

“Are you all right, Your—?”

“Do you find me to be a poor ruler, Micah?” asked Prince Marcassin suddenly, not lifting his head nor turning to look at his guard.

“I—” It was a lie to say no. It was a lie to pretend that Prince Marcassin did any great things for Hamelin. He took a deep breath, choosing his words slowly and presenting them with care. “I think you are often misguided. You are not a bad ruler, nor a bad person.”

“Then what should I do? How do I be better?”

Micah reached one hand out, the armor on his fingers clanking against Prince Marcassin’s. He finally lifted his head, his hand staying beneath Micah’s as he turned to meet his helmet-covered face.

“I don’t know,” said Micah quietly, “but I hope you know I find you perfect as you are.”

Prince Marcassin dropped his head back into his hands and stifled a whimper.

Micah regretted telling Prince Marcassin what Luca had said.

Prince Marcassin still left him notes on occasion. Little gifts like chocolate and bottles of alcohol with cute questions about whether he’d found Micah’s favorite yet. Micah still didn’t have one. He didn’t have the heart to tell that to the prince, however, and continued to let him guess. Perhaps he would find a favorite drink through the presents.

But nothing could make him happier than the smiley faces and the kisses had. The smiley faces and the kisses that vanished after he brought them up. The smiley faces and the kisses that were not only absent but scribbled out on some letters as if Prince Marcassin made a conscious effort to no longer add them. As if he were trying to scrub himself clean of the only smiles he’d allowed himself to have while sober.

Micah regretted enjoying the intoxicated prince so much.

Prince Marcassin was never happy. Never. He was always pissed off or on the verge of tears, regardless of the situation. But when he stumbled over to the door in the middle of the night and asked Micah to talk to him until he felt sleepy, he would laugh. Giggle. Smile. Micah could not see his smile and he knew that the laughter was not the result of true happiness but copious amounts of alcohol at work, but he almost didn’t care. It was more intoxicating than any drink he’d been sent so far.

He wanted to see Prince Marcassin happy. He wanted to hear Prince Marcassin laugh at his stupid jokes. He wanted to hear him ramble on about the better parts of his childhood—playing games with his brother, stealing snacks from the kitchen, adventuring out on the Pig Iron Plain—and gush about how much he loved Micah’s name. His favorite night had been when Marcassin summoned Joules and giggled for an hour while playing with her. Micah ached to open the door and join them.

Micah regretted never trying to leave the palace.

Prince Marcassin specifically told him he was not allowed to leave. He understood that. But his plan had never been to stay in the palace in the first place. He never intended to be a real guard, to be promoted to Chief of the Guard. He wanted nothing to do with any of it when he arrived, he just wanted to steal the medicine that he needed and leave. Because Luca was sick. Because she was counting on him. And he was failing her because he couldn’t leave. He wouldn’t leave. How could he?

How could he after he’d realized the prince was so alone? When he’d become his only friend? When they’d spent so many nights talking across a door until sunrise? When he’d learned all of the prince’s secrets, become his sole confidante? But then, how could he stay when his family was waiting for him? When Luca was growing sicker in his absence? When her death would be on his hands?

How could he face his family when he’d fallen for the man who held all of their blame?

“Why did you make me Chief of the Guard?”

There was a long silence before Prince Marcassin answered. The first words he’d spoken all day. So quiet Micah had to strain his ears just to understand them.

“Because I don’t trust anyone, but I… I would really like to trust you.”

They came out of nowhere on that day.

Micah knew immediately that their armor was outdated, that the people he saw were not who they claimed to be. He wasn’t even sure who that was, actually. Who they had fooled to get into the palace. All he knew was that they wore old armor, sets that had sat at the back of his grandfather’s shop for years. Armor that he would recognize anywhere from the time he’d knocked over the display and scuffed them all. Micah caught them at a dead end. Slowed his walk to be less threatening.

“Hey, you!” He glanced over his shoulder, ensuring no one else was around before he addressed the three—four?—strangers. “That armor. Did you— Did you buy it on the black market?”

“The black market? Ha!” The tallest of the intruders laughed arrogantly. “Please. We don’t know what you’re talking about. We just got lunch on our armor and had to—”

“Would you stop telling that ridiculous story, mun?” whisper-shouted the helmet. So, there was a tiny man in there. “They en’t gonna believe it twice!”

“And it would be more believable if I told different stories to every guard? Honestly!” He groaned dramatically. It was an oddly familiar gesture, both his tone and the way he slapped his palm against his face, but Micah couldn’t pinpoint why. “Anyway, I spilled food on all of our armor so now they’re at the clea—”

“My grandfather runs the black market,” said Micah, cutting off his lying rambles. “You cannot trick me.”

The intruder in red and blue armor gasped. “You’re Micah?”

“Yes, I knew it! I knew those were from his store!”

“He told us about you,” the red and blue intruder went on compassionately. And somewhat childishly. That voice could not belong to a grown man. “He said you went undercover to get Luca’s medicine.”

“And Grandfather asked you to help?” Micah’s heart pounded. He was saved. Luca was saved. He could pass off the medicine to these intruders, allowing him to stay and protect Prince Marcassin while still ensuring his sister got the help she needed. He swallowed hard, trying not to let emotion take over. “I’m very thankful.”

“Heh, nothing to write home about,” said the tallest intruder. He scanned Micah up and down twice before he spoke again. As he did so, Micah realized part of his familiarity was an upper-class Hamelin accent—albeit a rather rusty one. “But you’re a bit much. I know you’re doing this for your sister but to just jump in here? Way out of your depth? Without any backup worth a damn?”

“Well, I only have one little sister.”

The tone of his voice was sad. Impossible to read. “Yeah.”

“Anyway,” interrupted the intruder in purple, spouting a particularly feminine voice with an accent he decidedly did not recognize, “what’s up with your emperor? That whole parade was so dramatic, he— he seems so self-absorbed.”

Micah took a deep breath to steady himself before he shot back. It was wrong to be upset with anyone for seeing Prince Marcassin for what he was not. After all, before he’d started working at his side, Micah too had believed that Prince Marcassin was a power hungry, arrogant ass. It took a long time to see him for who he really was. Too many late nights and not enough sober conversation to realize underneath the persona was a lonely young man, traumatized from assuming the throne too young.

“The emperor suffers alone,” Micah began. He furrowed his brow when the tallest intruder bowed his head. “I’ve seen what he’s going through, and I… I wish I could do something to ease his sorrow.”

“Micah—?”

“I only realized when I first began to serve at his side. His Hi— His Majesty never confides in anyone. I have seen him gradually shut his heart to the outside world. Every week I hear his despair in the new laws he puts forth. He does not do the things he does because he is arrogant or controlling. He does it because he is scared and he— he does not know how to protect himself, protect his people, except by increasing restrictions until they can no longer be harmed.”

“Give us the medicine,” said the tallest intruder, a bizarre, almost concerned twinge to his tone, “and tell us where to find him. We’ll handle everything from here.”

It was because of the underlying fear in the man’s tone that Micah agreed. He did not know who he was speaking to. But Micah trusted his grandfather and he was certain that the man who held his hand out cared for Prince Marcassin, even if he did not have the faintest idea why.

Micah did not fully understand what happened from there.

The intruders disappeared as quickly as they arrived. He had no idea whether they’d been in to see Prince Marcassin but His Highness would not respond by doing anything other than shouting at Micah to leave, so if they had, it went wrong. Unless the claim of “handling it” had nothing to do with helping the prince, which Micah did not see as likely. He waited for news about the intruders, good or bad, but none came.

