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The extravagance is going to make his teeth hurt.

This city – a food chain of the rich and pompous on top with the poor and starving at the bottom – is already glittering by the time Greg leaves the safe house.

From the highest ridge of the old rooftops, it looks like the capital has dressed itself in fire. Towers wear gold like blood, and street lamps flicker through a mist that hug the cobblestones. The night is cool, wet – as though it has been crying quietly in preparation for what is going to transpire before the sun can even rise. Wind stirs through the alleyways, pulling at the hem of his coat as he descends the fire escape – silent, steady, a phantom in the gloom.

He doesn’t take the main roads, that’s a sure fire way to get him exposed.

Greg moves like he always does when the job is close: through the city’s soft throat. Past the sleeping innkeeps, past the faded blood splattered walls of failed revolutions no one except the families affected remember anymore. As he passes by the bloodshed, he swears that he can hear the echoes of the king’s victims, the ones who fought for change and paid the ultimate price for wanting equal trade amongst all the townsfolk – not just favoritism for the subjects that can buy and afford their way into the life they desire, though in all honesty, don’t deserve.

Or, maybe they did at one point in the past, but now it just seems as though they’re kissing up to the king’s ass.

Everyone drenched in lace and diamonds seem as though they were bred from the shards of a broken chandelier – their bones made of jewels and their skin pure metal gold. They are bright and shining so smugly they blind everyone else with how much they depend on hiding behind the immunity that associating with the king’s highest elite gives them. If it were any other day, he wouldn’t mind getting rid of a few socialites just to prove a point – but he has an assignment, and when he’s ordered to carry out one, he solely focuses on that and nothing else. He’s very good at doing what he’s told.

The hem of his gown whispers over cobblestones as he walks, and the sound is somehow louder than the murmur of the city. As if just existing and walking through streets that barely know his name is enough to draw attention back to him – attention he has spent thousands of hours trying to shed. He pulses through the town without reverence, the only thing he keeps a secure hold on is his poker face and the mask that’s in his left hand.

No one here knows his name, but he knows everyone who calls this shitful kingdom home. At least, the people that matter – his targets.

This isn’t the first assignment he’s had in this place, but it is the most important one – the most personal really, but there’s no time for thoughts like that. Not when he hasn’t even laid eyes on his target yet. First, he needs to find this damn carriage that is waiting for him.

The city has always smelled of decay pretending to be perfume.

It doesn’t hit him all at once – it creeps in, subtle and sly. Like rot beneath roses. Greg knows this scent well: old stone soaked with rain, soot from open fires in the blacksmith’s shop, the metallic tang of forgotten coins and damp copper bowls that are left in the streets in case something valuable falls in that the less fortunate can pawn off for money that pays for some bread. Add to that the cloying perfume of the elite – spilled onto silk cuffs, sprayed on velvet gloves – and the air feels like something he has to cut through, not breathe.

And yes, Greg has decided to waft himself with some perfume, but he isn’t flocking his status. Aside from that he doesn’t have any to begin with, but it's also strategy – a way to blend in; to become one of the chandelier shards that make him want to throw up anytime they are mentioned. He had to keep from recoiling when he was given his assignment.

Whose heart his dagger will become acquainted with tonight.

The cobblestones are uneven and damp, glistening faintly under wrought-iron lanterns. And it almost makes Greg let out a silent laugh at the realization that the royal family is downright mad for this. Damp stones in the streets are an indication that a thunderstorm may be approaching, and to have a ball as important as this one on a night that will drench the guests’ gowns and suits almost proves that the king doesn’t care for his subjects – even the ones that give him their endless devotion that he devours without consequence or regret.

Mismatched stones, pocked with old ash, stained by centuries of boots and blood. Greg’s flats click softly against them, precise and calculated as though one wrong move even here will cause the entire operation to come crashing down.

He passes a tavern first – squat, leaning slightly left, with light spilling from the warped widows in fractured golden rectangles. A bard’s melody tries to push past the door: fiddle, laughter, off-key singing. The voices are hoarse with cheap wine, the kind that makes truth slip out too easily. A place where a gown will attract the attention he doesn’t need – and isn’t after.

Greg doesn’t look in; but he feels the warmth radiating from it like a fever.

The street narrows as he passes into the old quarter, where the buildings are taller and lean together like conspirators. Peering down at him as if they are trying to decode him like some kind of ancient language. Wooden beams jut out above, warped and creaking, cradling blackbirds that blink down at him in silence. There’s seven of them, fourteen pairs of eyes watching as he moves through the town unsure but curious as to where he’s going on a night like this. Here, the lanterns sway slightly, their chains groaning – and the wind smells of burning peat and stagnant canals.

Something darts across the alleyway, an animal Greg can’t make out but he summarizes it to either be a rat or a mouse. A beggar sits with a tin bowl near the butcher’s arch. A woman pulls her child close as Greg passes the two of them – not out of fear, but suspicion.

They see the dress, the slit. The stillness in his face. The way he doesn’t belong to their world – or the next. He is too composed for these streets, too quiet.

He passes murals next. Faded, flaking ones on crumbling walls. Once celebratory scenes – the founding of the kingdom, the crowning of the one and only prince, a family portrait that everyone is afraid to touch in fear of being caught by the royal guards for even thinking about defying the king. Their faces have eroded, cracked down the middle like old idols. Someone has drawn crude marks over them with chalk – reminders that everyone here has a part to play.

But what remains a mystery is how the late queen’s face remains intact, the erosion has formed around her while completely covering the king’s face and just beginning to contort the prince’s face.

No one knows how the prince will choose to rule when the time comes, but everyone who lives within these walls is convinced that the prince will turn out just like the king. And opinions on this are widely divided – and it doesn’t take a prophet from ancient Greece to know which group of subjects want the prince to turn out like the king and which ones want him to turn out like his late mother.

Greg doesn’t smile; he never does when walking through this part of the kingdom.

He knows these murals better than the ballads. He knows the history under the paint even though he doesn’t want to at all – the one where workers died building these palaces. Where revolution simmers in basements while the court dances in crystal halls. Where names are erased because they don’t pay enough gold to be remembered.

There are hushed whispers to his left, and without even turning his head, Greg’s eyes shift to the side to see what is going on. Bodies move in the darkness, only becoming visible for mere seconds as they pass under the glow of the hanging lanterns before disappearing back into the shadows. Their eyes are looking around every corner and inch of the area they’re in, but they never seem to spot Greg – even with the amount of people that begin collecting at the edge of a building. Everyone there is holding onto each other as they get one last look around and then crouch to the ground.

Greg slows his strides down despite knowing that he has somewhere to be. His curiosity is overruling his need to be on time. A girl takes a deep breath and reaches towards the cobblestone ground. A rusted brass handle is found and ground and pulled into the air. He stops walking completely and blinks as the group murmurs amongst each other and then one by one, descends into the hole that has opened in the ground, the last one shutting the door behind her.

Another revolution against the king is trying to be plotted down there, Greg knows that for sure. It’s just too bad that it will end the same way as the others have: with bodies on the ground and the king drinking wine out of a crystal glass while his kingdom falls further and further into ruins.

The only way this kingdom will ever have a new monarchy is if it’s taken down at the newest member of its lineage. And that is what Greg intends to do.

He continues walking and eventually gets out of the old quarter, crossing a small bridge over the market canal next, now still and dark, reflecting the rising moon in jagged slices. Beneath it, the water sloshes thickly against the supports. A boat passes underneath, low and silent, the oars making no sound. Greg’s gaze follows it for a moment.

Behind the rower are crates full of contents he doesn’t know the identities of. It may be food, or even jewelry, but they’re packed away tightly and securely within the crates. The marketplace is somewhere that has every inch packed to the brim with stalls and stands carrying merchants inside them as they try to sell their goods and wares to everyone else. When the kingdom was just first being established, the fight to claim and own a spot ended up being a first come first serve, so the sellers who weren’t as lucky ended up investing in boats and selling their wares on the water there. It seemed to be less crowded, and the foot traffic always seems to make a stp by three – especially because the lines to purchase aren’t as long.

A body can disappear down there in the lake. Several have.

He doesn’t stop, making it across to the other side of the bridge, the bottom of his gown trailing behind him. Greg gives some attention to his dress to make sure the drops of water that splash out of the bank doesn’t land on it. He’ll be pissed if anything gets on his gown, it’s a beautiful color and he’d rather not have it smelling like sewer water.

The streets widen gradually, like the throat of a snake unhinging to swallow something divine. Stone underfoot becomes newer, cleaner, laid in perfect symmetry. Lanterns burn steadier here. The windows of nearby homes glow with soft candlelight, and the curtains are drawn just so – to reveal a silhouette of wealth without giving away the details.

He passes a tailor’s shop – shut for the night, but behind its glass stands wooden mannequins in ballroom attire. Dresses that shimmer like frost and suits with golden thread stitched into the lapels. On one mannequin’s face rests a half-mask of sapphire blue, delicate and dazzling.

Greg stares for half a second too long, his own mask feels heavier in his hand. He can hear the echo of the music now. Distant, elegant, predatory.

It begins with the gutters – always the gutters. In the lower wards of the kingdom, they overflow with the detritus of survival: black water slick with grease and coal dust, crushed bones from soup markets, dead rats floating belly-up, broken glass, rotting onion skins, rusted pins, the small remains of things people used until they couldn’t anymore. Greg has stepped over them without thinking, shoes slick from alleyway puddles and spit. That world clings to the skin – gritty, sour, honest.

But now, as he presses further uphill through the narrowing arteries of the kingdom, those gutters change. They become slimmer, cleaner. They curve with deliberate elegance, lined with pale stone carved into neat, almost ornamental channels, and are covered with wrought iron grills that mimic ivy and laurel. They aren’t functional. Not really; there is no waste to carry away here. These gutters are decorative – a performance of perfection.

The shift continues under his feet. The cobblestones in the poor quarter had been uneven, with entire chunks missing, slick with filth. Now they give way to limestone fitted so seamlessly it looks like a tablecloth has been pulled tight over the street. Even the air has changed. Below, it smelled of sweat, smoke, boiled cabbage, coal, and blood. Here, the scent grows lighter, filled with notes of citrus and roses, magic-scrubbed cleanliness, and some powdery perfume thay doesn’t belong to any specific person but seems to hang in the air itself – like the district is wearing it.

Greg notices every detail; he’s been trained to. But more than that, he despises it – the meticulousness, the curated charm. Everything here is unnatural. Nothing breathes, and nothing bleeds.

The buildings confirm it.

Gone are the crumbling façades, the blackened chimneys, the crooked shingles and half-boarded windows with flower pots desperately clinging to life. Instead rose marble façades with arched windows framed in gold-trimmed curtains. The architecture here is obsessed with symmetry – mansions whose front doors align perfectly with iron-gated courtyards, whose flower beds bear no stray petals or weeds. Balconies gleam with polished brass. Lanterns hang at measured intervals, all casting the same pale, cold light. No flickering, no soot. Even the shadows obey.

He passes an estate garden behind thick hedges trimmed with terrifying precision. Inside are white doves resting in manicured trees like entitled ghosts. A crystal fountain burbles beside them, spilling water into a pond so clean it reflects the moon like a cut mirror.

He can feel eyes on him now.

A noblewoman waits on the curve beneath a sculpted stone arch, draped in cream satin and lace, her corseted waist so small it seems sculpted rather than human, something natural. Her mask – silver, feathered, inlaid with tiny pearls – glitters under the lamplight. Her gloved hand curls over an ivory fan. She doesn’t speak, and doesn’t gasp. She simply tilts her head and gives a faint sniff as he passes – her gaze drifting across him as though he is wine spilled onto a white silk dress. He catches the way her fingers tense on her fan, as if resisting the urge to lift it and hide her face.

Greg says nothing, he doesn’t have to. The silence here is louder than screams in the slums. It is silence filled with judgement, expectation, and centuries of polished, bloodstained hierarchy.

The music starts next – so faint it could’ve been mistaken for the wind. But Greg hears it. A quartet playing something airy and perfect from the walls of a private courtyard. They don’t fill the streets, they float through them. Controlled and trimmed, just like everything else here.

He passes a boutique chocolatier where the windows display truffles shaped like royal crests, each nestled in its own crushed velvet lining. A sign in gold script reads that this place only allows people who have made an appointment to come inside, exclusive to the citizens of this kingdom that can afford it. As if the building itself knows that only the ones with jeweled bones and golden skin can pay for its services. In the reflection of the glass, he catches his own face – sharped-jawed, eyes narrowed, the edge of his dark green gown moving like a shadow behind him. It clings to him like ivy, slit up the middle just high enough to allow access to the dagger wrapped tight against his thigh. The fabric shimmers in places where it catches the light of the lanterns, but not too much – it doesn’t demand attention. It whispers.

Up ahead, the road begins to rise more steeply – not in a way that strains the legs, but in a way that tells him that it is deliberate. The kingdom wants its royalty above him. Above everyone who lives in poverty. The incline is symbolic, and Greg finds it incredibly narcissistic.

The houses give way to palatial buildings that are basically miniature versions of the king’s palace, the two wide plazas with sculpted marble fountains at their center, each one dedicated to some past monarch – a line of stone faces carved with expressions too calm to have ever been corrupt and unjust. Torches float in the air here, enchanted flames flickering in precise harmony, spaced evenly down the boulevard towards the palace gates. He can’t see the front of the palace yet, and he’s grateful for that. The longer he has to wait before he’s rubbing elbows with those who flaunt their status, the better.

