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The palace was suffocating in its stillness. Not the kind of peaceful quiet found in well-kept places, but an oppressive silence that settled over the endless marble halls like dust on untouched shelves. The walls stretched on, impossibly vast, cloaked in heavy velvet drapes that swallowed the faint breeze sneaking in through cracked windows. Gold trim traced every corner, every arch, gleaming faintly under the cold silver kiss of moonlight. Everything was lavish—designed to impress, to intimidate. But beneath the wealth, there was something brittle about it all. Expensive. Fragile. Breakable.
Clown moved like a shadow, his shoes whispering against the gleaming floor, so polished it shimmered like ice. His figure slipped between towering marble columns, each one casting long, distorted shadows that crawled along the walls. He barely existed in this space, blending into the cold and quiet like a bad thought lingering at the edge of sleep.
He hadn’t expected this to be so easy.
No guards. No alarms. No hurried footsteps or muttered commands echoing down the corridors. Just a tall, climbable wall, slick with dew, and a promising vault tucked somewhere in the heart of the palace.
Clown spun the hilt of his scythe lazily in his gloved hand, the blade catching a sliver of moonlight that bled through the stained-glass windows. Crimson, violet, and jade hues fractured across the floor, colors too soft to belong here. He didn’t want much. Just a little something to make the royal family regret thinking they were untouchable.
A crown. A jewel. Something shiny to weigh down his pockets.
But when he rounded the corner of the endless hallway, he didn’t find a vault. No iron doors, no glittering treasures tucked behind enchanted locks.
Instead, he found her.
Small. Barefoot. A child, standing alone in the dark.
She was swallowed by a robe several sizes too big, the embroidered hem dragging across the floor as if it longed to trip her. One pale hand clutched the flickering stub of a candle, its trembling flame casting soft, quivering shadows over her face.
Clown froze.
The girl blinked slowly up at him, confusion wrinkling her brow. “…Are you lost?” she asked, her voice soft but steady, as though she were asking after a misplaced servant.
His grip on the scythe tightened, and in a blink, the weapon hissed through the cold air, the gleaming curve of the blade halting just a hair’s breadth from her throat. The candle’s flame bent and sputtered under the sudden movement.
Stillness coiled between them, sharp and thin as a drawn wire.
Clown loomed over her, his mask an emotionless canvas save for the eternal, painted grin stretched across it. Black eyeholes stared down, unreadable and cold. He waited for the scream. The sob. The panicked stumble backward, candle crashing to the floor.
But nothing came.
The girl’s eyes—an unmistakable shade of purple—narrowed, as if he had somehow inconvenienced her.
“…That’s rude,” she said flatly.
Clown blinked behind his mask.
“…What?”
“You’re in my house,” she said, voice steady despite the steel at her throat, “and you’re being rude.”
For the first time in longer than he cared to admit, Clown found himself genuinely caught off guard.
Was this brat serious?
“Do you even know who I am?” Clown growled, voice low and sharp, like the scrape of steel on stone. The curve of his scythe inched closer to the girl’s throat, its cold edge glinting in the flickering candlelight. The movement was deliberate, slow—part threat, part genuine disbelief that she wasn’t already sobbing or scrambling away.
“Some guy with a weird mask and a big knife.”
“It’s a scythe.”
“Whatever.” She gave a dismissive flick of her wrist, the candle’s flame bobbing dangerously. “I’m Princess Kaboodle, so technically, I outrank you, creepy guy.”
Clown stared at her. Slowly, he tilted his head, the motion deliberate, mechanical. The scythe remained exactly where it was.
This had to be a joke.
“Does the royal family normally let their little princess wander around the palace in the dead of night?” he drawled, sarcasm curling around his words like smoke.
“I’m getting cake.”
“…What?”
“Cake,” she repeated, voice patient and condescending, as though explaining something simple to a particularly slow servant. “The kitchen’s this way. Do you want me to show you?”
Clown’s mind blanked.
He had held this very blade to the necks of grown men—seasoned warriors, trembling kings, men who dripped with fear as they begged for their lives. And yet, here stood this slip of a girl, no taller than his chest, offering to lead him to the kitchen like he was a lost dog.
The scythe didn’t move.
He studied her carefully, eyes hidden behind the black voids of his mask. Her small hands were steady around the candle. Not a tremor. Her purple eyes were focused, not glassy with tears or wild with panic.
“You’re either incredibly brave,” he said slowly, his voice a low and thoughtful, “or incredibly stupid.”