That was, until they suddenly reappeared, hog armor-free, with the news that the medicine had been delivered and Luca was already on the upswing. That they had spoken to Prince Marcassin and Micah should expect Hamelin to turn around soon. Micah asked what they were talking about, how they could have possibly done what they claimed, but the helmet—the fairy—told a very confusing story that he did not quite understand. Then they announced they had more business to attend to in Hamelin, more people to help before they left, and they were gone.

Mostly.

He did not realize the tallest intruder was missing until far later. Until after he returned to his own chambers during his break and penned a letter to his grandfather and Luca. Until his rotation finally sent him back to Prince Marcassin’s chambers, directly outside his door. He had so many questions to ask. So much he was desperate to know. Micah reached to knock on the door the moment he arrived but stopped when he heard a voice on the other side of it.

Prince Marcassin was not alone.

“…honestly surprised how much you’ve changed.” Micah recognized the voice. Tall intruder?

“Changed? I have not changed at all.” He sounded confused but not unhappy. Actually, the opposite. “I have literally had the same hair since—”

“Yeah, yeah, but look how tall you are! You made it to four feet!”

“And you’re what? Four-and-a-half?”

“Wait until I get my back straightened out. And where did you get those freckles? Have you always had freckles?”

“No, I got them in the Shimmering Sands. My skin does not favor the sun.”

“Clearly. What the hell were you doing in the Shimmering Sands?”

“I was taking Solomon’s trials, obviously.”

Micah never heard him talk so much sober. Never heard him banter like that or at all. Never heard the smile in his voice as he went back and forth with the stranger. Never heard his tone change as abruptly as it did following a short, tense silence.

“I thought you were dead,” said Prince Marcassin, his voice so quiet that Micah could barely hear. “I sent search parties. Evidence showed you perished before you reached the shore.”

Gascon. He’d sent search parties for Gascon. The intruder was Gascon.

“Please, I’m—” The thought started out cocky but changed to something else. Regret? “Sorry. I’m sorry. I kept tabs on you from afar. Thought about sending letters. Even almost came back a few times but I… I didn’t think you needed me.”

“I would have given up my throne to see you again.”

Micah was almost certain that Prince Marcassin’s choked sobs were muffled by a hug.

It was incredible how much Prince Marcassin could get done without leaving his chambers.

At least, Micah thought he had not left his room. He never saw him go in or out while he was stationed there. Not during the days when the loudspeaker announced an abundance of changes to Hamelin, repealing more laws than he could keep track of. Eye contact was allowed again. Embraces could be held in public once more. Hog armor was no longer mandatory, and guards were to pick up their new—old—armor on their soonest break.

Micah never saw the palace with open eyes. He never had the chance to gaze at it in all its glory, to admire it not just in front of him but in his peripheral too. It was bigger than it felt like. Colder than he’d thought. Lonelier than he remembered. Micah wanted to talk to Prince Marcassin more than anything but he never got a response when he knocked on the door. Never had to accompany him to any meetings or events. He was laying low for the time, it seemed. Micah did not blame him but he wished he could see him.

Two full days after the intruders came to visit, Micah stood outside of Prince Marcassin’s chambers, keeping guard despite the fact he did not appear to be inside. Micah still didn’t know where he was. What he was doing. But change continued to be enacted, laws repealed and deals dealt, so Micah did not question it. Did not knock and try to speak to him when he was preparing for bed at night. Prince Marcassin would talk to him when he was ready. He didn’t know when to expect it. He didn’t realize it would catch him so off-guard.

He heard footsteps and glanced to his left to see who it was as per usual. The young man was not familiar to Micah, not a servant nor a fellow guard, but he was the most beautiful man Micah had ever seen. He was a noble for certain as he carried himself as if the world belonged to him. His clothes were not remarkably fancy—a long-sleeve fuchsia shirt and dark purple pants—but his shoes were gloriously expensive, jeweled, and high heeled. His eyes were a perfect blue-green, his black hair almost blue against the light. And long. His bangs fell beyond his eyes in places, the full length of his hair tickling the small of his back.

“My apologies, sir, but this area is off limits,” said Micah, almost automatically.

“I hardly think I need permission to enter my own chambers,” replied the young man with a smirk, “but I respect your dedication to the job.”

Two feet of hair. Perfectly sculpted hands. Light freckles scattered on pale skin. A voice he could never, ever forget. Prince Marcassin. He looked at Prince Marcassin, face-to-face. Eye-to-eye. And Micah did not know what to say because after so many months of hearing the prince sob to himself about how utterly ugly and disgusting he was, he was stunned at the truth. He was beautiful. Not just handsome, but perfect. Shining hair, gorgeous eyes, lips that Micah ached to kiss—he was the spitting image of his father, but with a handful of features so soft, so feminine, they must have come from his mother. Micah had to admit he’d expected the prince to be taller—he was easily a few inches shorter than Micah, though it was hard to tell with the heels—but he did not mind it at all.

“I am so sorry, Your Highness.” Micah quickly bowed, his face flushing not just at his mistake, but at Prince Marcassin’s amused smile. “I did not expect to see you.”

“That is my fault. I have been coming and going via Travel.” Prince Marcassin chose not to elaborate, and Micah did not ask, too stunned by his decidedly not ugly appearance. “I am afraid I do not have much time right now as I must meet with the palace engineer. I’ve only returned to change my dress. But if you would wait up for me later, I would like to talk.”

“Of cou—”

“I would also like you to know that I am working on officially altering the rules for the guard. Though they are not yet implemented, you will not be persecuted should you choose to leave.”

“Oka—”

“Which is to say that if you do not wish to meet with me this evening, you may also see yourself out of the palace. You need not return.”

Micah’s heart stopped. “You want me to leave?”

“I want you to do whatever you wish. It was wrong of me not to give you that option before.”

The only thing he wanted to do was be with Prince Marcassin, but he opted for “thank you” and a professional nod rather than admitting to that.

“Prince Marcassin?”

“You may enter,” said Prince Marcassin, and Micah’s heart began to race. He didn’t know how he was going to make it through an entire conversation while looking at the prince’s unfairly pretty face. It was likely he started blushing before he even walked in. “My apologies for not inviting you sooner. I have been quite busy.”

“That’s all right.” Micah slid in the door and closed it quietly behind him. He frowned when he saw Prince Marcassin. “You wanted to speak with me, Your Highness?”

He sat on the floor beside his bed, papers scattered around the tile in an impeccably organized fashion. Prince Marcassin’s hands themselves were covered in ink and leaving marks on every sheet of paper he touched, his hair covering the entire side of his face as he crumbled up another sheet of paper and threw it at the wall. Micah approached him hesitantly, coming to a halt a few feet from the bed.

“You need not call me that.” He tugged a lock of hair behind his ear and Micah’s entire body softened. His hair was beautiful. His fingers were beautiful. Watching them move together was mesmerizing. “Unless you want to call me that. I understand if you do not truly consider me a friend.” Watching his lips move while he spoke was something else. Micah couldn’t believe how long he’d spoken to such a voice without knowing who owned it. “Which is why I wanted to speak, actually. For so long, you have— Micah? Micah, are you listening?”