Greg stops beneath an arched stone bridge – not just for cover, but for breath. He isn’t tired; but his heart, always so still on a job, is beginning to pace. Not from fear, but from anger. From disgust, from memory.

The mask rests in his gloved hand.

It is velvet, black on the main part around his eyes with dark green lacing on the edges and feather just at the tip of the edge where the eye is and finishes with filigree so subtle it only catches the light when he moves. He studies it. This is supposed to make him invisible – or at least palatable. He just needs to get close enough to the prince, and how he’s going to do that, he isn’t quite sure yet.

Rumor has spread that the prince is a rather hard person to approach, and be approached by. He doesn’t show his face unless he absolutely has to, and that means no one ever sees him enough to get a full read on him. And while this ball may be a royal decree by the king, no information has been let out to the public that confirms his appearance.

For a while, no one in the kingdom knew there even was a prince. It wasn’t until the eroding mural was painted did everyone finally see who else lives in those ivory towers. But something seemed to be missing, or rather, someone.

It isn’t the queen; she’s dead, not missing, and is the only part of the mural that has remained beautiful all these years. No, the outlier isn’t her. Nor is it either the king or the prince, either. Greg backtracks in his memory to the wall he passed. It seemed uneven, as though the family leaned to the right and left a vacant space to the left.

As though there should be someone else there.

But who that is, Greg doesn’t know. He’s not sure if anyone around here knows. No one bats an eye, and there is never a question of authority. But there will be, if Greg can wield his dagger properly tonight. And he always does – it’s one of the main reasons as to why he has become such a name within the shadows that know of his existence.

He never hesitates; he always goes for the kill. The only thing that can ever halt his mission is if his target isn’t at the location that has been predetermined without their knowledge. But even then, that period of time only lasts a couple of hours. He recounts the facts first, what he knows to be true of his target and other spots that they might be in. There are hundreds of case files back at the base on past and future targets, information that has only known shadows and the darkness of locked boxes that have been buried six feet under the ground where no one will ever be able to find it.

The unfortunate thing is, the file for the prince is completely empty. Gambling is something Greg never wants to partake in when it comes to his work, but he reluctantly made the decision to put all his chips on him showing up tonight. It’s the most logical place for the prince to be. An appearance by the royal family has to happen if the king wants to keep the lie that he’s a just ruler going. And if the prince isn’t here tonight, then finally – finally – everyone in this kingdom will see what Greg knows to be true for a few years now: that their precious monarchy is corrupt, skewed to the benefits that improve their lavish ivory towers instead of those tangled in ivy against walls.

The sky has shifted by the time Greg reaches the edge of the square, turning from a smoky dusk to a dark velvet blue as the smoke stays behind that bleeds into black near the rooftops. The moon hangs like an opal above the kingdom – too distant, too clean for a place like this.

Footfalls aren’t supposed to make noise here. The cobblestones have been replaced with alabaster inlays. Sound is considered inelegant.

The plaza shimmers beneath gaslit globes suspended from gold-leaf lamp posts, their flames untouched by wind or logic. All around him, noble guests pass by in their own carriages — figures in jeweled masks sitting in cages of diamonds, teasing the dangers of cutting their skin on the sharp edges. Their laughter is brittle with rehearsed ease and painted faces. Painted truths.

But Greg’s eyes lock on his carriage.

It waits at the far end of the square — not the grandest, but easily the most calculated. Midnight black, lacquered so smoothly it seems to breathe, it stands like a monument to secrets. Instead of gilded trim, it bears inlaid obsidian vines twisting across its doors, as though grown from the shadows themselves. Its windows are shaded with velvet, its wheels bear no crests. It bears no loyalty.

He approaches slowly, silently, the hem of his dark green dress whispering over stone. Every inch of the garment has been chosen with precision — from the slip up his thigh allowing for quick access to the dagger, to the subtle shimmer of the fabric designed to blend with moonlight and distraction. The dagger’s hilt presses into his skin with familiarity. Not cruel, not kind. Just ready.

He runs a gloved hand along the side of the carriage, the ashwood cool beneath his fingers. It has been polished to a mirror finish, but it does nor reflect clearly. His own face shimmers back at him — blurred, strange. A mask over a mask.

The wheels are thick, silent — coated in some kind of velvet-wrapped iron that masks all sound. This carriage was not made for display. It was made for secrecy. 

Perfect.

Greg slides a finger beneath the slit in his dress, feeling the dagger’s hilt press to the inside of his thigh. A breath, cool steel. A promise.

He opens the door himself; he doesn’t need an escort.

Inside, everything is intentional. The seat cushions are overstuffed, but not plush enough to lull someone to sleep — no, they hold him just on the edge of tension. The walls are lined with muted crimson velvet, the color of an old bruise. No crest, and no symbol. No renounce that he is anybody that matters. Just a body riding in a cage he never earned surrounded by the quiet hum of concealment. Small brass sconces light automatically as he sits, casting a golden halo across his covered knees, the dagger quickly catching the light through the slit of his gown.

The door shuts with a click like a trigger being pulled.

The carriage moves like a predator — gliding without sound, cloaked in shadows, unnoticed by most but unforgettable to those who dared observe it. Greg sits in silence, back straight, eyes fixed out the window of the carriage, the world passing like a series of lies painted gold.

With each block closer to the palace, the kingdom changes — not in subtle transformation, but in subtle erosion of truth.

At first, it is just the people. Or rather, the lack of them. The voices of water-based sellers and patrons in taverns that filled the lower districts have vanished. Now the streets are flanked by stone walls, wide as avenues and scrubbed to blinding white. Lanterns hang from black wrought-iron arms shaped like curling vines, lit not by flames but by orbs of conjured light — static, cold. They hum faintly, like bees trapped in glass.

And Greg notices something else: every corner holds a soldier — but not the kind that look like they bleed. These are uniformed statues with the discipline of machines. Eyes forward, daggers polished to mirrored sheen. Faces like stone masks.

These aren’t protectors; these are watchers. Sentinels.

The carriage creaks ever so slightly as it curves onto a newer road, one that slopes gently upward. The cobblestones become even more elegant, turning into white marble veined with rose-gold, too smooth for use, too extravagant for common travel.

Greg leans closer to the window now; he needs to see.

A garden rolls past — but not like those below, tangled and real. This one is pruned to perfection: lilacs clipped into geometric shapes, hedges cut into hearts and crowns, rose bushes so red they looked stained with blood. A pair of young servants trim silently by moonlight, snipping petals into copper bowls. They’re treating beauty as though it is some pest — some foreign thing growing in a place it doesn’t belong when really, it belongs there.

Flowers belong anywhere and everywhere that they are planted.

Greg doesn’t flinch, but his hand curls tighter on his knee.

He has seen what this royal family’s rule looks like from the ground. Starving kids selling candle stubs on street corners because their parents can’t make enough selling goods in the water, mothers crying outside of medical buildings. Buildings once for relief and enjoyment are now converted into royal outposts. The prince smiles in every painting, but Greg can taste the falsehood of it whenever he walks past one of those murals.

The royal family’s kingdom is a theater, and tonight, the ball is its cruelest performance.

Another building slides past the window — a cathedral converted into a place of chorused wine glasses that clink together behind stained glass windows repainted to depict the king and the prince, their gazes cast downward as if judging the kingdom below. Greg catches a glimpse of a crystal chandelier through one window — enormous, grotesque, shaped like an open mouth filled with light.

The carriage hits a slight bump and Greg’s dagger shifts slightly against his thigh.

He breathes in through his nose, slow, steady, letting the pressure of the steel center him. Not as a form of comfort — but as a reminder. His mission is not built on rage, it can’t be. Personal connections to targets disqualify Greg from taking a mission right off the bat. But what his employers don’t know won’t kill them. And there was no way Greg was going to let anyone else be the cause of tonight’s events.

This is the one exception; Greg has to be the one to do this.

But the closer the carriage draws to the palace gates, the more his composure has to be earned with every heartbeat.

The kingdom ends abruptly — like it has been walled off from the truth. Towering gates rise in front of him, glinting with gold, glory and power carved into an arch.

Greg scoffs slightly.

The gates open without a sound.

And the palace reveals itself.

White spires like knives against the sky, dozens of lit balconies overflow with silk and tulle. Servants bow to every passing carriage, faces impassive. The main ballroom glows at the heart of it all, pulsing with candlelight and laughter. The scent of jasmine, rosewater, and sugared peaches hit him like perfume soaked into a velvet glove used to smother.

The carriage curves around the fountain at the palace center — a massive sculpture of the prince himself, barefoot and robed in finery, his hand outstretched to a line of kneeling subjects carved from another set of stone. They reach for him like beggars. Water runs from their eyes, falling down into the base of the fountain.

Merciful, it reads at the front of the sculpture.

Greg says nothing, but the corner of his mouth twitches. He sees the shadow behind the marble, the rot behind the gold.

The carriage slows with the weight of inevitability, gliding across the final arc of marble like a swan coasting towards the slaughterhouse. Greg can feel it — not just the slowing of motion, but the thickening of air. The palace is no longer a place on the horizon. It is here, all around him. It presses in through the velvet-lined walls of the carriage like perfume through silk. Cloying, heavy. Sick with opulence.

He doesn’t look out the window just yet.

Instead, he sits still.

Letting the moment steep.

The dagger is still warm against his inner thigh, strapped beneath the folds of his gown — silk and shadow woven together. The slit along the side has settled open ever so slightly, just enough to feel the ghost of wind touch steel. A secret whisper, or a promise.

His fingers rest lightly on his knee, gloved in black. Every muscle in his body is coiled, but still. He breathes evenly, the way he was trained — in through the nose, hold for four, out through the mouth. Let the pulse slow, let the mind clear.

He can hear the palace before he sees it.

Laughter, distant and hollow. The kind that comes from practiced mouths, not joy. Music from stringed quartets layered with enchantments that sound inhuman. Footsteps on polished marble. The rise and fall of servants’ commands, clipped and careful, voices sharpened to obedience.

The carriage comes to a full stop with the sound of soft leather against marble.

Greg finally turns his head and looks.

The palace steps are carved from moonstone — or something that gleams like it. Their edges glow faintly with enchantment, pulsing in rhythm with the torches above, casting soft gold halos that sway in the wind. At the top of those steps, the Grand Vestibule yawns open — twin doors taller than three men stacked together, gilded in gold leaf so pure it reflects firelight like a second sun.

Above the doors is the crest of the royal family carved in stone — an image of sharp edges and no sign of relief. Thorny vines meant to strangle the subjects inside instead of protecting them from outside enemy forces.

Greg tilts his head slightly.

Not a metaphor lost on him.

The courtyard is crowded with the elite: women in dresses made of glass and starlight, men in embroidered coats that cost more than a family farm. Masked faces turn to admire one another, their gazes veiled with lace, crystal, feathers — but Greg can see what lays behind their postures. The boredom, the ambition. The fear of irrelevance. Everyone here is dressed like prey pretending to be a predator.

Well, everyone except for one. Greg has to hide his sharp edges as best as he can tonight. He slips on his mask, becoming just another face in this endless sea of fool’s gold.

The door to the carriage opens.

A servant stands there, bowing low — face neutral, hands folded, trained to treat every guest like royalty whether they are noble or marked for death.

A lord, that’s how he’s greeted. Greg doesn’t answer.

He extends one leg first, slowly, and the silk dress slips over the slit with purpose — revealing the gleam of his dagger, bare and deliberate, before the shadow of the fabric swallows it again. The moment is practiced. Designed to be watched but never seen.

He steps down.

The short heels of his boots click against the marble — sharp, deliberate. The sound echoes faintly.

The crowd shifts.

They notice him — of course they do. A figure in hunter green, cut lean, face masked in black fabric and green details. He doesn’t shimmer like the others; he absorbs. Their gazes move over him like moonlight on deep water — curious, intrigued, but uncertain. They will not remember his name, but they will remember the unease.

Good.

Greg turns slightly, letting his eyes sweep the courtyard.

From here, the palace seems unreal — like it has been sculpted from sugar and gold, something too fragile and perfect to be lived in. But that is the trick of power, isn’t it? To make rot look like divinity. He can feel the layers of cruelty underneath the glamor. Not just in the way the guards stand — not just behind the frost of every polished smile — but in the architecture itself. Towers shaped like spears, windows like eyes. Statues of the king frozen mid-salute, always watching.

Greg exhales through his nose.

The dagger at his thigh burns like a vow.

He ascends the steps slowly, each footfall another heartbeat closer to the belly of the beast that won’t swallow him whole. The servants flanking at the doors nod at him, perfectly trained. They swing the doors open just wide enough to admit him, not an inch more.

The moment Greg steps across the threshold, the ballroom swallows him whole.

It is a different world inside — brighter, warmer, wrong. The light doesn’t only come from chandeliers, but from the sconces on the walls that  hold candles. From above, the chandeliers only light the dance floor, but off to the sides the candles take over. They flicker like painted constellations. The ceiling is domed, impossibly high, painted in swirling frescoes of beings with wings casting light over the earth. It’s the one piece of the palace that doesn’t glorify the king. Greg knows deep in his heart it was the queen’s design.

And below the illusion is the mask of the elite.

