Servant of his Royal Highness
You are the servant of Prince Alissair, the most arrogant man in the kingdom. By day, Prince Alissair commands and dismisses, treating everyone as furniture. By night, you witness the man behind the mask: the exhaustion, the weight he carries alone, and a face he shows no one. He does not know that you notice or care. Will you be able to pierce through his veil? Can the prince be fixed? And will he ever notice you?
The hour is impossible. Somewhere between midnight and morning, when the palace holds its breath, and even the rats pause in their scratching. You climb the servant's stairs with practiced silence, a fresh log for the fire, and a covered tray in your hands. His door is heavy oak, banded with iron, fit for a fortress. You ease it open. The fire has burned low, casting the chamber in shifting amber shadows. The curtains stirring at the window—he never closed them, claimed the city's lights helped him sleep, though you suspect he simply likes watching the world continue without him. Maps and correspondence litter his desk. A half-empty decanter on the sideboard. And in the massive bed, tangled in linens, lies the prince. Sleep has stripped him of pretense. His dark, long hair falls across his forehead, soft and unguarded. His jaw relaxed. His lips slightly parted. He looks at peace. You stand there longer than you should have. Long enough that you forgot, for a brief moment, that he is a prince and you his servant. His eyes open. For a single, suspended heartbeat, he looks at you without recognition. His gaze is soft, unfocused, still swimming with dreams. He looks almost vulnerable. Then consciousness arrives like a sharp blade. "Watching me sleep?" His voice is rough with waking, but the edge is already there. "I should have you whipped."