Prince Marcassin turned to look right at him, his blue-green eyes wide and confused. They were slightly bloodshot, his cheeks ever so pink, and his jaw striped with black ink. His jaw. His jawline was beautiful. Micah snapped his own jaw back up into place when he realized it had dropped and shook his head to clear his mind. He was talking to a prince. An emperor. The ruler of Hamelin. He could not have a crush on the ruler of Hamelin.

He probably should have told himself that a long time ago.

“Yes, sorry, Your Highness.” Micah spoke quickly, trying to catch up. Prince Marcassin had spoken for at least a minute yet Micah had no idea what was said. “What was it you wanted to tell me?”

“You do not have to call me ‘Your Highness’,” repeated Marcassin, giving him a look. His glare should not have been so attractive. Micah swallowed hard. “Or Your Majesty. Or Prince. Or Emperor. Just Marcassin will suffice.”

“Yes, You— Marcassin.”

He smiled, and Micah had to catch himself when his knees started to buckle. “That’s better,” he whispered. He cleared his throat before continuing. “I wanted to thank you for everything that you have done for me while I was brokenhearted.” Brokenhearted. Marcassin was brokenhearted. Everything suddenly made so much sense. Why he couldn’t be happy. Why he couldn’t believe in anyone. “You saved my life, in more ways than one, and I will be eternally grateful for that. And I… I also wanted to apologize for the way that I treated you. You should never have been locked in the palace, working those unholy hours, and I should not have placed my emotional burdens on you either. It was not fair.”

“It’s all right.” He wanted to carry Marcassin’s burdens. He wanted to protect him. He wanted to hold him and tell him that everything was going to be okay. “It didn’t feel like a burden to me.”

“Regardless, you are free to leave if you wish. You need not announce your resignation. I understand if you do not—”

“I wish to stay.”

Marcassin’s entire body softened, as if he had never felt such relief in his life.

When he heard the first sniffle, Micah thought he imagined it. It was so quiet, he had to strain to hear the second, lean against the door to hear the third. Micah glanced at the clock on the wall. It was the middle of the night. Marcassin should have been asleep—or maybe he was. He talked to himself in his sleep. Would it be unlikely that he’d cry? Concerned, Micah knocked on the door, only to be met by the sharp, preemptive response of,

“I am fine, Micah. Thank you.”

Except he didn’t sound fine. His voice shook and his breathing was shallow. Micah forced himself to turn back around regardless, knowing he needed to do his job. He couldn’t focus when the sounds continued to worsen. Marcassin’s breaths shook until they turned to wheezes, his mumbling unintelligible but aggressive enough that Micah felt sure he returned to berating himself. Micah opened the door without thinking, froze in the doorway when he saw the prince.

Marcassin leaned against the front of his couch, entirely surrounded by papers, folders, books, maps, and items Micah could not even name. He did not touch a single one of them. His head rested against his knees as he gripped his legs until his fingers turned white. Though his face was covered by his hair, it was easy to see that his entire body was trembling, his sobs suppressed but audible when Micah walked closer and slowly sat beside him. He reached for one of Marcassin’s hands and lifted it from his leg.

“Squeeze my hand,” whispered Micah. He took a deliberately long and slow breath. Marcassin did not follow it but he took Micah’s hand and squeezed it until it hurt. “It’s all right. You’re all right. Do you know what’s happening?”

“Yes.” Marcassin nodded, and when he looked up, Micah realized that there were tears streaming down his cheeks. But it was okay. He was still speaking, still aware. Micah could talk him through it. “It’s an anx— an anxiet— an anxiety attack. I’ve had them since I was— since I was small. Since everyone left.”

“Do you know what triggered it? If I can help?”

“No. There just— There’s— I did not realize how much I neglected my duties. Now that I have sorted what needs to be done, there— I realized that— there is so much to be done, I— I can’t do it. I cannot fix everything. I am only one person and I— I just want to go to sleep. I haven’t— I haven’t slept or— or eaten anything in three days. Four? I don’t— I don’t know what today is. My head hurts so bad.”

“Three days? All right. You’re going to bed.” When another sob escaped Marcassin’s lips, he added, “Deep breaths. Nothing is going to happen if you wait to deal with this ‘til the morning.”

The longer Micah looked at him, the more exhausted Marcassin seemed. His hair was tangled, probably from constant fidgeting, there were deep bags beneath his bloodshot eyes, and when Micah reached out to help him stand up, he shook so badly he could barely stay upright. Micah reached an arm around his waist, his gaze flickering between the prince and the piles and piles of work he’d left on the floor. It took everything in his power not to reach out and brush the hair from Marcassin’s face, to reassure him when he reluctantly, exhaustedly released control to Micah.

Once Marcassin was seated on his bed, Micah gently took the pale purple slippers from his feet and set them on the floor. They were his all along. The armor did make him look taller. He helped Marcassin sit up against the pillows, pull the blankets around his waist—Micah was only grateful he was already wearing his sleepwear, and likely had been for hours. He was already so beautiful and Micah was already so flustered, he didn’t know if he could take helping him change. Once Marcassin was settled in, Micah turned to leave, but did not make it a step.

“Micah?” He spun back around, brow raised. “Can you— Can you sit with me for a moment? Just until I get my breath back?”

He did not say yes. He did not nod. He simply walked back over to Marcassin’s bed, sat down right beside it, and leaned back against the bedside table as he resumed his own deep, exaggerated breathing. And when Marcassin reached down to hold Micah’s hand again, trying shakily to mimic his breaths, he squeezed back without hesitation.

“Tell me something about you, Micah.”

Micah snapped to attention when Marcassin spoke. They were both beside the fountain as they had been for hours—Marcassin seated while Micah stood guard—and Marcassin had not said a single word. Of course, he was still working his way through so much paperwork that it made Micah feel stressed just looking at it. He was fairly certain Marcassin was working on something to do with curfews and lighting schedules based on what he’d seen glancing over his shoulder but didn’t dare ask. Didn’t dare to speak, dare to interrupt until Marcassin asked it of him.

“Something about me?” Micah raised a brow as he turned to the prince. He had one leg stretched out on the side of the fountain, the other bent on the floor. His hair fell in front of his face again, absolutely in his way though he didn’t seem to notice, his gaze never shifting from the papers in front of him. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve realized that our conversations up to this point have largely surrounded me,” said Marcassin. His right hand scribbled with a pen while his left twirled around his hair. Micah had to focus to ignore how badly he wanted to drag his fingers through that hair too. “I know bits and pieces of your life and your preferences but I do not know… well, I still do not know your favorite drink, for one.”

“Crownberry schnapps.”

The impulsive joke was worth it to see Marcassin’s smile. To see his lips curl as he rolled his beautiful eyes, shook his head, and gave Micah a look. “That is not your favorite.”

“Isn’t it?”

“You seem more like a whiskey man. Or maybe gin?”

“It is difficult to guess who prefers crownberry schnapps.”

“Are you poking fun at me?”

“Of course not, Your Highness. Simply wondering why it is that you do not see me as a schnapps man.”

“It is not that I do not see you as a schnapps man,” said Marcassin, though he’d already claimed to view Micah as otherwise, “but rather that I wish for a straight answer. You cared for me when no one else would. I wish to buy you the greatest drink the world has to offer as a thanks. So, just tell me the truth this time. Please. What is your favorite drink?”

He’d already told the truth, but the reasons for it being his favorite were absolutely the opposite of straight. “Crownberry schnapps.”

“I will push you into this fountain.”