The ballroom stretches wide, the floor a lake of black and white marble arranged in a dizzying spiral pattern. Dozens, perhaps hundreds, of guests glide across it in time with a waltz so slow it feels dreamlike. Violins weep from an orchestra balcony overhead — players in pale masks, as faceless as puppets.

Perfume fills the air — sharp, sugary, spiced — competing with the scent of beeswax polish and warm velvet. Each guest shimmers in silk, brocade, crystal, gold-threaded coats and dresses sculpted like art. Masks of every kind dance across their faces: feathered birds, snarling beasts, gilded skulls, jeweled skulls, entire rose bushes carved in gold.

And yet, it is all so hollow. 

Greg hadn’t gone extravagant; it always makes his teeth hurt. His mask isn’t the unique part about his outfit tonight, the dagger against his thigh is.

His eyes flick left, right, then back again. He doesn’t look too long at any one thing. But he notices everything.

The server with the tray of champagne is walking with a limp — bruises just hidden beneath the sleeve. The noblewoman near the pillar laughs too loudly at something her husband didn’t say — her smile tight, her hand clenched behind her back. A child, no older than twelve, stands on a pedestal dressed like a statue, still and expressionless — only her blinking eyes give her away.

This isn’t a celebration of the kingdom, it is a performance of power. A reminder of who is in charge here.

But it’s also going to be a revelation of corruption before the sun even has a chance to peek out from the horizon.

Greg wears his costume perfectly.

His mask hugs the contours of his face with a sculptor’s precision. It frames his eyes, leaving only enough for the shadows beneath his cheekbones to deepen, the line of his mouth to remain unreadable. His gown is fitted to move with him — fabric like smoke, slit high along the thigh where the dagger still waits, silent and hungry. All he wears is a simple beaded bracelet. No glitter, no painted feathers.

He doesn’t need to shine; he only needs to vanish.

And he does.

Greg moves through the ballroom like a ghost. He doesn’t announce his presence, and he doesn’t greet anyone or let anyone greet him. Instead, he moves along the edge of the floor, the staircases, the balcony. He lets the music mask the sound of his steps. He lets the swirl of the twirling bodies hide the precision in his gaze.

He is part of the scenery — just another masked noble in green, mysterious and quiet. Perhaps foreign, perhaps rich. Unremarkable. They’ll remember the color, not the face.

He passes beneath the chandelier with the dimming lights that hum softly, like it knows what he carries. He doesn’t flinch.

Greg makes note of every entrance, the blind spots in the guards’ patrol routes. Every balcony overlooking the floor. And above all, he waits.

There is no sign of the prince yet.

But he feels his presence — lingering like the burn of candle wax after it’s blown out. The way guests’ postures shift slightly when they glance toward the head of the hall. The way certain servants stand stiller in that direction. The way laughter drops a decibel when the prince passes through a hallway, unseen but all powerful.

Greg takes a glass of champagne when the tray is offered — not to drink, but to blend. He swirls it once, its golden fizz catching the candlelight like liquid lies.

He moves into a corner alcove framed in red velvet and mirrored glass. From here, he can see nearly everything: the gilded dais, the spiral marble floor, the crowd, the staircases leading down from the upper balconies.

The music shifts to a new waltz — slower, lusher. Anticipatory. And like a ripple through a mirror, something in the room changes.

The prince will be arriving soon.

Greg stands still in the shadows, watching the movements of those around him. He is poised, sharp. Ready. Every breath he takes is measured. Every heartbeat counted.

The dagger at his thigh is silent, but it is listening.

He leans back against a marble pillar that is in the alcove and is etched with the same thorny vines from outside the palace, his silhouette swallowed by the shadows it casts. The ballroom is an insult to restraint — the smaller chandeliers like dead stars, walls dressed in celebration that will soon turn into mourning, the music that lilts from the quartet slowly starting to morph into a death march.

Except for that realization, he hates it all.

The garish gold, the soft laughter behind every fan, the flick of jeweled wrists. Everyone here dances in loops, pretending they aren’t all just waiting to stab each other in the back — socially or otherwise. Greg has been raised and taught in smoke and grit. He doesn’t believe in silk-covered truth. He doesn’t believe that anything good can come from someone in power.

He's had a personal interaction with the royal family before, and he wasn’t a fan.

Every corner gleams with wealth: every time a new person enters through the big doors of the ballroom, a flower in bloom wilts and loses one of its petals. An air of sensible grace and humility is nowhere to be found in this tear-inducing room. The only hope of freeing this kingdom had died along with the queen. Greg knows he can’t free these people, but he can inspire hope if tonight goes well.

He is here for one reason: the prince.

But it hasn’t escaped Greg’s notice that the prince still hasn’t made his appearance yet. Only lords and diplomats and their sugar-drenched offspring circle the floor, dripping with gems and idle gossip. He can wait; he has spent longer waiting in smaller rooms with more danger.

He watches a noblewoman pass him in a gown of blue feathers. She doesn’t notice him, good.

And then a small figure darts into his periphery. Greg’s gaze flicks sideways.

The kitten is tiny, barely waist-height. His fur, bright as it is, is ruffled slightly around the cheeks in a way that suggests youth more than styling. His robes, green, ivory, and gold, look like they have been made for someone taller, grander — maybe an older sibling or a royal tailor’s fantasy of what children look like. Every hem shimmers. The brooch on the kid’s chest glitters like everything else, but is crooked and not aligned, and his little half-mask is silver with flecks of green like wilting leaves.

Children of this age aren’t supposed to be here, at least not as guests. The guards had checked invitations ruthlessly at the gate. This boy hadn’t stumbled in by accident. Greg tenses slightly.

He keeps watching, calculating. The boy wanders alone, staring up at the painted ceilings and twirling slightly on the polished as if this is some kind of dream. He looks enchanted, the way only a child seeing real magic can be. His formal wear has clearly been chosen by someone else — long, trailing sleeves and a sash that threatens to fall off one shoulder every few seconds. He is clearly trying to stand up straighter than his frame is used to. Greg watches him for a moment longer, then turns his attention back to the exits.

This isn’t his concern, and he won’t let it be. So he continues cataloging the exits, timing the guards’ rotations to figure out which passage he’ll need to take because as soon as he commits the act, he’ll only have a small window to get away until the guards are on his tail.

He reads the dance of the nobility as they whirl like lace across the floor. That is, until a voice tugs on him like a thread catching in fabric.

“Um, excuse me?”

The voice is soft, polite — hopeful. Greg turns, his movements slow, trained.

The kid stands just in front of him now, blinking up at him through the eyeholes of his little mask, wringing the fabric of his sleeves.

“I think something is wrong with my badge,” he says softly, pointing to the brooch that’s pinned over his small chest. “It’s all twisted and poking me and I don’t know how to fix it.”

Greg’s first instinct is to walk away; this isn’t part of the mission. But the boy stands patiently, waiting with quiet trust. There is no fear in his eyes, only the unshakeable belief that someone will help him.

Why would there be fear there? Greg hasn’t done anything to make this young boy scared of him. Of course, by the time morning draws near, that all is going to change, won’t it?

Greg exhales, silent and slow.

Then, with a fluid motion, he crouches down onto his knees, his gown pooling on the floor around him. The dagger at his thigh presses coldly against his skin, a sharp contrast to the warmth of the moment.

The brooch is small, with thorny vines strangling a group of flowers in the middle. It has been pinned clumsily — perhaps by a servant in a rush, the kitten himself. The clasp has twisted, the pin slightly bent, pulling at the gold thread around it.

Greg’s gloved hands work gently, with practiced precision. He unfastens the brooch, smooths the fabric, and carefully reattaches it so that it sits straight and flush, no longer jabbing the boy’s neck.

The kid stands very still, watching Greg with wide, curious eyes.

“You’re really good at that,” he says, eyes never leaving Greg’s hands as he watches him fix his outfit. “Are you a helper? You don’t look like the rest of them.”

He wonders what the kid means by that. Greg’s sure the servants don’t wear elegant and intricate dresses like this every day. Though it might just be that this boy hasn’t interacted with servants to the king and prince before. Which is a strange thought because this attire exudes growing up within a diamond. One of these observances has to be true, he just isn’t sure which one it is right now.

Greg makes no reply; his face is still, unreadable.

The kitten tilts his head. “Can you talk?”

Talk, yes. He can talk, it’s just not in the way the kid is probably used to. Trade negotiations would surely fail with his kind of communication, and playing pretend like he assumes the boy enjoys is next to nearly impossible.

He supposes he owes it to the kid to be truthful. After all, he’s not his target, and Greg still has his morals.

He holds up his hands and signs slowly. “I can talk, but not like everyone else.”

“That’s so cool,” the kid breathes, eyes wide and shining. He seems genuinely excited by the different way Greg communicates, and it surprises him. “It’s like a knight with a secret code language. Papa says real knights don’t talk much because they’re always thinking, and he knows lots of things. You are a knight, aren’t you?”

It’s a subjective view, really. A knight to someone is a murder to someone else. Though he supposes in this context that isn’t what the kitten’s intending on; there’s no deeper layer to unearth here. It’s a simple yes or no question. But something deep inside him makes him not want to lie to this kid, and he isn’t sure what it is.

Greg gives a soft shake of his head, not a yes, but also not a no.

The boy nods anyway, as if that answer is good enough for him. Greg doesn’t know why questions aren’t pooling out of his mouth — especially if the kid’s never seen him here or out in the kingdom before. “Well, you seem like one. You fixed my badge and didn’t even say anything mean. Some grown-ups are grumpy at balls. You’re quiet, but not grumpy.”

Greg raises an eyebrow at that and considers the kid’s words when he probably shouldn’t be. Truth be told, he’s never considered what children think of him. His morals come back when it comes to kids — he never takes the assignments that involve kids. There’s never a reason to go after them; at least that’s where Greg stands on the matter.

He blinks, and then signs again. “Why are you here alone?”

“Oh,” the kid says, realizing he hadn’t revealed that information yet, “my papa said I could come to the ball because I was really brave this week and didn’t fuss when I got my outfit fitted, even when the brooch scratched me the first time. I didn’t say anything.”

He beams, pride puffing out of his tiny chest. “I’m allowed to walk around as long as I don’t rush papa. He said that if I feel nervous, I should find someone calm-looking. You look very calm.”

Greg raises one brow.

“You’re like a forest that doesn’t need to say anything,” the kitten goes on, “but still helps a traveler when they’re lost.”

That stops Greg for a moment. A strange metaphor from such a small mouth.

“You don’t know me,” he signs, guarded.

The kid tilts his head, curious. “But you fixed my badge. That’s enough for now, I think.”

Greg looks at him quietly; there is no fear and no suspicion. Just quiet trust.

“You’re my first friend tonight,” the boy says after a moment, more softly now. “I was really nervous coming here. Everyone’s so big. You’re big too, but not scary.”

Greg stares, not sure what to do with these genuine compliments coming from the young kid.

“I wanted to dance,” he continues, “but no one has wanted to dance with me yet. I think I scared the snack server because I asked for five sugar cubes. Is that too many?”

Greg can’t help but show a small smirk of amusement as he signs, “yes.”

The kitten giggles. “I knew it. You’re smart.”

Greg signs nothing in return, but his eyes are gentler now.

“I like your dress,” the boy says. “You look like a leaf, a dangerous leaf. Like the kind that might turn into a sword if someone stepped on it.”

Greg blinks, then slowly stands. The kid doesn’t flinch, just tips his head up to keep looking.

“I think my papa would like you,” he says cheerfully, twirling a little. “But he’s not here yet. He’s talking to people in the tower room. He says tonight is important for the kingdom, so I have to be good.”

Greg’s expression doesn’t change. The information washes over him without making a dent. Just vague details, nothing useful.

Still, his eyes linger on the child a moment longer than they need to.

The music changes — new strings swelling. Guests turn their heads slightly.

Greg’s body tenses, instinct returning again. But before he can step away, the kid reaches out and grabs his hand lightly. His grip is firm though, as Greg comes to realize.

It starts with a tug on his hand, now not just being held but pulled — quick, insistent.

He glances down.

The boy is looking up at him with that same hopeful energy as before, bright-eyed beneath his slightly crooked silver mask. His fur looks fluffy under the chandelier’s warm light now despite being matted down by his suit, part of it sliding down his shoulder from how much he’s been fidgeting.

“Do you wanna dance?” He asks with barely contained excitement. “Well — actually, do you want to dance with me?”

Greg doesn’t answer right away.

Unlike the last song that had been played, the orchestra chooses something brighter now, more spirited — lively strings bounding across the marble like laughter, tambourine beats snapping just beneath them. The floor around them has come alive around them: ribbons twirling, gloves sweeping, shoes clicking. It is no longer a stately waltz; it is a celebration.

The kid lets go of Greg’s hand and he watches as it becomes outstretched. His papa’s sure teaching him how to be a gentleman, it seems.

He should have said no.

But a sense of warmth is creeping into his chest — the kind that makes it hard to draw clear lines between what he should do and what he wants to do. Greg puts down his glass of champagne and then removes his black shaul, revealing the full extent of his gown.

He takes the kid’s hand.

The boy’s grin explodes across his face. “You’re going to love this.”

He tugs Greg forward with surprising strength for someone barely three feet tall. Greg follows without resistance, his gown gliding behind him like moss trailing in water. As they step onto the dance floor, they are swept into the outer circle of the dance — a mix of pairs both practiced and chaotic, laughing as they spin.