Kaboodle’s lips pulled into a small grin, giving a nonchalant shrug of her shoulders. “Why not both?”
The answer hit him sideways.
And before he could stop himself, Clown barked out a harsh, sharp laugh—brief and jagged, like a crack splitting through the still air. The sound bounced off the cold marble walls, loud and unnatural in the suffocating silence.
For a moment, he considered ending it right here. One clean motion. No witnesses. No loose ends. Just a deep smear of blood against these pristine floors.
But she was just a kid.
Not worth the trouble.
Slowly, deliberately, Clown let the scythe drift away from her throat, the blade lowering to his side with a soft metallic hiss. “Fine.” His voice was rough. Begrudging. “Show me the kitchen.”
Kaboodle beamed, smug satisfaction creeping into her expression. “See? Was that so hard?”
Clown said nothing, his posture stiff as he fell into step behind her. The scythe remained loose in his grip, ready—just in case. “One step out of line,” he muttered darkly, “and I’ll slit your throat.”
“Okay,” she replied breezily.
He blinked. “… Okay ?”
“I’m not stupid. I don’t want to die.”
Clown’s eyes narrowed behind his mask. He watched her small figure shuffle forward, candlelight casting soft shadows on the walls.
“…You’re weird.”
“And you’re scary. So, I think we’re even.”
The kitchen was a world apart from the cold, cavernous halls of the palace. Warmth clung to the air, wrapping around Clown like an unwelcome embrace. The scent of sugar and spice lingered, soft and sweet—remnants of some earlier feast, now long abandoned to the quiet of the night. Copper pots hung from iron hooks above a stone hearth, and rows of glass jars glimmered in the dim light, filled with flour, nuts, dried fruits, and spices.
Kaboodle moved with practiced ease, her bare feet padding softly across the cool stone floor. She strode up to the towering pantry doors, grasped the brass handles, and yanked them open with a grunt. Shelves upon shelves of ingredients and treats were stacked high, and without hesitation, she began rummaging through them, pushing aside tins and jars with the careless confidence of someone who’d done this many times before.
Clown lingered in the doorway, his imposing frame half-shrouded in shadow. One shoulder rested lazily against the doorframe, the scythe hanging loose in his grip, its dark blade gleaming faintly in the kitchen’s low glow. His head tilted slightly, the ever-grinning mask catching the soft light.
He watched her with detached curiosity. “So,” he drawled, his tone deceptively casual, “you’re not going to ask why I’m here?”
Kaboodle didn’t even look up. Instead, she pulled out a small cake—chocolate, by the look and rich scent of it—perfectly round and still dressed in glossy frosting. She plopped it onto the marble countertop with a soft thud.
“Nope,” she replied flatly, reaching for a knife.
Clown’s grip on his scythe flexed ever so slightly. “…Why not?” he pressed, voice threading with quiet menace, though more out of habit than intent.
Kaboodle grabbed the nearest knife—a butter knife, Clown noticed, the dullest, most harmless blade in the entire kitchen. He huffed a breath, the corners of his mouth twitching beneath the mask. She began slicing a neat wedge from the cake, her motions calm and methodical.
“Because if I know,” she said simply, pausing to drag the knife through the dense cake, “then I have to tell someone.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, each word deliberate. She glanced up at him briefly, her expression unreadable in the low light. “And if I tell someone, you’ll kill me. I’d rather just eat cake.”
Clown stared.
He wasn’t sure what response he’d been expecting, but it wasn’t that.
Then, slowly—unbidden—a small, low chuckle rose to his throat. It slipped out like gravel sliding down a hill, echoing faintly in the warm stillness. “I guess you’re not completely stupid,” he muttered, the slightest edge of reluctant amusement threading through his words.
Kaboodle didn’t even flinch. She merely shot him a flat, unimpressed look, as though he were the one acting ridiculous. Then, with a casual flick of her wrist, she slid a plate across the counter toward him.
“You want a slice or not?”
Clown’s gaze dropped to the cake.
Then to her.
The masked criminal hesitated, some deep instinct screaming that this was a terrible idea. He wasn’t here to chat with sassy princesses or eat midnight cake. Yet…
Against every shred of better judgment, his gloved hand reached out and took the plate. “Fine,” he grumbled, the word grudging as he accepted the offering.
The slice of cake sat heavily on the plate, dark and rich, the frosting smooth and glossy under the dim light.
But if anyone asked, he decided, he’d say he threatened her for it.
Not that she offered.
And definitely not that it tasted good.