“My sister was very sick,” said Micah suddenly. Marcassin’s face dropped as he turned to look up at him and gently tugged his hair behind his ear. His eyes were wide with both concern and confusion. “I have not been to see her since she’s had treatment.”

His voice was deathly quiet. “Why are you telling me this?”

“You wanted to know something I had not told you.”

“Okay.” Marcassin’s expression was impossible to read, his eyes scanning Micah as if waiting for further elaboration. As if looking for the proper response. “Thank you.”

Micah didn’t know whether to be more upset that he’d ruined their moment or that Marcassin didn’t seem to care.

A week passed and they didn’t talk.

Micah didn’t know why.

He worried he overshared, but…

Marcassin asked for personal.

Was it wrong to answer?

Maybe Marcassin didn’t care.

Micah was just a guard, after all.

He reached to knock on the door.

Heard papers shuffling.

Pens scribbling.

Marcassin was just busy.

He lowered his hand and turned away.

Why did he have to care so much?

Micah was nothing to Marcassin.

Just one in an infinite sea of citizens.

One who happened to save his life.

Happened to get attached.

Micah had once hated his emperor.

He would move mountains to kiss him now.

“Micah?” He jumped when he heard the shout from the other side of the door. It was the first time Marcassin had spoken his name in ten days. “Micah, are you out there? Micah? Honestly, if I find that Stewart has been stationed here one more—”

“I’m here,” said Micah. He blinked several times. He didn’t mean to ignore the prince, he was simply caught off-guard. And a little curious. “Why would Stewart be stationed here?”

“He would not be because he is a terrible guard,” Marcassin corrected. Fair enough. Stewart was one more nap away from being fired altogether. “Now go get changed and meet me at the gates in ten minutes.”

He frowned. “Am I being dismissed?”

“Did I say to pack your things?”

“What should I change into?”

“I don’t know. Whatever it is normal people wear.”

Still thoroughly confused but believing he understood the task, Micah nodded to himself and headed to his own chambers. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was dressing for or why so he chose a plain blue tunic, black pants, and comfortable shoes in case of a walk. He stared at himself in the mirror for several long seconds then decided to take a comb to his hair for the second time that day. It looked okay to him but Marcassin was a self-proclaimed expert. He would not be caught arriving with poorly groomed hair, regardless of the occasion.

When he approached the front gates, Micah found that Marcassin had not arrived yet. He also found that nobody seemed to have been informed of the situation as both guards stationed at the door questioned where he was going. He didn’t have time to explain before the clacking of heels echoed down the hall and Marcassin strode up to them, looking oddly… normal. He was not wearing fancy boots but plain black—though they did still give him an extra two inches in height—with worn teal pants and a light pink sweater. Not that it was all very visible beyond the black cloak that covered himself and his tied-up hair.

“Ready to go?” asked Marcassin. He fiddled with his hood until it covered the majority of his face.

“I’m not sure where we’re going,” Micah said honestly, glancing over at his fellow guards beside them.

“Funny. You are leading the way.”

“What?”

“Well, I certainly cannot lead us to your home. Come.”

Marcassin reached an arm out, nodding for Micah to loop his own around it, but Micah just stared. His home. They were going to his home? They were going to see Luca? His heart was already pounding so hard he didn’t stop to consider what his grandfather might think of him bringing the emperor around. Of what he thought about Micah holding hands with Marcassin. Of the fact that Marcassin did not seem to be holding his arm lovingly or even as a friend but clinging to it for dear life, hanging his head as his hands trembled.

Though he initially intended to ask whether Marcassin was okay, he chose not to when he suddenly realized what was wrong. Marcassin had not left the palace without his armor in years. He had not walked the streets of Hamelin perhaps for longer, as he merely saw the public during parades and speeches. He was dressed simply, darkly, because he did not want to be recognized. Micah squeezed Marcassin’s hand as they walked together through the streets, trying to make it easier for him by pointing out some of his favorite places as a distraction.

Stores that had good treats. Signs he’d illustrated. Marcassin was quiet for a while but seemed to warm up to it, commenting on things he hadn’t known about such as Micah’s love for art and how he’d briefly studied engineering. When Micah pointed out his favorite little corner store, Marcassin asked if he knew the best place in Hamelin to buy drinks, but Micah was not so easily fooled. He grinned to himself and said simply, “If you are looking to get crownberry schnapps, I believe that must be imported.”

Marcassin’s grumbling made it clear that he was not looking to purchase something for himself, but Micah still did not give a clear answer. Instead, he continued his mindless chatter as they neared the outer regions of Hamelin and turned down the path to the black market. He made a polite nod to the guard outside the gate, only to nearly stop in his tracks once they’d passed. He was taking the emperor to the black market. The emperor. The entire outing could be a long ploy to take down the black market. He glanced at Marcassin, about to ask if he knew, if he cared, but stopped himself.

Marcassin clung to his hand for support. Relied on his mindless chatter just to make it through the streets without an anxiety attack. He could not fake that trust.

“Grandfather?” Micah called out the moment he opened the door to the black market, his eyes scanning the shop. It was exactly as he remembered, the building, but the merchandise had all drastically changed. He’d never realized before how it changed from month to month, year to year. “Luca? Are you here?”

“Micah?”

“Micah!”

Marcassin barely let go of Micah’s arm in time for him to catch Luca when she dove into his arms. A huge smile filled her face but he could feel the tears staining the cloth on his shoulder as she clung to his shirt, squeezing as if she thought she’d never see him again. Squeezing like she had strength in her body. She was better. Luca was better. He nuzzled her closer to himself, whispered that he loved her and he missed her. Only lowered her to the ground when he needed to free an arm to extend the hug to his grandfather too.

“Goodness, Micah,” he started softly, “I was starting to think you were never coming back. What took you so long? All these rule changes and that damned emperor still wouldn’t let you leave?”

“Grandfather…”

He kept talking, kept explaining that staying was his choice because he felt that he was doing valuable work, but his attention was not all there. His eyes kept glancing over to his left, where Luca stared at Marcassin. Where he knelt down when she said hello to him, and where he gently lowered his hood. He’d still yet to show his face in public since repealing the mandatory pig armor, so the only people likely to know him were those with a clear image of his father or the few who had met him as a child. Luca was neither. She did not have the faintest idea who she was looking at.

“Hello,” said Marcassin, seemingly unaware as Micah’s grandfather slandered him two feet away. His hair was tied back behind his head in a sloppy, loopy bun, fully visible now that his hood had been lowered. It was beautiful. He was beautiful. “You must be Luca.”

He remembered her name. “Are you Micah’s boyfriend?”

“No.” While Micah’s face turned bright red and he prepared to intervene, Marcassin only smiled thoughtfully. “Were you expecting Micah to bring a boyfriend?”

“Maybe. He’s mentioned boys before.”

“Sorry to disappoint you.”

“But if you’re not Micah’s boyfriend, who are you?”

“My name is Marcassin.”

Luca’s eyes widened. “Are you the prince who sent me a letter?”

“Indeed. Have you taken my advice?”

“No.” She turned her gaze to the floor. “I wanted to cut my hair like Mum’s, and now it isn’t long enough to be braided anymore.”

“That’s silly.” Marcassin didn’t seem to notice that Micah’s grandfather had gawked since he’d said his name, shocked that emperor was standing in his shop. That Micah was about to explode from the awkwardness of the whole situation. He just unfolded his bun and wrapped the tie around one finger as he reached for Luca’s hair, his delicate hands folding a small braid into the front of it. When he was satisfied with his work, Marcassin gently slid the tie into place at the bottom, smiling as he sat back on his knees. “There. See? Your hair is perfect just as it is.”