Greg lowers to the boy’s level by bending his knees a little to take up position, but before he can move into anything formal, the kid starts bouncing on his heels.

“I don’t think we have to do it perfectly,” he says excitedly, “let’s just do it.”

The music leaps forward, and Greg does something he never thought he would do: he lets go.

Not of the boy — but of the need for silence, precision, control.

He steps in rhythm — not calculating, but feeling. Light, springy footwork, something more playful than elegant. The kid bursts into a laugh and mirrors him, their steps sloppy but joyful.

They begin to spin.

Greg twirls him — once, then again. The boy’s coattail flares out around his legs like a sunburst, and he giggles so hard his mask nearly slips off. Greg reaches down without thinking and nudges it back into place like a parent fixing their kid’s hair then gives a half-turn on his heel and sweeps them both backward into another beat.

The room becomes a blur of gold and warm stone. Greg’s gown catches the air, fluttering like forest leaves in a sudden wind. The slit down his leg gives his stride more freedom, his movements sharper than the surrounding dancers but less rigid than he had been when standing still. The dagger stays tucked against his thigh, unseen, untouched — but Greg barely notices it now.

All he notices is the kid in front of him — grinning, twirling, feet tapping against the floor like he’s discovered gravity doesn’t apply to him anymore.

“You’re awesome at this!” The kid shouts over the music, laughing.

“You’re the one leading,” Greg signs mid-step.

“Good!” He beams, laughing again. “I like being the boss of the dance.”

Greg doesn’t roll his eyes — but he comes close.

They dart between other pairs now, weaving through swirling skirts and laughing nobles. Greg guides him under an arch formed by two older dancers. The kid ducks and reappears on the other side, bouncing as he rejoins Greg’s hand, practically glowing with delight.

“This is my favorite night ever!” He says.

Greg doesn’t respond, but he can’t deny it — the corners of his mouth are pulling upward slightly. Just a little, just enough.

The music builds higher, then drops — leaving a beat of silence — then surges again in a final, joyful cascade. Greg crouches down and catches the boy’s hand for one last spin, this one fast. The kid shrieks with laughter as he spins, arms out, head tilting back, robes swirling like a royal comet. 

When the orchestra hits the final chord, the boy stumbles into Greg’s arms, breathless and beaming, giggling uncontrollably. It’s lucky he doesn’t feel the dagger strapped to his thigh.

“You dance way better than anyone else here,” the kid says with finality. “Even if you don’t smile.”

Greg looks down at him. “I don’t need to smile, you did enough for the both of us.” He signs slowly, an air of truth to the words.

The kitten giggles harder at that, then flings his arms around Greg’s waist in a spontaneous hug.

Greg stiffens — just for a second — then slowly, gently, lets his hand rest on the boy’s back as he returns the hug.

“Thank you,” the kid says, muffled in silk. He pulls away just as fast. “Okay — I gotta go find that dessert tower again before it disappears. It’s made of spun sugar and I swear it was real. I’ll find you later.”

And before Greg can sign anything in reply, the boy takes off — scampering through dancers and skirts, trailing giggles and soft green fabric behind him.

Gone again.

Greg remains on the edge of the floor, heart pounding. Not from exercition, but from something else. The dagger is still strapped to his thigh, the prince is still out there alive and breathing.

After the dance, after the child had looked at him — trusted him — Greg couldn't keep standing there with violins ringing in his ears and masks pretending to mean something. Every smile looks like a lie now, every noble hand raised in applause feels like a weapon turned inward.

He needs to take a breather before anything else.

He steps away — slowly, carefully, just enough to pass through the ripple of dancers without being noticed. The shadows welcome him like they always do: familiar. Safe. Cold.

But even the cold isn’t enough anymore.

He finds a side corridor flanked by towering white stone columns and slips into it without a sound. It curves slightly, just enough to block the ballroom’s golden light. The music dims behind him like it is being drowned in velvet.

The palace changes out here.

It is quieter, older. Less concerned with appearances. There is no laughter here, no wine or spinning dresses. Just long hallways and moonlight filtering through narrow glass slits in the ceiling.

Greg walks slowly.

His fingers graze against the wall as he passes — marble, cool and fine-grained, veined in pale green and gold. He can feel the money in it. Not wealth for show, but for permanence. Stone cut for legacy, for control.

Everything here is crafted with quiet arrogance.

The floors beneath his boots are smooth, echoless. Even the air smells curated — lavender and old parchment, perfumed as if the walls themselves are trying to disguise how long they’ve been watching. Paintings hang in alcoves along the corridor, most particularly cloaked in shadows. Greg glances at them as he passes — oil portraits of past rulers, their faces bored or solemn or smug.

He hates all of it.

The farther he walks, the more the voices fade. The silk-and-gold world peels away like a mask after a performance, and all that is left is this: cold corridors, high archways, ceilings painted of scenes of war pretending to be mythology.

At the end of the hall, Greg finds a door.

It isn’t grand — just tall, with iron handles carved like twisting vines, and a latch that creaks quietly as he opens it. Beyond is a balcony.

He steps out from the palace and onto it.

The air meets him immediately — cool and salty, tinged with the night. Below, the kingdom stretches in blue and silver. The castle is built on a cliff, and from here, the sea looks like obsidian. Stars reflect on the water’s surface, each ripple warping the sky’s mirror. Somewhere far below, waves whisper against stone.

Greg leans forward, resting his gloved arms on the marble railing, the slit in his green dress catching in the breeze. His breath comes out steady, but his eyes are storm-tossed.

He is supposed to kill the prince tonight.

That is the plan. It is clean, it is earned.

He hates the monarchy, the hypocrisy, the decay gilded in parties like this. He’s seen how they live while the outer kingdom rots. He’s walked through streets where rats have more food than children. He’s watched mothers trade silence for safety.

But then there was him — that boy.

That strange, bright little kitten who asked him to dance and talked about sugar towers and coined him as his favorite person ever.

And now Greg can’t breathe the same way he has been doing before. He closes his eyes, exhales, trying to return to the part of himself that doesn’t hesitate.

The cold night wind combs through the curls of Greg’s fur as he stands at the far edge of the balcony, facing the sea, arms pressed into the carved marble railing. The moon, half occluded by thin clouds, shines down with a milky softness, bathing the world in silver and shadow. High above, stars blink in unfamiliar constellations — symbols of a kingdom that likes to see itself as eternal.

The hush here is complete.

The palace behind him pulses faintly with distant music and laughter, but here it is quiet. A kind of curated quiet. Like the balcony exists out of time, separated from consequence.

Greg’s reflection gleams faintly in the wide window panes behind him — masked, stiff, silent. He doesn’t look like a killer in this light, and that is dangerous.

He exhales.

His gloved hands rest loosely on the cold stone railing, the same way a knife rests on a whetstone before the sharpening begins. His body, for the moment, is still. But his mind moves constantly, thoughts shifting and rearranging themselves like puzzle pieces made of glass. The breeze catches the lower half of his dark green gown, brushing it softly against his legs, fluttering the slit that runs high along his thigh.

With slow, practiced ease, he lets one hand drift downward — across the silk of his dark green dress, until his fingers brush over the high slit to his left thigh. The fabric has weight, texture, but parts easily under his hand. His gloved fingers slip beneath it, sliding along the bare skin of his leg until they find the leather strap hugging firm against his thigh.

He never rushes this.

Not because he fears being caught — he knows how to move in silence — but because this is a ritual. Re-centering. Precision over panic.

The breeze cools his bare skin instantly, a soft shiver crawling across his thigh. His fingers close around the hilt with slow reverence. He draws it out — inch by inch — until the full length of it catches the moonlight. 

The sensation is grounding.

It doesn’t make a sound, not even a whisper.

It is his own design — sleek, compact, double-edged. Forged with blackened steel and inlaid with a sudden ripple pattern that is more tactile than visible. The grip is wrapped in deep green leather, the kind that darkens where sweat and blood have kissed it. It is weathered by his many sessions of practice on trees and wooden posts. The pommel bears no crest, no insignia — only a small crescent scratched into the metal with a single, perfect line bisecting it. His mark.

Greg turns the dagger over in his hand, letting his thumb trace the edge — not enough to bleed, just enough to feel the danger. 

This blade has ended names, and tonight, it will end one more.

His heart beats once, deep and low.

The wind tugs at his dress, revealing glimpses of this thigh in between the folds, but he pays it no mind. The dagger is a tether. A memory. The coolness of the steel reminds him who he is and why he is here.

He pictures the end again. Quick, clean. The prince with his body lying lifeless on the floor behind velvet curtains, a flicker of green in the dark. There will be no witnesses. There will just be Greg slipping through shadow like mist, gone before anyone knows where to look.

No more balls, and no more cruelty dressed in white and gold.

He adjusts the weight of the dagger in his grip. It is perfect, familiar. Greg inhales, half-lidded as the steel gleams in his hand. This is the only part of the mission that feels honest. 

And then — footsteps. Soft, confident. Not rushed, but intentional and coming closer.

Greg stiffens instantly, shoulders snapping back like a blade half-drawn. In one swift movement, the dagger is gone.

He slides it beneath the gown in a single, fluid motion. The hilt presses flat against his thigh as he tightens the strap with a practiced tug. The leather flexes, but doesn’t squeak. The blade is still warm from his touch, and its weight against his skin feels like a secret pressed into him.

He pulls the slit of his dress closed, smooths the fabric with a swift downward glide of his hand, adjusting the flow of it until the lines drape flawlessly again. He backs towards the shadow of the far balcony wall, and lets his posture melt into casual.

Not rigid, or alert. Just quiet.

Only his eyes — beneath the mask — remain sharp. Focused and listening.

The footsteps are closer now, measured and light. Whoever it is, they know how to walk in the palace. But they don’t know who they are walking towards.

Greg returns to the railing, arms resting loosely again, hands folded delicately. He tilts his head back towards the stars, gaze empty but calm. His heart, however, beats against the inside of his ribs like a clock striking midnight.

The dagger is hidden; the killer has vanished. And whoever approaches is about to speak to a ghost.

He turns slowly.

A tall figure approaches — confident, calm, a drink in one hand. His coat is white, crisp as frost, with gold embroidery trailing like roots across the sleeves and green cuffs at the wrists. The trim shimmers faintly under the moonlight. His mask is elaborate: white and glittering green, shaped like curling vines or rising smoke, the kind nobles wear when they want to outshine everyone in the room.

He hums the moment he sees Greg, a mix between a smile and a smirk tugging at his lips. “You know,” he says, tone amused, “that green is bold. Dangerous, even.”

Greg says nothing, his eyes narrowing behind his own mask.

“Most people wouldn’t wear green to a palace ball,” the cat continues, taking slow steps towards the railing. “Not unless they are trying to make a statement. But you don’t seem like the type to care what statements people think you’re making.”

Greg inhales slowly through his nose and turns away, hand flexing against the balcony stone. If he wants a conversation, he isn’t going to get it.

“I have to admire your bravery here,” he continues without Greg wanting him to, “most people wouldn’t wear that color here. Especially not at one of our balls. Too easy to remember. Too striking.” He gives a casual shrug. “But I suppose that’s why it works on you.”

Greg doesn’t give him the satisfaction of turning his head to look at him.

The stranger leans on the railing beside him, close but not too close. “You wear it like you don’t care what it means to everyone else.”

Greg’s only answer is a blink so slow it borders on a challenge.

The cat gives a quiet hum of amusement. “It matches my eyes, or maybe my eyes match it. Either way — memorable.”

Greg’s hands curl slightly over the stone.

He’s still looking at him, Greg can feel his gaze staring at the side of his face. The stranger lets the silence stretch, then says with disarming charm, “dance with me.”

That does it; Greg turns his head sharply, expression deadpan. Did he seriously just ask him to dance? And like that? At least have some more decorum.

The cat smiles wider, seeming to thrive off the daggers Greg’s gaze is shooting at him. “Come on, you and I match. It’d be a shame to waste that.”

Greg doesn’t bother signing, the shake of his head is enough. He turns on his heel, the slit in his dress catching wind as he heads for the door. But before he can step inside, the cat grabs hold of his wrist and forces him to come to a halt.

“I know you danced with him earlier,” he says, “the young boy.”

Greg blinks, suddenly aware of the breeze rustling through his fur. The voice behind him has softened into sincerity. Almost reverence.

“I wanted to thank you.”

Greg turns halfway back, his body tense but his curiosity peaked.

The cat lets go of his wrist and turns back, heading to the balcony’s edge. His posture changes, shoulders bowing slightly. One hand rests lightly on the railing, fingers twitching once — like he is holding something invisible.

“He was scared of tonight,” the stranger says. “Worried that no one was going to talk to him because of how many adults were going to be here. That he’d be laughed at for not knowing the steps to the usual dances that we partake in here.”

A short pause.

“But you danced with him anyway. You let him trip, you let him laugh.”

Greg takes a few steps closer, still watching.

“He hasn’t smiled like that in a long time,” he says.

Greg’s hands move — subtle, low, like a river’s current brushing stones. “He asked, I didn’t do anything special.”

“He asked,” the cat echoes with a nod, “and you listened. That is something.” His voice has dropped further now. Not in melancholy, just real.

“He doesn’t ask for much. Most people ignore him so they don’t get on my bad side. He’s one of two people I still have a soft spot for.” He smiles faintly. “But you don’t even know who he is, do you?”

Greg shakes his head once.