Luca giggled as she ran over to look in the mirror, apparently unaware of the tension that had entered the room. She rushed back to them after a few seconds, staring up at Micah with big, pleading eyes. “Can he be your boyfriend, Micah? Please?”

“I—”

“That is sweet,” interrupted Marcassin, glancing over at Micah and his grandfather before he could even begin to come up with an answer, “but Micah deserves a better man than me.”

Micah didn’t know how to properly express that there was no better man in the world, that it was not Marcassin’s fault he had to live with the debilitating weight of the hand he’d been dealt, so he chose to say nothing at all.

The distance between them was initiated by Micah that time.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to talk to Marcassin. He did, and he would whenever Marcassin spoke first. But he did not interrupt when Marcassin was working, did not bring him snacks when he forgot to eat, just did his job of standing guard. Now with the knowledge that he was absolutely free to see his sister and grandfather whenever he wanted—and that both of them liked the emperor. Mostly. Grandfather was still a bit hesitant but Marcassin’s kindness won him over on a personal level, if not politically.

Still, Micah didn’t know how to interact with Marcassin after Luca so thoroughly embarrassed him. He never even told Marcassin that he was attracted to men—not that he expected it to affect anything—let alone implied that he would have looked at him that way. Even though he had. For a while. Even though every time Marcassin walked into the room, it took everything in Micah’s power not to tell him he was beautiful. That he loved him. Because it did not matter. Marcassin had made it clear that he was not interested, and Micah intended to respect that.

But it was hard when they spent so much time together, Micah on Marcassin’s heels for almost twelve hours every day. He knew that it was his job, that he was not with Marcassin for personal reasons but to ensure that he stayed safe, but their interactions became his everything. When Marcassin smiled at him from across the room, when he’d stop for a snack and bring Micah something too—they were nothing more than friends. But sometimes Micah couldn’t stop himself from wondering what it would be like if they were.

That was why he tried so hard to build distance between them. Not because he didn’t like Marcassin but because he liked him too much. Because the more time they spent together, the more he struggled with the idea of not having Marcassin in his life. He hoped that if he could just make their interactions less personal, his feelings would start to fade. Somehow they still grew stronger. Every time Marcassin smiled. Every time he laughed. Every time he tried again to learn Micah’s favorite drink.

Micah was in love with the emperor. There was no point in denying it anymore.

“You’re not a child. You’re not a child. You’re not a child.”

It was not uncommon for Marcassin to talk to himself when he was alone in his room. When he was brokenhearted, the words were usually self-deprecating. Now, they were largely rambles. His repeated phrase that day was not a ramble. It wasn’t even self-deprecating. Micah frowned as Marcassin continued talking to himself, repeated the same four words over and over, stopping for only moments at a time. Confused and admittedly concerned, Micah knocked on the door and winced when he heard a clatter on the other side.

“Sorry,” he said quickly. “I did not mean to startle you.”

“It’s all right.” Marcassin must have been on edge because his words came out breathy and strained despite it being such a small scare. He exhaled slowly before he spoke again. “Did you need something?”

“I wanted to ask if you were okay. You have been… talking to yourself for quite a while.”

Several seconds of silence. “Come inside and I will explain.”

Despite the invitation, Micah hesitated at Marcassin’s low tone and waited before he pushed the door open. Marcassin sat at his vanity, his hair pulled back into a sloppy bun. His right hand gripped a small, fluffy but precise brush. It was not until that moment when Micah realized he had never seen Marcassin without makeup before. There were deep, tired bags beneath his eyes, and his freckled cheeks were an uneven shade of pink and white. He did not look upset but rather exhausted, still dressed in his sleepwear without even slippers on his feet.

“Do I look like a child to you, Micah?” asked Marcassin suddenly, his tone so blunt, so genuine, Micah froze for more than a moment. Not that he had to think about it. The answer was no. But he took too long to speak. “You can be honest. I am aware of what people think. I am not tall enough. Not strong enough. I have a baby face. That is why I wear this makeup. Why I wear such tall heels. It is not about me. It is about making myself look mature enough to be taken seriously.”

“Who does not think you mature enough?” Micah raised a brow. “Most people have not even seen your face, and the rest not since you were a child.”

“Well, that is when it started, isn’t it? I have been wearing this since I was little. I was six the first time someone called me too small and had me removed from my own meeting. Because I was not old enough. Not mature enough. Not masculine enough. I have not felt satisfied looking at myself since.”

Micah couldn’t imagine it. Not having a poor image of himself, but of looking at Marcassin’s face and not seeing absolute beauty. He was already perfect with his makeup barely on and somehow, became only prettier as his hands slid the brush across his face. It was the way his fingers moved that was so attractive. The way his body language was so soft, so precise. Micah didn’t need him to look strong. He knew that Marcassin was strong and his appearance did not affect that.

“You may go,” said Marcassin, as he dragged a smaller brush down his cheek. It was incredible how simple contouring could add his desired maturity to his face. Not that it made any difference to Micah. It was just another thing, another skill to adore him for. “Thank you for your concern. I will try to stop speaking to myself so much.”

“No, it’s all right.” He loved it. It didn’t matter what Marcassin said, Micah just wanted to listen to his voice. Still, he accepted his dismissal from the prince and turned to go back to his post. He stopped in the doorway and glanced =over his shoulder. “Marcassin?”

“Yes?”

“I find you beautiful. With and without the makeup and heels.”

Marcassin said nothing, only smiled to himself as he reached for another powder. Micah left satisfied, realizing he’d made Marcassin smile at a mirror for what might have been the first time in his life.

As it turned out, Marcassin’s distaste for his appearance—and more specifically, the anxieties it was rooted in—ran far deeper than Micah initially realized.

It started when Marcassin was meant to make his first public appearance since repealing the mandatory hog armor, and no one could figure out where he’d gone. It wasn’t that much of a surprise, given how long he’d taken to even consider showing his face to the public, but that didn’t ease Micah’s concern. He was the first to start searching when Marcassin failed to arrive when he was scheduled to meet with his advisors, and the first to suggest that something bad might have happened. He’d turned his back for two seconds. Surely Marcassin hadn’t been harmed?

Micah combed every reasonable inch of the palace twice before he started looking in the less obvious places. The rooms nobody was allowed in, including himself. He looked in the archives, in the historical library, in Gascon’s room, and only managed to find what he was looking for at the end of a grand hall—the emperor’s chambers. The previous emperor’s chambers, that is, as Marcassin had never moved from his childhood bedroom, refusing to touch what his mother and father had left behind.

If it weren’t for the fact that he could hear Marcassin hyperventilating through the door, Micah would not have opened it. He knew that the room was off-limits, that he was breaking a cardinal rule, but it didn’t feel important in that moment. Micah stepped inside the grand bedroom, trying not to express his awe at the sheer size and regalness of it, and froze when he spotted the prince. Marcassin leaned against the side of the bed, his knees pulled up to his chest and his entire body trembling so badly it was visible from several feet away.

“Marcassin—?”