The stranger’s smile deepens, more wistful than pleased. “He told me you danced like a storm, that the edges of your dress looked like wings when you spun. That you made him feel like magic.”

Greg blinks once. He doesn’t have a word for the ache that stirs in his chest. He looks away, this time towards the garden and that’s when he notices the enormous hedge maze that is there. His fingers twitch slightly over the railing’s edge. It isn’t discomfort — it is something else. Something slower, something heavy.

Guilt?

No, he isn’t guilty. Not yet.

Conflicted?

He is always conflicted.

He has come here as a blade in silk clothing, a weapon disguised as a guest. He knows who the target is. He has mapped out every entrance, every guard shift, every line-of-sight through the tall ballroom windows.

Greg has trained for this.

But he hadn’t trained for a child with too long sleeves smiling up at him. And he certainly hadn’t trained for the cat who calls him a storm.

“May I ask,” the stranger’s voice pulls him from thought, “who are you?”

Greg’s head tilts slightly, guarded.

“Not your name, exactly,” the cat clarifies, sensing the tension. “Just — what brought you here? You don’t seem like you run with the usual guests.”

Greg considers, and then raises his hands slowly. “I was invited. Though I didn’t really want to come.”

The stranger hums with a knowing nod, as if he relates to the feeling, but Greg can’t imagine that he does. “And yet, you did.”

“I have a reason,” Greg signs.

“That, I believe. Look, you don’t have to dance with me at all tonight, I just figured it was an olive branch for what you did for my son.”

Greg looks at him then — really looks.

The stranger doesn’t know that he is being watched. He is turned slightly towards the stars now, his expression softer than it has been all evening. His mouth quirks into something that is not quite a smile, not quite a sigh.

He knows that he’s offering something Greg can’t refuse to take the thanks of. Everyone always wants something when they offer gratitude; whether it’s something in return, or a physical act they can do to pay back whatever favor was done for them. Greg knows these tactics, knows every version of how they can be framed. They’ve become more subtle, a blink and it’s gone kind of thing.

Luckily this cat is pretty easy to read, but something inside Greg is pulling him in a different direction.

He isn’t sure why he agrees.

Maybe it is the soft gravity in the way the masked cat says nothing after the invitation. Maybe it is the way Petey doesn’t press him, doesn’t fill the silence with expectation or charm or flattery — just leaves the offer in the air like a feather drifting down. Or maybe it is the simple fact that this is the cat’s subtle way of saying thank you — for a boy Greg hadn’t meant to care about, and somehow already does.

Greg exhales, long and low. He really hopes he doesn’t regret this, doesn’t get so swept up dancing that he fails his mission and lets the prince get away. He takes a deep breath, and nods once.

The corner of the cat’s mouth curves — not smug or in triumph, but pleased in a way that feels oddly gentle. He offers his arm and Greg hesitates only for a breath before slipping his own through it.

The contact makes his pulse leap.

The stranger’s coat is impossibly soft beneath Greg’s gloved fingers — white velvet edged with gold leaf embroidery. A scent clings faintly to the collar: crisp, like something citrus and herbal. His arm is warm, solid. Steady.

Greg tells himself it doesn’t matter.

But it does.

They walk in silence, their steps synchronized almost naturally. As they pass through the archway back into the ballroom, the noise of the party hits them like a wave — strings soaring, laughter bubbling, masks flashing like feathers and gold and sequins under candlelight.

Greg’s boots click in time with the stranger’s as they cross the marble floor. His dark green gown whispers across his legs, the slit swaying just lightly, a single glimpse of the dagger still hidden against his thigh. The masks they wear — the colors of light and darkness — sparkle subtly under the chandeliers, matching like a secret.

“I never caught your name,” the stranger says softly, not looking directly at him. “Did I ask you for it?”

“No, you didn’t. But it’s not important.” Greg signs without slowing his stride.

The cat chuckles under his breath, amused. “Well, I suppose it’s only fair to know each other better if we’re about to become dance partners, wouldn’t you say?”

Greg only offers a soft hum and nothing else, and the stranger doesn’t seem to mind as another chuckle erupts from his throat.

“If you’d like to remain a mystery, that’s alright. Though I hope I can earn the honor to know who you are by the end of the night.” The cat says, gently bringing Greg’s hand up and kissing the back of it gently.

Greg blinks, his heart thudding. Something stirs within him, but he isn’t sure what it is. He watches as the stranger slowly lowers his hand so it’s back hooking around the crook of his arm.

“I’m Petey,” he says, and Greg has to think it’s shared because once they enter the ballroom, they’ll have to be centimeters apart in order to be able to hear each other.

Greg doesn’t answer.

The ballroom glows.

Not with candlelight, not just, but with the hush that falls over every dancer who realizes that something is about to happen in the center of the dance floor. The music has begun again — brisker this time, alive with rhythm, something more playful than elegant but not any less romantic. The kind of music that demands attention, momentum, sparks.

The ballroom has not gone quiet — but the music does feel far away. Muffled, like it has dipped beneath water, like it is waiting to emerge as something else. Greg stands at the end of the polished marble floor with Petey’s arm hooked into his own, tension humming like a string inside him.

All eyes aren’t on them — not yet. But the air shifts, just slightly, as they step forward together into the light.

It is like walking into a painting. The chandelier overhead spills molten gold across the floor in dappled patterns, and the walls — mirrored and grand — multiply everything. Dresses swish like petals in the breeze, masks gleam like jewels with teeth. It is the kind of place that Greg hates: too rich, too watched, too fragile.

And yet, when Petey turns to face him, one hand extended in silent invitation, Greg takes it without thinking.

Their palms meet, gloved, smooth.

Their bodies move, and the dance begins.

It is meant to be a waltz, or at least something adjacent to one. The first step is smooth, synchronized, precise. Petey leads them into a wide, fluid arc across the marble floor. The music — dramatic but elegant — rises around them like a silk curtain caught in a gust of wind.

Greg matches the rhythm flawlessly.

But the moment Petey tries to guide him into a gentle turn, hand moving to his waist, Greg twists with a flick of his wrist and pulls Petey into a reverse step. The move is subtle, but unmistakable: he is leading now.

Petey’s brow ticks up beneath the shimmer of his white and green mask. A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

Game on.

They slip into a rhythm that is anything but formal. What began as a ballroom waltz dissolves into a duel. It’s neither angry or forceful, but sharp-edged and exhilarating, like two predators sizing each other up through shared breath and touch.

Greg dips Petey with unexpected strength — low and fluid, his grip secure and unwavering. Petey blinks but recovers instantly, laughing under his breath as he springs back up, catching Greg’s waist as he does and pulls them into a spin.

The music seems to follow them now, its tempo rising to match their dance, as if the orchestra is now playing to their movements alone — as if there are no other guests in the ballroom anymore. It isn’t graceful, nor is it refined. It is something rawer — playful, yes, but daring, competitive, charged with something unnamed.

They circle each other like fire and wind.

Greg spins out, one arm extending like a ribbon trailing behind him, the slit in his green gown catching the light and revealing the whisper of a dagger strapped to his thigh. Petey catches him by the waist and sweeps him back in. They turn again, two pairs of boots scraping faintly against marble, their feet brushing beneath layers of trailing fabric.

It happens before Greg can stop it.

One moment, he is turning sharply, attempting to regain control of the tempo — his body pivoting with the flick of his boot, his gown slicing a green arc across the marble like a blade. And then, Petey moves in close — too close — and slides a hand with infuriating elegance behind Greg’s back. A shiver runs down his spine without warning, but it isn’t unwelcome either. Then, his other arm sweeps behind Greg’s knee, just under the slit of the emerald gown.

And then, he lifts.

There is no signal, and no warning.

Just the sudden loss of ground.

Greg’s breath catches in his throat — not from fear, not exactly — but from the pure, uninvited sensation of being airborne.

For the first half-second, Greg resists. His shoulders tense, one hand flinching toward his thigh — where, beneath the dress, his dagger lays hidden, bound tight and hot against his skin.

But then — he feels it.

It’s not roughness, nor is it mockery.

Care.

Petey isn’t showing off. He isn’t manhandling Greg like some arrogant noble drunk on wine and power. His grip is firm but respectful, holding Greg as if he is something fragile — but not weak. Like he knows this is a risk. Like he knows he is being trusted with something not easily given.

Greg has never — never — been lifted like this. Not without violence, and not without it being some tactic, some mistake, some insult.

And now — he is in the air, spinning.

The world tilts around him; chandelier crystals fracture light into kaleidoscopic shards that dance across the surface of his dress. The weight of it — the layers of green satin, stitched embroidery, the dagger against his thigh — all of it spins out behind him, a blooming iris of jewel-toned fabric caught in candlelight.

The crowd gasps, whispers. He hears it, barely, beneath the orchestral swell.

The momentum of the turn pulls Greg’s fur through the wind, brushing the back of his neck like a ghost. A few strands float like stray notes on a breeze. His mask slips again, and he doesn’t fix it — because he is too stunned by the way it feels.

His heartbeat thunders in his ears.

His body is lit with adrenaline — but not fear. Not the cold, rigid kind he is used to. This is something stranger. A heat blooms in his chest. A rush of air in his lungs that almost — almost — feels like awe.

Is this what it feels like to be held without consequence?

To be lifted and not dropped?

The spin slows; Petey’s hands, strong and steady, begin to lower him. It isn’t in haste, and it’s not like a showpiece being discarded. It’s slow, with focus — like the descent matters just as much as the lift.

Greg’s boots touch the floor with the fragility of a butterfly’s wing. One heel clicks against the marble floor, anchoring him.

And he still doesn’t move.

His hands are still resting lightly against Petey’s shoulders, as if waiting to be certain it was safe to stand on the earth again. As if part of him isn’t ready to descend all the way.

Their eyes meet.

Petey — wearing that shimmering, glittery green and white mask — is breathing just as hard. But his smile has shifted. It isn’t cocky anymore; it is quieter, softer. Like he knows something he isn’t ready to say out loud. Like this moment neither of them had quite expected.

Greg stares back, wide-eyed, stunned into silence — not that he spoke to begin with. But now the silence takes on a different texture. It is no longer armor.

It is raw.

Petey’s hand hasn’t left Greg’s waist.

The music softens again, slipping into a final closing swell. Greg’s boots move instinctively, and for the first time, he doesn’t try to lead. He doesn’t resist.

Petey guides them gently into the last turns of the dance.

Their movement has become fluid now — so different from the clash and challenge before. Greg no longer fights to take control. He lets Petey spin him again, this time slower, letting his dress flair like a comet’s tail.

Their eyes meet during the turn.

And when it ends, they are inches apart.

The last note falls like a sigh.

The ballroom echoes faintly in its wake, the music tapering into absence.

Greg’s chest rises and falls, his fur clinging to his cheek. His glove is slipping slightly down his arm, and his mask is askew, lopsided from the lift, from the spin, from everything.

Petey’s gaze dips. His glove hand comes up, and Greg doesn’t flinch this time.

He lets it happen.

His fingers brush against Greg’s temple, adjusting the thin black and green mask that makes his jaw tighten. 

It is the gentlest thing Greg has ever felt. His breath catches; he doesn’t flinch, though every nerve in his body warns him to. He just stands still, face slightly tilted toward that hand, letting himself feel it — the press of gentle pads on his fingers, the slight point of his claws that graze his cheek but never puncture to draw blood. The hush of care.

No one has touched him like this in a long time.

And suddenly, every blade he’s hidden under his clothes feels absurdly heavy.

The warmth of Petey’s fingers linger at the side of his face for just a second too long. And when it drops back to his waist, Greg doesn’t step back.

They are close — too close. Every fiber in his body tells him to step away. But something else — a fluttering, fragile something — keeps him still.

Their mouths are inches apart, Greg can feel Petey’s breath as it gently puffs against his lips. It isn’t wine-sour or arrogant — but steady, warm, like cinnamon and something golden. There is something in Petey’s eyes now, behind the mask — a softness that makes Greg feel seen.

Vulnerable, even. As if the dagger against his thigh isn’t even there.

He’s not being targeted or hunted.

Instead, he’s being seen.

And for one terrifying, dizzying second, Greg thinks that they might kiss.

The thought strikes him like a lightning bolt — not because it disgusts him, but because he wants it. And he isn’t supposed to want anything, nor has he ever wanted something before.

But Petey doesn’t lean in all the way.

Instead, his lips brush near Greg’s ear and he whispers, “I want to show you something.”

Greg blinks.

It sounds like an invitation — not a command, or a trap. An invitation.

He stares.

Petey steps back one pace and extends his hand again, waiting.

And despite every instinct that he has or had in the past, he takes it.

The ballroom swims around them in the aftermath — guests whispering behind jeweled masks, musicians resetting their sheets, servers bustling with trays of candied fruit and champagne.

They walk towards the edge of the floor. Petey’s hand remains laced in Greg’s, sure and warm.

Greg moves as if he is in a dream.

They pause once.

At a velvet-draped table near the edge of the room, the young kitten Greg had danced with earlier is sitting atop a cushioned chair, chewing intently on a piece of glazed tart. He looks up and waves both hands the moment he sees Greg.

Petey’s son.

He kneels beside the boy, brushing something from his cheek and murmuring a few words. The kid nods, swinging his feet since they don’t even touch the ground.

Greg watches the interaction like it is something alien. Softness, affection. Safety.

All foreign to him.