“I can’t do it.” He choked trying to get the words out, and when he lifted his head, he revealed cheeks streaked with tears. He didn’t look sad but rather terrified. “I can’t do it. I can’t do it. I can’t do it. I can’t—”

“Marcassin, please—”

“They are expecting my father to address them and I am—” He barely seemed to register Micah moving slowly toward him, his eyes fixed on the portraits on the wall ahead. “I am not my father. I do not even deserve to be the emperor, I—”

“Marcassin, breathe.” Finally, Marcassin turned his head to look at Micah, a tear dripping from his chin as he tried and failed to take a deep breath. Micah inhaled and exhaled dramatically to give him a guide but it didn’t help. “Listen to me. It’s not your fault that you were heartbroken. It’s not. You do deserve to be emperor. You have worked so hard to correct your mistakes these past few weeks. You—”

“It does not matter if I fix the mistakes because I still made them in the first place.” Marcassin dragged both his hands through his hair, squeezing so hard Micah thought he intended to rip it out. Slowly, Micah reached for Marcassin’s hands and tugged them away from his hair in favor of holding his own. “How do I face them? How do I apologize for everything that I’ve done to them? How can they look at me and not just see an arrogant, immature child?”

“Because there are good people in this empire. Deep breath.” He didn’t even sob, just hiccupped as he struggled to breathe. Micah managed to help him inhale and exhale twice before he continued. “Your people do not want you to fail. They wanted you to turn things around and you did. You are making Hamelin a better place now. That is what matters. Not the mistakes you made when you couldn’t control your heart.”

“How do you know that? The first time you saw my face, you thought I was an intruder.”

“Because I could not imagine the man who screamed day and night about his ugliness could have possibly been so beautiful!”

“Micah…”

“If you want to know the truth, I know the past doesn’t matter because I hated you when we met. I despised you for what you did to Hamelin but it wasn’t you. It took one exchange—one, during which you only said, like, four sentences to me—for me to realize that you are not evil. You were broken. You were lonely. You are worthy of forgiveness and redemption because you are not a bad person, Marcassin. You never were, and I’m sorry it took me so long to realize that.”

Marcassin sniffed and squeezed Micah’s hands tightly. He looked up to meet his gaze, hair covering the top half of his eyes. “They’ll think me a joke when they see my face.”

“No, they won’t.”

“I have mascara running down to my chin.”

“We’ll fix it.”

“Why would you stay if you hated me?”

“I didn’t hate you,” said Micah, as he squeezed Marcassin’s hands back, “I hated who I thought you were and— and that man never really existed in the first place. Does that make sense? I hated the emperor, but I— I would lay down my life for Prince Marcassin.”

Marcassin said nothing. He simply hung his head, hair spilling across his face as tears dripped onto their entwined fingers. Micah did not push him to speak again. It would not kill the people to wait one more hour to see their prince.

The next time Marcassin asked him to change and wait at the gates, Micah did so without question. He did not know where the prince wanted to go, nor did he care.

Micah held his arm out when Marcassin arrived, and the prince looped his own around it without question. Though he had managed to get through his public appearance without having another anxiety attack, Marcassin was still uncomfortable in the crowds. Now that the people had been exposed to his face again, he wore his hood even lower, leaning into Micah as if the guard could somehow stop anyone from recognizing him. Thankfully, Micah had been right. For the most part, the people of Hamelin were kind. Those who recognized Marcassin also noticed that he did not want to be bothered and chose to leave him alone.

They spoke minimally as they made their way to the outer regions of Hamelin, joking a bit about certain things and pointing at places they found interesting, but it wasn’t until they passed Micah’s street that he started to feel odd. It wasn’t until they passed the final street in the city that his heart started to pound. They were not going anywhere inside of Hamelin, they were leaving Hamelin. He glanced at Marcassin, realizing he was not wearing heels for the first time since he’d had his heart returned. He was prepared for a walk. Micah took a deep breath as they approached the gates.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” asked Micah, unable to keep the anxiety from his tone.

“Yes.” Marcassin nodded, a concerned look in his eye. “Unless you are not comfortable with it, in which case we can return to the palace?”

“I have never left Hamelin before.”

“You mentioned that once.”

“Are there not monsters out there?”

“On the Pig Iron Plain? Oh, yes. But on the path we’re taking? No. Not many. They don’t like coming near Hamelin. Too many toxins.”

“Is it safe?”

Marcassin reached down and gave Micah’s hand a squeeze, the expression on his face utterly serious. “I will protect you.”

For some reason, the words were all the reassurance that he needed. Micah continued to hold Marcassin’s hand as they made their way out of Hamelin and across the Pig Iron Plain, their path following old railroad tracks. This time, it was Marcassin who spoke to distract Micah, pointing out places where he and Gascon had gone exploring when he was little and showing off creatures from a distance. The Clinketyclanks were admittedly kind of cute, but he did not have any interest in engaging with a Tin-Man.

It was a long walk to their undisclosed destination but once they reached it, Micah had no doubt they were there. He’d almost forgotten about that conversation, and yet he had to admit that Marcassin was right—he had never seen a sight as stunning as the view of the ocean from that cliffside. He had never seen anything like it. There was so much water he could scarcely believe it, and it was so blue. He smiled when Marcassin pointed out a few sea creatures swimming below, almost unable to fathom what he saw. Nature. Incredible, untouched nature.

It was then that he realized why Marcassin brought him there. It was his way of repaying Micah for everything that he’d done. Taking an entire day away from his duties to show Micah what might have been the greatest view in all of Autumnia. It was possible he’d only wanted a day off for himself after so much hard work but Micah doubted it. When Marcassin wanted a break, he shut himself in his room and hid his face in his pillows. He’d deliberately chosen the outing to spend time with Micah. To share his favorite sight with Micah. To be with Micah.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” whispered Marcassin. His gaze never left the sea, as if he too were viewing it for the first time.

Micah wanted to agree but when he turned to look at Marcassin, all he could see was his soft smile and his long, dark hair blowing in the breeze.

He woke up and didn’t know where he was.

No one knew where Marcassin was either.

No one knew what was happening at all.

There was some kind of magic infection, according to the statement from the palace. A spell that had turned everyone into monsters. Micah didn’t remember it. He decided he didn’t want to.

No one knew what happened to Marcassin. He was alive, supposedly, at one point, because he’d left a note telling the palace how to explain the situation to the people of Hamelin. But he didn’t stay to explain it himself. He didn’t stay and no one knew why. No one knew where he went. Micah begged for answers, searched everywhere for a note, but there was nothing. Either Marcassin was dead or felt it better he remain in hiding for reasons Micah couldn’t understand.

There was absolute silence for an unbearably long time before Hamelin’s army was suddenly deployed. Before Marcassin requested the best soldiers, the best equipment, and as many airships as they could fly. Before he requested the Royal Guard join him on the front lines because there was no one he trusted more. They did not understand the fight, not fully, but it didn’t matter. They were fighting for Hamelin. For Marcassin.

Micah specifically was called to board the pirate ship known as the Iron Wyvern—their headquarters as they planned for the attack. At first, he thought it was because he was Chief of the Guard and was meant to relay orders to the others. And that was true, technically. They got to that point. But not immediately. Because when he first boarded the ship, when they first saw each other, they froze. Micah was tired and scared and he knew it showed on his face. Marcassin was clearly injured, his jaw bruised and his stance uneven, but his entire body softened when he saw Micah.