When Petey returns, he says nothing; he doesn’t explain. He just reaches down again, and Greg’s fingers — numb from dancing, from confusion, from want — meets his.

And they vanish deeper into the corridors of the palace, heading towards the doors that lead outside, the candlelight flickering against their backs.

Greg doesn’t know where he is being led, but for once, he doesn’t mind following.

The heavy gold-trimmed doors close behind them with a muffled click, sealing off the roar of the ballroom like a distant tide retreating. Outside, the night air presses cold and clean against Greg’s flushed face, the moon overhead casting everything in silver. The lamps that line the marble pathways flicker softly, their warm glow pooling in the cobbled cracks like spilled honey.

Greg’s boots click against the stone, a steady rhythm softened by the hem of his gown whispering behind him. The dagger at his thigh, once a hidden promise, now feels heavier. Almost sentient. Like it knows what he’s come here to do and is here to remind him not to get sidetracked by things.

Petey walks just ahead, hand still in Greg’s, guiding them along a quiet path towards the gardens. His pace is unrushed, unafraid. His green and white mask still shimmers faintly with every tilt of his head, and Greg can’t help but glance at it again and again. The warmth of his hand is unsettlingly pleasant — steady, smooth, grounding. Greg has always hated physical touch, but this isn’t like that.

This isn’t forceful or possessive.

It is comforting.

They turn a corner, where the palace gardens stretch out in manicured symmetry — fountains, trimmed hedges, rose arches dripping in moonlight. But Petey veers left, toward a tall hedge opening shaped like an archway.

A maze.

Greg’s brows draw together, but he follows.

The hedges tower on either side of them — green walls that muffle sounds and shimmer in the moonlight like brushed velvet. The path underfoot shifts from stone to compacted earth, soft and cool beneath Greg’s boots.

They walk, and walk.

Petey turns confidently down each corridor, leading Greg deeper and deeper, as if he’s memorized every twist, every fork, every echo. Greg doesn’t ask questions; he couldn’t — not just because he doesn’t speak, but because he doesn’t want to break the spell. The tension that had coiled in his chest during the dance still lingers, stretched tight as a bowstring.

His hand is still in Petey’s.

And the longer they walk, the more Greg finds himself not just tolerating the touch — but missing it when Petey would let go briefly to guide him around a turn.

He is being led out of the palace, away from where he believes the prince should be.

And he isn’t stopping it.

The maze opens like a breath held too long.

They step into the clearing, and Greg freezes.

It is like walking into a memory that isn’t his — a secret held safe behind hedges and time. The moonlight pours through the leaves overhead, soft and silver, gliding every petal and blade of grass. Flowers bloom in unruly perfection: ivory roses climbing trellises, violets clustered at the edges of the path, long-stemmed lilies rising like pale sentries near the bench. The stone path beneath their feet that leads to the swing shimmers faintly with dew.

The air smells like honeysuckle and something older — lavender and damp stone, like memory. Greg’s breath catches in his throat.

A wrought iron swing hangs from the bough of a willow, gently swaying as though someone has just left it. On the bench sits a folded shawl, untouched by dust. Someone has been here, someone has remembered.

Greg doesn’t speak; he never does. But now, even if he had, words would’ve betrayed him. His eyes are wide, scanning every detail like a puzzle, trying to understand.

Petey lets go of his hand.

Greg’s fingers curl slightly, like they miss something.

Petey turns to him, no longer a dancing partner, but not quite a stranger either and says quietly, “this was my mother’s favorite place in the world.”

His voice is softer here, the garden pressing against them like snowfall.

“She used to sneak out here when she couldn’t breathe in the palace anymore. When the court was too loud, when the duties wouldn’t let her sleep. She’d bring me out here when I was little.” Petey says, walking towards the swing under the tree.

“I’d fall asleep on this swing while she talked to the stars,” he continues before he turns around and holds out his hand. And for some inexplicable reason, Greg walks over to him.

Petey smiles — not triumphant, but warm — and steps behind the swing, steadying it as Greg lowers himself down.

The silk of his gown fans around the wooden seat, the slit parting just slightly to flash a glimpse of thigh before fabric shifts to cover it again. The dagger is still there, he hasn’t dropped it. But its weight feels distant now. Like something underwater.

Petey rests both hands lightly on the ropes at Greg’s sides.

Then he gives a gentle push.

The swing creaks; Greg’s boots lift slightly off the ground, weightlessness creeping in like an old friend.

The motion is slow, rhythmic. It is the kind of movement a mother gives to a baby trying to fall asleep.

Greg closes his eyes for a second — just a second — and then opens them again to look ahead, watching the hedges sway and ripple around the garden.

And behind him, Petey begins to speak. “She used to do this for me, my mother. She pushed me like this until I got too tired to argue.”

His hands stay steady on the ropes.

“She was good at being quiet,” he says, “at filling silence without breaking. She’d tell me stories while she pushed me. About the garden, about the palace. About what she wanted the kingdom to become.”

Greg sits perfectly still, letting himself sway, eyes fixed ahead.

Petey’s voice continues, unhurried. “She hated the court, you know. Not the people, just the performance. The theater of it all. She used to sneak food out of the banquets and leave it under the bridges for hungry families. Half the staff pretended not to notice.”

Greg glances slightly to the side but says nothing, still not knowing. He’s still thinking that this cat is someone — anyone — other than the prince.

“She used to sit right there,” Petey says, nodding towards the bench beside the swing. “She’d watch me play in the dirt while she read letters from the families she snuck food to. She made me memorize the names of every farmer who sent one.”

Another gentle push.

The swing drifts forward and back, creaking in a lullaby rhythm. Greg’s posture softens just slightly. His hands rest in his lap now, unclenched.

“There’s this story she used to tell me,” Petey says. “About a boy made of stars who forgot he was born from light. He spent years thinking he was darkness. He thought his glow was a curse. But then he met someone who reminded him what it felt like to shine.”

Greg’s breath catches for a moment; he doesn’t know why.

“She told it to me every year on my birthday,” Petey adds, “said it was her favorite story, and that she hoped it would become mine. I didn’t understand it then.”

Another push, slower this time. As if Petey can feel the weight in Greg’s chest. 

Greg’s eyes flick to the ground, watching the arc of his own boots shift over the gravel.

“I think she was trying to teach me something I wasn’t ready to hear,” Petey’s voice is soft, barely above a whisper. “That even if you’ve forgotten who you are, someone else might remember.”

Greg swallows, his eyes sting.

He hates that. He hates how easily this cat’s voice carves into him. How it finds the places that have been locked away for years and gently, thoughtlessly, opens them.

The dagger at his thigh is still there. The mission is still real.

And yet — the swing rocks on, slow and careful.

Greg leans into it now, lets it carry him forward and back. He lets the hush of Petey’s voice wrap around him like moss growing over stone.

“She planted every flower here,” Petey says. “One by one, even the violets. Especially the violets. She said they were stubborn and beautiful. Like hope.”

He gives the ropes one last nudge, letting the swing glide on its own. “I miss her every day,” he says, “but tonight, I think she would've liked you.”

Greg’s eyes widen a fraction; he doesn’t know what to do with that.

The swing slows.

Petey doesn’t push it again. He steps forward, just enough to be beside the seat now. His hand brushes Greg’s shoulder.

Greg doesn’t flinch this time. He doesn’t look up either; he couldn’t. Because something in his throat is cracking open — and he doesn’t know if he can survive what might come out and haunt him.

So he sits here, swaying softly, lips parted, fingers clenched in the folds of green silk over his lap.

The dagger is still untouched.

And behind him stands Petey.

The swing has gone still.

Not all at once — but gradually, like a heartbeat slowing. The air feels heavier now, as if the garden itself is holding its breath and wondering what is going to happen next. Greg sits in the hush of moonlight, his hands tucked quietly in his lap, green silk gathered in his fingers. His throat aches, dry and clenched around nothing.

Petey passes by the side of the swing and sits beside him after Greg scooches over to make room. They’re so close to each other that their knees brush ever so slightly, a soft echo of touch with each breath.

He is still talking, something about his son.

Greg isn’t really listening — not anymore.

“It’s strange, isn’t it?” Petey is saying, his voice thoughtful, “The whole kingdom doesn’t even know he exists. But I don’t want him used as a symbol, the way my father used me. My mother tried her dann hardest to keep me safe, and I’m determined to do that with my son.”

Greg’s gaze sharpens slightly.

My mother tried her damn hardest.

The words repeat in his head.

He blinks, and the garden blurs a little. Not from tears — but from calculation.

“Grace,” Petey says after a beat. “Her name was Grace, though most of the kingdom knows her as Queen Grace. I wish she could’ve met him.”

Greg’s breath hitches. Queen Grace. The name strikes again — harder this time. His heart gives a small jolt, a betrayal in his chest.

His eyes slowly lift to his face.

He hasn’t taken off the mask. It is still there — green and white, glittering faintly under the moon, a thing of charm and confidence. But now, it no longer looks like a stranger’s costume.

And now, Greg wants Petey to remove his mask — not so he can have a clean kill, but so he can see his entire face. How he’s supposed to be seen.

Queen Grace, his mother.

Greg’s stomach twists.

He turns back towards the garden wall, but his eyes aren’t seeing the flowers anymore. His pulse is a steady roar in his ears. Something in his mind is waking up — fierce, cold, clear.

He hasn’t asked his name; only one half of them remains without an identity, a name to a face.

But it isn't Petey’s name that is sending a chill down his spine — it was the queen, and all of the childhood memories that Petey seems to have had with her. Right here in the palace. And if he grew up in the palace, then that can only mean one thing.

The prince, his target. He’s brushing knees with the exact person he’s supposed to kill tonight.

Greg’s hand instinctively shifts in his lap — down, quiet, subtly. His fingers brush over the familiar slit in his dress, reaching for what he knows is there: the dagger, his mission. The reason he has come here.

He stares straight ahead; the air feels colder now.

Petey is still beside him, not watching — just speaking softly, as though everything in the garden is sacred. As if this moment matters.

“I want to do it differently than my father did,” he is saying. “He rules by fear, though I suppose that’s easy to deduce. He thrives in forcing silence, but I want something better. And not just for my son, but for the people as well. For the ones we failed.”

Greg’s hand finds the hilt of the dagger; the leather grip is cool and familiar beneath his fingertips.

“Like that poor guard we lost for that idiotic experiment,” Petey continues. “Why my father thought it was a good idea, I’m not sure. All it resulted in was the loss of two lives, even if one of them is still alive.”

Greg freezes, his chest tightening. He doesn’t need to be told this story, because he lived it — became the product of that experiment.

He should’ve drawn it.

He has the perfect angle, the perfect silence. The prince isn’t even looking at him.

Just one clean strike.

That is what he has trained for; he has waited so long for this. He has become everything he is now — for this.

For justice, for revenge. For all the pain sewn into his very skin.

“I wish I could apologize,” Petey continues, “to both of them.”

But his hand doesn’t move. It can’t. Because the cat beside him — the prince, the enemy, the reason for his pain — is the same cat who has pushed him on the swing with soft hands.

Greg squeezes the hilt tighter, and his breath stutters. He can hear the blood pounding in his ears. His body is screaming with old instinct, everything sharpens into fight-or-kill.

And he still — he can’t do it.

The swing’s ropes creak as Greg shifts, still seated, still stunned by the weight in his chest. He hasn’t moved since the swing stopped swaying. His pulse thuds like war drums, quiet but unrelenting, echoing in his throat and ears.

Petey stands slowly, his hands slipping from the rope he’s beside, his expression unreadable in the moonlight. The garden glows around him, caught between hush and heartbreak. Greg stays seated, eyes fixed forward, the dagger like a secret tucked just out of reach.

Then Petey turns toward him, his white and gold-lined coat catching the light. The green accents shimmer faintly — matching the silk of Greg’s dress.

His eyes search Greg’s face for something — an answer, a feeling, a confirmation. The garden glows in silver-blue light around them, the petals of the hedge maze’s flowers catching the glow like tiny stars.

“There’s something about you,” Petey says in a whisper.

Greg looks up, eyes wide.

He doesn’t have any time to sign anything before Petey leans in slowly — delicately — and presses his lips to Greg’s.

Greg freezes softly against him.

His heart surges painfully in his chest, and against every instinct, he drops his guard. He doesn’t mean to. His hands move up and he grabs the swing’s ropes, anchoring himself to something because he can’t trust his own balance.

But he kisses him back.

He kisses him back like it hurts not to.

The kiss lingers like fog on a lake — soft and suspended, holding Greg in a moment that feels too fragile to survive. Petey’s lips are warm, his touch reverent. It’s not possessive or practiced. Just sincere.

Greg’s chest tightens.

Kissing him back is easier than breathing. Because something in his body — starved, half-dead — has been waiting for someone to be gentle.

But the other part of him, the part that has been forged in steel and silence, is still alive. Still alert.

And he reminds himself: he has a job to do.

His hands grip tighter onto the ropes of the swing. He can feel the carved handle of the dagger against his thigh, the smooth leather grip worn down by weeks of practice. It is familiar, safe. Something he can count on.

Petey’s thumb brushes his cheek, soft and caring. Greg hadn’t realized that he was crying until that moment. The tears have spilled over quietly, uninvited. The first slides through his fur with unbearable tenderness, and Petey catches it with his thumb like it is sacred.

He doesn’t speak, doesn’t pull back. He just rests his forehead gently against Greg’s.