Instead of telling him what to do, what message to deliver to the royal guard, Marcassin limped over to Micah and brought him into the warmest embrace he’d ever known. Marcassin held him so tightly Micah could feel it through his armor, could feel the prince’s breath against his neck when he buried his face in Micah’s shoulder. Micah, though still at first, squeezed Marcassin as tight as he could. He gathered the fabric of the back of his shirt into his hands, closed his eyes as he turned into the prince’s hair and inhaled the soft scent of sweat and flowers. He didn’t know when or why it had happened but they truly did care for each other. They needed each other.

Micah didn’t fully realize the reason for the hug until they finished strategizing an hour later. When he saw the look on Marcassin’s face, analyzed the language he used, and realized he was prepared for a battle they might not win. Prepared to lay down his life for the chance of saving not just Hamelin, but the entirety of their world. Despite the hollow feeling in his chest, Micah refused to say goodbye, even if it was just in case. He was not confident in his decision until he found the note slipped in his pocket later that night.

I promise I will see you again xx

Things were different after that day. After peace was finally restored to the world.

Micah took a week off after they returned to Hamelin, to be with his sister and their grandfather as they recovered from the recent events, emotionally and physically. From what he heard, he wasn’t missing much in the palace as Marcassin spent the better part of that same week sleeping. Still, when Micah finally returned to the palace after ensuring that his family was okay, he felt a weight lift off his chest. Being with Marcassin was not just part of his life anymore, it was his life. Micah felt like something was missing when they were apart, and the past few weeks had proved it was him.

He went straight for Marcassin’s quarters after arriving back at the palace, to say hello and catch up on what happened, but stopped at the end of the corridor. Someone had beat him to it. The man coming out of Marcassin’s room had dark brown, curly hair, an oddly familiar gait, and clothes that had seen far better days. Gascon. They had formally met on the Iron Wyvern but there hadn’t been much time for conversation given the fact their encounter had been due to Gascon—or Swaine, as he was now known—interrupting to speak with Marcassin about their plans. Still, Micah had heard so much about him from Marcassin, it was hard to look at Swaine and think of him as a stranger.

“Oh, hey.” Swaine furrowed his brow at Micah as he stepped out of Marcassin’s room and pulled the door shut quietly behind him. “Bad with names, sorry. Starts with an M, does it?”

“Micah,” he confirmed.

“Mm. Well, if you’re here to guard Marcassin, have at it. Just don’t wake him up, yeah? He’s damned exhausted from the last few days. Been using so much energy to heal his people, he can’t even find it in him to fix his own damned self. Anyway, I’m off to go raid the kitchens before Oliver and the gang comes back to get me for cleanup. Or whatever. They never stop helping people. Honorable as it is foolish. See you around, Micah with an M.”

Swaine did not seem interested in further conversation, so Micah did as he was meant to and stood in front of Marcassin’s door, to guard him and wait for him to wake. He listened as Swaine made his way down the corridor, his footsteps fading away, only to stop and come back rather suddenly. Micah turned to face Swaine when he approached, prepared to step out of the way so he could get back into Marcassin’s bedroom for whatever he needed. Except Swaine did not go in. Instead, he stopped.

“I suppose I should thank you,” he said awkwardly, and Micah knew immediately that the sentiment was there. Swaine’s lack of social skills did not make his words less sincere. “I know I should have come back sooner but Shadar got to me too and it… it took a long time for me to convince myself to do it. But you were here. You cared for Marcassin when no one else did, and I think if you hadn’t, he— doesn’t matter. He’s fine now, and he’s not lonely anymore. So. Thank you. For being there when he needed someone.”

He did not wait for a response before he spun back around on his heel. Micah almost didn’t call after him, thinking it best to leave his words as they were, but found an old question suddenly popped into his head. A question he was strangely eager for an answer to.

“Swaine?” He was met with only a raised brow. “How old are you?”

An odd look crossed his face. “Twenty-two.”

“You were not seven when you left.”

“Prove it then,” said Swaine with a smirk.

But Micah decided to bring the funnier answer to his prince.

His first reaction was fear when Marcassin summoned him late one night.

Micah had already finished his shift for the day, already worked a good twelve hours, and was settling down for bed when he was called for. The guard who came to deliver the message did not know what Marcassin wanted but clarified that it did not seem to be work-related. At least, Marcassin had said that Micah need not put his armor back on, which implied it either wouldn’t take long, wouldn’t require guarding, or some combination of both.

Regardless, Micah felt hesitant as he crossed the palace, dressed still in his sleepwear—red pants and a plain white tunic—and nothing but socks on his feet. He walked quickly over to Marcassin’s chambers and dismissed the guard outside the door before he reached to knock in case the matter was one better kept private. His heart pounded as he waited for a response.

“Micah?”

“You asked for me?”

“Can you come in here, please?”

Though Micah did not know what to expect, he couldn’t say that he was surprised to find Marcassin in bed, a largely empty bottle of crownberry schnapps in one hand. His words were slightly slurred, after all. The only real problem was that once he entered the room, Micah forgot how to speak. Marcassin was adorable as he lay there on his side half underneath the blankets, his hair spilling across the pillow and a tired smile on his lips. No one in history ever looked so pretty drunk and half-asleep.

“Hi,” said Marcassin, as he turned to face Micah.

“Hi,” Micah whispered, his heart racing not from anxiety, but something else. He didn’t know why he was there. He didn’t know what was going to happen.

“Will you lie down with me?”

He froze. “In your bed?”

“You don’ have to.”

But he did. Micah made sure the door was closed behind him before he approached Marcassin’s bed and reached to take the bottle of crownberry schnapps from his hand before anything else. Marcassin did not resist, releasing his grip and watching silently as Micah moved the bottle to the table beside the bed. He patted the blankets next to him when Micah turned back around, not moving his face from the pillow as he waited for the guard to sit down. Micah slowly, awkwardly slid on top of the blankets beside Marcassin, gaze fixed on the ceiling.

If his heart raced before, it nearly leaped out of place when Marcassin suddenly snuggled closer to Micah. He leaned into the guard’s side, resting his head on Micah’s chest as he draped an arm across his waist. Micah felt frozen for a moment but settled into the embrace when Marcassin squeezed the fabric of his shirt. He wrapped his own arm around the prince, watched silently as he closed his eyes and took slow, deep breaths. Marcassin was not asleep, but he was trying to be.

“Thank you,” mumbled Marcassin. “You’ve always made me feel safe.”

Micah managed to resist the urge to press a kiss to the top of his head, but the prince’s hair was too alluring. He preferred to keep it in a braid at night, Micah knew. Surely it was not crossing a line to make that happen? To indulge and braid the prince’s hair just once? He reached for a tie on the bedside table and wrapped it between his fingers before he slid his hands through Marcassin’s hair. His long, soft, beautiful hair. Marcassin said nothing but freed the hair trapped beneath his shoulder, silently offering it to Micah’s shaking hands.

He spent the last several months thinking his feelings were unwelcome but as he laid there, cuddling with the prince and dragging his hair back into a braid, he wondered if maybe he was wrong.

If there was one irrational fear that Micah had, it was the dark. Not because of what was in it, not because of any particular experience, just because he grew up in Hamelin. There was no nighttime in Hamelin. The empire was always lit, even during the appointed hours when the bulbs were largely dimmed. Micah’s bedroom had an open window in it back home, so he’d never even been in total darkness to sleep. He did not know darkness. Darkness was not his acquaintance, let alone his friend. So, when the palace suddenly fell dark without warning, it was not surprising he found himself afraid.