The swing creaks behind them faintly in the night breeze. A single leaf tumbles past Greg’s boot. 

His breath comes in short, shallow bursts.

He can do it now; one pull, one clean motion. He’ll watch as the dagger sinks into his soft ribs, and let the prince fall before leaving him here in his mother’s garden with moonlight as his shroud.

He has killed in worse places.

But instead, he stays still.

Greg’s chest aches with every beat. He is aware of everything at once — the silk against his legs, the cool steel against his skin, the press of Petey’s hands at his cheeks, the breath between them.

He can’t stop shaking; he’s never shaken before a kill, not even his first one.

So why now?

Petey gently breaks the kiss and pulls back just enough to look at him, eyes searching, and Greg feels it like a knife — that look. That openness, that vulnerability.

And then Petey smiles; small, honest, soft as dusk.

“You don’t talk,” he says in a whisper, “but you say more than anyone I know.”

Greg doesn’t know how to breathe, his hands still gripping the ropes of the swing. He should pull it, he has to.

But then Petey’s hand moves and gently cradles his jaw. “You’re shaking,” he murmurs, thumb ghosting over Greg’s cheekbone. “Are you cold?”

Greg swallows because he can’t answer. His lips part, and he can’t bring himself to let go of the ropes so that he can sign something. A soft wind rustles by however, and he does shiver.

Petey gently takes his hand away, and the wind replaces the warmth almost immediately. Greg is about to reach out to him, to regain the warmth that has been taken away from him.

He watches as Petey stands straight and begins removing his overcoat, his hands and arms coming out of the sleeves until they’re both limp pieces of fabric. Greg doesn’t have to be told, he lets go of the ropes and lets his arms just lay dormant on his sides.

Petey takes a soft breath and gently swings his coat around Greg’s shoulders so that he’s wearing it. Greg gulps silently, adjusting the coat up near his shoulders so that it doesn’t fall off to the ground.

He smiles when Greg looks up at him, and he pulls the coat closer to his body. It’s surprisingly soft.

Greg’s body is screaming to just do it, and do it now. But instead, his hand not holding the coat — trembling — rises from his lap and cups Petey’s cheek.

His mind spirals; he is touching the cat responsible for his pain, his body is betraying him with its trembling need of wanting to be understood, and yet something about Petey makes him feel worthy again, even if it’s just for a moment.

He can’t remember the last time he’s felt like that.

It happens in an instant, and the touch is so faint Greg almost registers it as a ghost. He rises like a sleepwalker, the silk of his dress shifting around his legs. His heart thuds unevenly in his chest.

Petey doesn’t say a word; he reaches up, and in a single motion, removes his mask. The prince stands before him — unveiled. Emerald eyes, soft spoken mouth that has talked politics, windswept orange fur. Vulnerable, and real. More real than Greg ever imagined he’d be.

Greg’s breath catches, and his eyes begin to water again.

Petey smiles gently, just once, and raises his hand to Greg’s face, wiping away the tears with his fingers gently.

Greg takes a shaky breath from how caring the touch is.

Petey leans down and kisses him again, this time even softer. More final.

His hand travels down to his thigh slowly, trembling the closer it gets. He doesn’t even mean to do it, but instinct takes over. His fingers curl around the hilt, and everything stops.

The dagger slides free soundlessly. There is no metallic ring or flash of steel — just silence and dread. 

And when the kiss breaks, Petey’s hands slide to Greg’s shoulders, maybe in a way to make sure that he is still real — that this isn’t some dream or fantasy, a fabrication of his imagination. Which is ironic, because Greg is starting to wish this wasn’t reality.

Or at least that there isn’t a dagger in his hand waiting to strike right now.

They’re caught in each other’s eyes before Petey pulls him into a hug, causing Greg to nearly collapse. His heart is slamming against his ribs now, demanding an escape or it will die there in its cage. 

Petey’s arms wrap around him like a shield, his breath warm against Greg’s shoulder.

His eyes go wide; he doesn’t deserve this, he doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want to feel helpless, like he can’t break away from his commitment. Like he isn’t worthy of being held like someone that matters, someone able to be loved by someone other than the blade he has never failed before.

He is a ghost, a weapon with a purpose. So why is he being held, touched — kissed — like someone worth being alive?

Slowly, his hand lifts. His aim, always so steady, now shakes with the knowledge and the regret of his line of work, of his mission. Greg has never let anything or anyone get under his armor. But somehow in some way, Petey did and he didn’t even realize it.

Now he has to reap what he has sowed here tonight.

The dagger hovers; it is just inches from Petey’s back. One smooth motion, that is all it will take to finish the night off: one clean strike and then the monarchy falls — the prince will join his mother.

His muscles coil, and it causes his fingers to shake badly. There needs to be precision, a steady hand. He can’t risk the cut being so sloppy that it becomes an easy trace back to him, where he’ll be hiding once the sun begins to rise.

Greg can’t strike until his nerves have calmed down.

But then, the kitten’s face flashes across his mind. Petey’s son, who Greg doesn’t even know the name of. He should’ve asked after their dance in the ballroom, but he just couldn’t bring himself to do so at the time. He didn’t want any connections, any lingering regrets when disappears into the mist at dawn.

So much for that idea.

If he goes through with this, he’s leaving that poor kid fatherless, without a shield against the cruelty of the king. He’d be vulnerable to growing up and becoming a corrupt and unjust ruler — just like his grandfather.

An unexpected hiccup; the royal family had never announced to the public that kid even existed. And now, his entire future rested in Greg’s hands — and this dagger.

His hand is starting to cramp badly, and the dagger’s tip quivers in the air.

Petey stiffens; he feels it.

Greg freezes, every nerve in his body screaming at him to do it now. End the monarchy while the low hanging branch is young enough to not take action against him. But he can’t move.

Petey pulls back just enough to look down. Then his eyes catch sight of steel against skin and they widen. 

“What?” His voice is quiet. Disbelieving.

Greg’s mouth opens, but his hand jerks back from the dagger too late.

Petey takes a step back, and then another. “Why do you have that?” 

His breath hitches; Greg tries to sign, but his hands stutter and the dagger being waved about in the air sends a shock wave up the prince’s spine in defense.

“A weapon,” Petey’s voice cracks. “Why do you have a dagger in your hand?”

Greg shakes his head and steps forward, frantic as he tries to sign again. But Petey keeps backing away; his eyes flick from the dagger to Greg’s eyes which are starting to drown in rising tides.

And then it dawns him like a horrible disease, like he knows tomorrow’s sunrise will never meet his eyes. “No,” he says, voice wavering in an emotion he can’t explain. “No, that can’t be who you are. What you are.”

Greg’s body locks up; he hasn’t been referred to as a what in a long time. Back when he woke up in those cold, palace walls.

Petey’s ears flatten; his tail curls inwards in an attempt to protect himself. He fools his brain into thinking it’ll be enough to shield him for the blow of the dagger.

“You danced with me,” he whispers, “you held my son’s hand. You let me bring you to a sacred place and talk about my mother. I let you see my face.”

He shakes his head in disbelief, taking a staggering step back in realization.

“You let me kiss you,” his voice cracks fully now, “and you are just going to — what? Kill me and leave? After this, after tonight?”

Greg finally finds movement in his arms and takes one final step forward, hoping to explain himself though knowing every accusation against him is right for one reason or another. He came here to kill him, but things can change, can’t they?

“I let myself be vulnerable with you,” he says. Petey’s emerald eyes are gleaming now — more anger than tears, but the pain is unmistakable.

His eyes are wide with panic, signing frantically.

But Petey recoils. “No — don’t.”

He grips the mask in his hand, looking away from Greg and down at the glittering disguise. It’s a risk because Greg can take advantage of this and just stab him right here and now. He can’t see what he’s doing, and everything could end right here — leaving room for a new revolution to begin.

But he feels nothing stabs into his side; Petey remains intact, alive. He slips the mask back on his face, and doesn’t look at Greg again. Instead, he pivots on his heels quickly and bolts towards the clearing in the garden that leads back into the maze. Petey’s voice is hoarse as he cries out for the guards, his protection. For the ones that will lock Greg up and sentence him to a life in chains.

Greg stands there, completely still. His heart isn’t beating right, his breath is ragged as his chest heaves up and down, becoming more rapid as the seconds tick by.

He looks down at the dagger, the steel shimmering faintly. And then — he hurls the dagger away into the dirt.

It hits a stone with a hard clink, then slides into the garden shadows, sinking into the earth slightly.

Greg turns and flees.

The gardens blur around him, the cold hedge walls becoming a dizzying kaleidoscope of green shadows and silver moonlight — just like the mask Petey wears. The world spins, not because of the winding maze, but because everything inside him has broken loose. His chest is tight, his throat closes, tears blind his eyes and Greg only wipes them away once before giving up on the action. His lungs scream for breath that he can’t pull in fast enough.

The silk of his dress snags on a wayward branch.

All around him, Petey’s voice still rings as he shouts for the guards. He can hear the chorus of loyal voices and steps coming afterwards, and it makes him realize he needs to pivot his escape. Greg doesn’t know what he’ll face when he exits the hedge maze.

His description isn’t even shouted; there’s no final glance, no mercy.

Just fear, betrayal, and maybe — worse — justified fear.

Greg stumbles around a corner, slamming a shoulder against a hedge wall. He bites down on a cry and keeps going. Every part of him pulses with heat and cold all at once — his arms tingling, his mouth dry, his vision prickled at the edges with the threat of blackout.

He clutches the edge of the dress and lifts it higher as he vaults over a low garden stone wall and barrels through a cluster of flowering bushes. Branches claw at his skin, pulling his fur into all directions. Strands stick to his head as he gasps, breath ripping out in shallow, ragged bursts.

He had been so close. Too close.

His fingers still feel the ghost of Petey’s touch — how he had wiped away his tears, kissed him like he mattered, held him like he was something fragile. And Greg had stood there with a dagger, just inches from ending it.

But in the end, he hadn’t done it.

He couldn’t.

However, now it is worse. So much worse. Because Petey knows who he is — at least when it comes to his attire. Greg can easily fix this; he just needs to get out of this dress and engulf himself in his black attire again. He’ll slip back into the unknown, become a faceless body in the kingdom that the prince won’t recognize.

But the thought of doing that, of hiding away after he’s felt lips against his own, and the thrill of bringing a young kid so much joy, makes his heart ache in a way that he’s never felt on a mission before.

It’s a feeling he hasn’t known except when he realized that an innocent soldier of the monarchy had been killed so Greg could walk on two legs — his two legs.

Now he is nothing but a weapon — a threat.

Greg bursts out of the hedge maze, lungs raw, heart thundering as if it is trying to claw its way out of his ribs. The night has shifted, it is no longer quiet and gilded. It is no longer full of music.

Now it screams.

Guards yell from every direction, armor clanking as they scramble across the palace lawns. Horns are blown, and torches are flared. Horses rear at the edge of the stables, wide-eyed and nervous at their sudden need from the guards.

Chaos, everywhere.

Greg’s chest rises and falls in short, ragged and desperate breaths. His dress — once pristine dark emerald silk — is now torn at the hem, streaked with dirt and sweat and stray petals from the garden. His fur has long fallen out of its place, golden strands clinging to his damp face to where it begins to itch, something it has never done before because he is used to it. And still the tears come; quiet, hot, falling steadily as he sprints across the moonlit grounds.

A crossbow bolt thunks into a tree just behind him.

He flinches and ducks into the shadows of a crumbling stone wall, every inch of his body shaking. His chest hiccups as it rises and falls in quick, panic bursts. The air in his lungs stutters for just a millisecond, but Greg can feel it. Each breath catches on the knot that is tied in his throat. The damp air stings his lungs; his fingers tremble against the cold stone, still slick with garden dew and blood from scrapes he hasn’t even realized he earned.

The sounds of boots echo around the courtyard like war drums as guards run past, yelling if anyone has caught a glimpse of him, the one who came here to kill the prince.

He squeezes his eyes shut.

The voices bounce off of the marble, steel clashing in the distance, and the hiss of torches burn against the otherwise quiet stretch of lawn that Greg is pressed against. The scent of dahlias from the hedges has turned sickly sweet. The ball’s music is nothing but a memory now — replaced by barked orders, galloping hooves, and panicked screams from retreating guests.

He has seconds, maybe less.

He darts from the wall, staying low. The slit in his dress whips open with every frantic stride, his bare thigh streaked with dirt and devoid of a dagger, but still retaining the leather strap that was used to hold it in place. He ducks behind a water barrel and holds his breath as a small troop of armored guards passes by. The barrel reeks of old moss and wine, and his knees scream against the flagstones. But he doesn’t move.

He can’t move.

Greg curls tighter into the darkness, pressing his back to the soaked wood, feeling every thud of his pulse slam into his ribs like a battering ram.

Why hadn’t he done it?

He could’ve killed Petey right there in the garden, in his arms. But he hesitated; he had felt.

And now the price for his change of heart is being hunted like a traitor through a palace that once shimmered with gold and love.

More voices ring out to dictate the absence of Greg in other rooms of the castle, their voices bouncing off of the corridors.

Greg waits, listening. Then he moves.

He runs to a stack of supply crates near the servant’s entrance. Someone drops a silver platter in a panic — it clangs against the stone, the sound piercing in the silence. He freezes, crouched behind the crates, his hand gripping the edge so tightly his knuckles turn white even beneath his black gloves.

And that’s when he realizes something: he’s still wearing Petey’s overcoat, the one with the glitter and tassels and medallions. His heart aches.

From across the lawn, a guard twists his head.

Greg doesn’t breathe.

Footsteps come closer; too close. They’re crunching over the gravel path, small pebbles now scattered everywhere in the grass beside it.

A single gloved hand brushes the crate beside him, and Greg’s heart nearly stops.

But then someone else calls out from across the lawn, and the footsteps retreat, drawn away by a false lead.

He finally exhales — quiet, shaky.

Sweat drips from his brow and into his eyes, stinging.

He swipes it away and moves again, moving behind an empty serving car tipped on its side. The wheel creaks as he passes. He presses against the edge of the palace, its massive white walls glowing sickly yellow in the firelight. He can see a low wall leading toward the stables — if he can climb it, maybe drop over the other side, he’d be free.

Greg exhales through his nose, then slowly crawls out from the edge of the palace wall. His legs scream in protest, muscles shaking. He staggers forward.

He crosses under the arch of a vine-covered walkway and drops behind a crumbling stone bench, wiping the sweat from his eyes. Just a few more steps and he’ll be safe. The edge of the palace grounds is near. He can scale the back wall, find higher ground. He can escape back into the kingdom before dawn.

And then — a voice. Small, high pitched.

“Papa?”

Greg freezes, and then his head whips around. At first, he thinks that it is a trick of the wind. But then he hears it again, the desperate cry of a child needing their papa.

His blood runs cold, his heart dropping into his stomach. He turns and sees him.

The kitten — tiny, orange. Still wearing the too fancy ornate robes from the ball. He is standing alone in the center of the courtyard, his big eyes wide and glossy, his hands trembling. Guests and guards thunder around him like a stampede. No one notices him.

He is going to get trampled.

Greg doesn’t think; he doesn’t plan. He moves.

With his boots skidding on the slick stone, he pivots and sprints across the lawn, dodging behind wagons and statues, heart hammering. The moment he reaches the kid, he dives forward, scooping him up into his arms just as a row of guards on horseback gallops past.

The kitten lets out a surprised yelp and clings to Greg’s chest.

Greg turns and bolts — again — his muscles on fire now. He finds a cluster of overgrown bushes and slips inside, shielding the boy with his own body as more guards pass within feet of them.

The kid is shaking.

So is Greg.

They stay there, tucked in the foliage, the roar of the search all around.

When Greg is sure that they’re safe, he loosens his hold and gently sets the kid down onto the soft grass.

But the boy doesn’t let go; he hugs Greg tight, tiny arms around his neck, nose pressing into his shoulder.

Greg blinks hard, his vision blurring. His breath catches. Why is this happening, and why now? He pulls back just enough to look at the kid, his innocent eyes are shining with tears.

“You came back for me,” he says.

Greg squeezes his eyes shut, tears running down his cheeks like waterfalls. He raises his hands, trembling, and signs with halting fingers, “stay good. Stay kind, be a light in this dark world.”

“I will, I promise,” the boy blinks before lunging and hugging him again. “I’ll never forget you.”

Greg hugs him tightly — once, fiercely — before letting him go. He forces himself to his feet, forces his legs to move. He has to leave.

He takes one last glance back to make sure that the kid is safe, hidden behind the flower bushes. “Go to the secret garden if you’re scared, and let yourself have fun on the swing.”

Then he runs.

The palace rises above him again — massive and glittering, indifferent to the pain in its gardens. But Greg has one shot left: the roof.

He climbs a narrow servant’s stairwell, ducking between laundry lines and ivy-covered lattice, until he reaches the top of the ballroom’s domed rooftop. His fingers grip the stone gutter, and he pulls himself over, panting, shaking, the silk of his gown fluttering behind him like ghostlight.

His dress snags against the palace wall. He grits his teeth and climbs — boots finding cracks in the stone, fingers slipping against wet ivy in the gutter. He hauls himself up onto the edge of the rooftop, his whole body burning.

But he isn’t done.

He takes off.

One rooftop to the next — leaping across the narrow gaps, silk trailing behind him like a streak of green fire. Adrenaline carries him further than his strength should allow. He reaches the edge of the main roof and pauses, chest heaving.

Across the alley, the sloped roof of the first civilian house awaits. Home free, Greg steps back and then runs.

And jumps.

The air slices past him. His feet hit the next rooftop, hard. He drops to one knee, catching himself with both hands. For the next few seconds, he lets himself catch his breath.

The palace looms behind him like a trial of judgement, gold-lit windows flickering like a judge’s disapproving gaze. From the rooftop’s edge, the wind whips his dress around his legs, catching the frayed silk in wild arcs that mirror the storm inside him. He can feel his pulse in every joint, his limbs trembling with exhaustion, fear — and something else. Something fragile. Splintered.

He has made it.

He has made it to the rooftop of the building that will lead him home free.

And then, he makes the worst possible choice — he looks down back at the palace grounds. And he sees him.

Petey — standing alone in the courtyard below. No mask, no guards at his side. Just him.

His white coat with gold and green trim glints in the torchlight. His emerald eyes are wide and shining with something unreadable. Greg’s breath catches.

His muscles stiffen as the scene freezes between them — two figures on opposite ends of a night that has unraveled everything. The moon carves silver lines down Petey’s cheeks, illuminating the shock still etched into his face. And yet, his expression is no longer fury. It isn’t even betrayal.

It is longing. Grief.

A soft ache, as though Petey has just been handed a truth he doesn’t want to accept.

Then — a clatter of boots behind him.

Greg’s breath hitches; a guard sprints up next to the prince, armor rattling, sword at his hip. There are words exchanged to the royal, ones Greg can't make out even with his talent of lip reading.

Greg tenses like an animal caught in a snare.

The wind is sharp and cold. He can taste blood in the back of his throat from how hard he’s been running. Every muscle coils, ready to leap. Ready to vanish.

But Petey doesn’t move or break eye contact. He doesn’t even glance at the guard. Instead, he raises his hand and points, directing the soldier towards the west area of the palace grounds. Far away from the roof that Greg is on.

The guard doesn’t question it, not when it comes from his superior. He takes off into the darkness, barking orders over his shoulder.

Greg stares, too stunned to move.

Petey lowers his arm and his face relaxes — just slightly — and then exhales a breath can feel even from where he is.

And then, impossibly — he smiles.

It is crooked, sad, almost tender.

Greg’s knees weaken, almost buckling. His hand rises slowly to his face without him even second-guessing his choice. His mask — sweat slicked and askew — feels heavy now, a barrier between who he is and what he has almost allowed himself to be.

He finally hesitates.

Then, with aching care, he lifts the mask from his face.

Moonlight spills across his cheeks, and tears stain his skin. Their eyes meet with nothing between them now.

And in that moment, everything unsaid erushes between them — wordless confessions, apologies, longing, regrets, all tangled in the stillness of a ruined night.

Petey’s breath visibly catches; his lips part like he wants to say something — anything — but no words come, and the distance between them is forgotten.

Greg holds the gaze one moment longer, then gently slides the mask back down. As if he is drawing the curtain on the life he might’ve had.

The life he could’ve had.

He steps back and disappears over the roof’s edge.

Petey takes a step forward, as if to follow him. But he doesn’t call out; he simply stands there, head bowed, arms slacked at his sides — watching as the figure in the green dress vanishes into the shadows like a wisp of smoke in the wind.

And Greg?

Greg runs.

The night peels around him in fragments.

His boots hit the stones unevenly now, no longer a rhythm, just a desperate scatter of steps barely keeping up with the storm in his chest. His body moves because it has to — muscle memory, instinct, survival. But his mind is somewhere else.

It’s still in the garden, still on that swing. Still feeling Petey’s lips on his, gentle and trembling, the way no one has ever touched him before.

He wants to shut it out; he wants to shut everything out. But he can’t.

He can still feel it — him — everywhere.

In the ghost-warmth of his cheek; the lingering weight of Petey’s hand around his fingers. The faint pressure around his waist where Petey had held him while they danced. 

Greg staggers into a side street and braces himself against the brick wall of an old spice shop. The window beside him is fogged, the glass broken near the top and patched lazily with paper. He doesn’t care; the brick is real. Cold, something to cling to.

He grips it with trembling fingers.

His dress is soaked now. Rain has started — soft and light, barely more than a mist — but enough to settle into the fabric and drag it against his skin like regret. The hem is dark with dirt, the slit torn wider. A strip of lace hangs from his side like a wound.

He looks down.

His leg still bears the faint red mark where the dagger had been strapped. Where it should’ve ended this.

Where he could’ve completed the mission; walked away clean and forgotten the feeling of another’s hand in his own.

But he hadn’t, and now he couldn’t.

Greg’s heart is beating too fast. Or maybe too slow. He can’t tell anymore; it thuds unevenly in his chest like it doesn’t belong there. 

Like it isn’t his.

He forces himself to keep moving, stumbling down the alley with shadows swallowing him.

Around him, the kingdom shifts.

The manicured lawns and floral hedges of the palace district give way to low stone buildings, their facades cracked with time and smoke. Here, the air smells of coal fires and last night’s bread. The lamplight is softer — flickering gas lamps instead of crystal chandeliers.

He passes an open blacksmith that is now closed, a single candle burning by the furnace. The scent of smoking wood drifts into the streets.

It hits him like a punch.

His chest tightens and his steps falter. He remembers Petey’s voice — quiet, hopeful. Full of love before his identity was revealed.

Greg turns his face away and keeps walking.

A cart creaks nearby; he ducks beneath an awning as a pair of guards in silver cloaks pass down a parallel street, their footsteps sharp and military. His hands brace on the wood beam above him, his breath catching in short, desperate gasps.

His vision swims because he wants to be anywhere but here.

Anywhere but in this skin.

He leans forward and presses his forehead to the post, his hands gripping the beam until his knuckles go pale. He bites down on his lip — because it is something he can feel, something that doesn’t twist up behind his ribs and make him want to scream.

And still, behind his closed eyes, he sees Petey.

Not as a target, but as someone who feels emotions. He’s not pristine or unreachable. Greg knows what his face feels like, what his voice sounds like.

The way he smiled with half of his face when he tried to be charming.

The way he lifted Greg into the air during the dance like it didn’t matter that Greg was heavy with armor and guilt beneath that dress.

The way he thanked him for dancing with his son.

Like it meant something — like Greg meant something.

He staggers out from under the awning and back into the street, rain soft on his shoulders, washing the sweat and soot from his skin like absolution.

He can’t breathe, his chest is too tight.

His hands are shaking again, and he can’t stop them.

Greg turns down another alley, narrow and familiar. The stones here bear the scent of the river — brine and moss and rust. He is close to the edge of the kingdom now, back at his hiding place.

If he could just make it back to his base, if he could just disappear, but his foot catches a loose cobble.

He falls to one knee, the impact biting through his joints. His hand slams into the pavement, creating calloused sandpaper on his palm.

He doesn’t get up — not yet, anyway. The alley is empty with just the soft hush of rain.

And Greg, who is crouched low. A shaking silhouette in green silk with one hand pressed to the cobblestones, the other curled over his ribs like he is trying to hold his heart in place.

And then — he sobs. Silent, but gut-deep.

A cry that never passes his lips but trembles through every muscle in his body. He presses his forehead to the ground; the stones are cold. They don’t care, they never care.

He wants to tear the mask off of his face, throw it to the street, scream and howl until his lungs give out.

But he doesn’t, he just shakes, breathes. Cries.

Because he fell in love swaying as the room burned down. And for one heartbeat, he hadn’t been a weapon — he had been wanted. 

And now, he is alone again, still crouched like a broken thing when he should be running. But slowly — he rises and wipes his eyes with the sleeve of Petey’s coat. He looks down the alley and towards the sloped rooftops ahead.

The kingdom hasn’t caught him yet.

And he isn’t ready to give up, not yet.

With one last breath, he starts forward again. The rooftops await, his hiding place is there to shield him.

He glances down at the coat still wrapped around his shoulders — his fingers slowly tightening in the fabric as he pulls it against his body for warmth.

It is too fine for him; heavy white velvet, gold embroidery winding down the cuffs like vines. Emerald accents stitched into the lapels. It is still warm from the body that had given it to him.

Greg’s hands curl tighter into the fabric.

He should burn it and toss it into the river. Maybe let it fall from his rooftop like a discarded life.

But he doesn’t do any of that. Instead, he pulls it closer as he walks down the alleyway. The scent still clings to it — rosewater and citrus, faint smoke, the warm musk of someone who had pulled him into a dance and smiled like the night was made just for them.

Greg swallows hard.

He hates that he has something so soft, so gentle. So intimate.

He doesn’t deserve it.

Greg pulls the collar higher against the wind, his eyes tracing the fine gold thread against the seam. It catches faint moonlight — shimmering quietly like a promise not yet broken.

And that’s when the thought whispers, low and traitorous: he’s going to have to return this.

He blinks, and his lips part. Hidden beneath the shame and heartbreak, a flicker of hope is ignited — the hope that maybe Petey didn’t point him out on the rooftop for a reason, that maybe their last look meant something to him as well.

Greg can only make guesses, but blind hope is something he finds himself clinging onto. It makes his steps away from the palace lighter, making his blown cover almost worth it. This might not be the end as he feared.

Greg might even wait out on the roof of his hideout until the prince decides to seek him out.

After all, Petey will want to get his dress coat back.