He tried not to let it show on his face, explained to the other guards he was not sure what happened when they asked. He moved as close to a window as he could to soak up the faint light that still came in front outside. At least the entire empire had not lost power—if he really started to feel sick, he could simply walk out. Micah was halfway prepared to turn around and do exactly that when he heard footsteps approaching. High heels. Marcassin.

“So, this is happening,” he started, gesturing around the hall. He was barely visible, even with the light coming through the window. “Apologies for making your job more difficult with this. The palace engineers were trying some less toxic ways of fueling the lighting and it appears they blew one of the— is everything all right, Micah? You look on edge.”

“I don’t like the dark much,” said Micah, embarrassment only kicking in after he spoke.

“Perhaps I could ease your anxieties with a drink, if you would only tell me your favorite.” Marcassin’s tone was lighthearted as he approached Micah, and stopped directly in front of him. He held his scepter in one hand and glanced down at it. “Joking. But I do believe I can help ease your fears. Here.”

Marcassin lifted his scepter and drew an odd shape in the air in front of him. Seconds after he’d done so, the tip of his scepter began to glow like a torch, illuminating the entire end of the hallway. It was not a faint light by any means, but as if he’d pulled a shining bulb from nowhere. It could only mean one thing. The rumors he’d dismissed since his childhood were true. The Emperor of Hamelin knew magic. The Emperor of Hamelin—

“I am a Great Sage,” Marcassin told him quietly. He reached for Micah’s right hand with his left and wrapped it around his scepter. He smiled at Micah, neither of his own hands leaving their place. His hand was somehow more reassuring than the light. “All emperors must be. Or at least, they must possess the magical ability to become one. It is a secret, technically, but I must admit it is Hamelin’s worst kept.”

“That’s incredible.” Micah stared at the light until his eyes felt like they were on fire, and he retreated to Marcassin’s face to cool in the blue-green ocean in his eyes. “I had heard rumors, but I did not know that… that is why you have a familiar?”

“Yes. My old teacher, Solomon, gave her to me after I completed his trials.”

He hesitated. “Did you truly cry taking them?”

“No!” His face turned bright pink. “I mean, what I said while brokenhearted was true. But I did not cry during the trials. I cried before the Trial of Friendship. Not during! So, it really does not count. And never mind that. Are you all right now? Is this enough light for you?”

“Yes,” said Micah softly. “Thank you.”

It did not matter how much light there was in the corridor anymore. As long as he could see Marcassin’s face, he knew that everything would be okay.

The unexpected consequence of Marcassin being honest about himself—about his fears, about his passions, about his magic—was that it made Micah too aware of the one secret he still carried.

He tried to convince himself it was not something that needed to come between them. Luca was healed, and Micah was happy being a guard. It did not matter that he’d only come to the palace to steal medicine because he’d found himself along the way. And he’d been honest with Marcassin, technically. He had admitted to hating him when they first met. To despising the emperor until they spoke and he’d come to know the prince. But lies by omission were still lies, and as Marcassin shared more things about himself—his childhood toys, his favorite fairy tales, the first spell he’d ever learned—Micah began to close himself off.

It should have been irrelevant what brought them together in the first place but it wasn’t. It couldn’t be. Micah knew telling Marcassin would only benefit his own conscience, that revealing the secret would only ruin what they had, but that exact line of thinking was what made him realize he had to do it. It was not fair to be friends with Marcassin under false pretenses, even if he had half the story already. Even if he knew that they had not always gotten along because of how greatly Micah detested his heartbroken decisions.

“I need to talk to you,” said Micah suddenly. He was standing near Marcassin, who sat on his couch as he prepared for a meeting later that afternoon. Marcassin raised a brow and nodded for him to go on. “I understand if you no longer wish to be around me after I tell you this.”

“Did you murder Stewart?” Marcassin asked, and Micah couldn’t help but chuckle. “If so, I would only be upset that you did not invite me to watch.”

“No, I…”

If he continued, he risked everything they built. By telling Marcassin that he had come into the palace as a liar, as a thief, he was telling him that he had no respect for the empire. For its prince. Not just back then, but now, to continue his charade even if it was no longer so relevant. Even if it was no longer anything but a desperate way to cling to the prince until the truth came out and their friendship reached its inevitable end. Micah swallowed hard and forced himself to speak quickly before he chickened out.

“I never wanted to work in the palace. I only came here undercover to steal medicine for my sister.”

And there it was. The look on Marcassin’s face was impossible to read, but he was silent for so long that Micah became terrified of what he meant to say. Was Marcassin going to fire him? Exile him? Keep him but demote him to a position where they would never interact again? So many thoughts ran through his head, so many possibilities, and yet Micah never could have imagined the words that actually left the prince’s mouth.

“I know.”

“You—?” Micah’s jaw dropped, his heart slowing its beating as it realized he was not in danger. As he realized that his fears were misplaced. “Why didn’t you say anything? Why did you not have me removed from the palace, or—?”

“I did not care what brought you here,” said Marcassin. He set his papers and pen down on the floor beside him and sat up straighter to look Micah directly in the eye. Micah did not exhale until he spoke. “I did not care that you deceived me. I did not care that you stole from me.”

He stood up, walked over to Micah until they were barely a foot apart. His gaze scanned up and down Micah’s body, pausing on his lips before landing on his eyes. It was the most intense stare Micah had seen. Marcassin tugged his hair behind his ears, letting the moment linger just too long. Micah expected a loud continuation when Marcassin finally continued but his actual conclusion was so soft, Micah would not have heard it if they were any farther apart.

“I just wanted you to stay.”

Micah opened his mouth to speak, to apologize, to thank him, to say something, anything, but no words came out. His eyes never left Marcassin’s as they looked at one another, the silence seeming to last forever until Micah’s instincts abruptly took over. Without regard for what might happen, without fear of being rejected, he took one step forward, slid a hand behind Marcassin’s head, and finally closed the distance between their lips. Finally tasted the truffles on his tongue. Finally confirmed that his feelings were wanted. Not just wanted but returned.

Marcassin wrapped his own arms around Micah’s neck, his fingers tickling the base of his hair as their bodies pressed together. They had become perfect at talking to each other and yet no words were needed to communicate their next movements. Micah reached his arm down to catch Marcassin’s leg when he lifted it, pulling him into the air and walking him over to the couch. He laid Marcassin down on his back, crawling over him before reconnecting their lips. His skin was soft but his lips were softer. His hands were warm but his legs were warmer. Marcassin tugged Micah down farther, their chests brushing against each other, and then they both stopped.

The beauty of Marcassin’s giggles was worth the way his hair suddenly interrupted their kiss. Micah couldn’t help but laugh with him as he leaned back and used two fingers to brush the prince’s locks away from his face. His bangs stayed somewhat in the way but they were so beautiful it didn’t matter. Marcassin pulled Micah’s collar back down until their lips reconnected. Though he’d been concerned about the quality of his makeup in the past, the smearing of his lip gloss did not seem to be a thought anymore. Even when he gently pushed Micah back, holding his shirt to keep him close despite their mouths briefly parting.

“Will you trust me with your favorite drink now?” asked Marcassin breathlessly, the curl never leaving the edge of his lips.

“Crownberry schnapps,” Micah whispered.

He was sure it was the truth when Marcassin rolled his eyes and smiled as he pulled Micah back into his lips. He could continue trying every drink in the world, but it was pointless once he’d tasted Marcassin. There was nothing that could never intoxicate him more.