Elian spends the morning pretending to be someone who isn't thinking about jumping.

He does it well enough that no one seems to notice.

There are meetings with his tutors, walk-throughs of the week's ceremonies, a half-hour where the king's steward drones on about the seating arrangements for the Virell delegation. It all blurs together like one long sentence without punctuation. Elian nods at appropriate moments, gives polite answers when asked his opinion, and feels his mind sliding away from his body, as if he's watching himself from somewhere outside.

By the time the sun is leaning toward late afternoon, his head hurts.

He finds Rowan in the training yard.

The courtyard is carved into the inner ring of the palace, ringed with stone archways and open to the sky. The clang of steel and grunts of effort echo off the walls. A handful of guards are running drills, wooden practice blades thudding against each other. Sweat darkens their tunics; dust clings to their boots.

Rowan is in the middle of a spar when Elian arrives, matched against another knight, both moving with controlled ferocity. Rowan is all economy—no wasted motion, every step measured. He turns a strike aside with his forearm, twists, and knocks the other man's sword from his hand in one smooth, unhurried movement.

"Yield," Rowan says.

His opponent steps back, breathing hard, grinning. "Fine, fine. Next time."

"There won't be a next time if you keep dropping your guard when you lunge," Rowan replies. "Try again after you've decided you'd like to keep your head."

A few of the others laugh. The atmosphere is easy, familiar. Rowan is respected here; Elian can feel it from the archway, watching unseen for a moment.

It's strange, seeing Rowan in this context—still tied up in duty, but freer somehow. Less… careful. He looks younger when he's focused on something other than Elian.

Elian realizes he's staring and forces himself to move.

He steps out from under the archway and onto the packed dirt of the yard. The change in sound is immediate; a couple of the guards straighten when they see him.

Rowan notices a half-second later. His eyes flick to Elian, and his expression shifts—just a tiny notch—into the precise, attentive calm he always wears around the prince.

"Your Highness," he says, inclining his head.

"Rowan."

The other guards bow quickly, murmuring greetings. Elian acknowledges them with a nod, but his attention is fixed on the man in front of him.

"Did you need something?" Rowan asks.

Yes, Elian thinks. A different life.

"I need air," he says instead. "The kind they don't bottle and perfume and serve with speeches."

One of Rowan's eyebrows lifts. "Is the balcony not sufficient today?"

"Funny." Elian folds his arms loosely. "I want to go out."

"Out," Rowan repeats slowly, as if the word needs careful examination.

"Into the city."

There's a beat of silence where dust motes drift in a shaft of light between them.

"You know that's not exactly encouraged right now," Rowan says.

"Lots of things aren't encouraged." Elian shrugs. "I'm not asking to join the thieves' guild. I just want to walk among people who don't bow when I pass."

Rowan's gaze sharpens. "It's not about the bowing. There are risks. Especially with the Virell delegation arriving tomorrow."

"I'm not going to run off with their ambassador," Elian says dryly. "Though that might solve everyone's problems."

Rowan doesn't smile. "You know what I mean."

Elian studies him. There's concern there—not just in the way his jaw tightens, but in the way his hand curls slightly around the hilt of his practice sword. Elian's request has landed heavier than he meant it to.

He could push. He could pull rank and say, I am the prince, and I gave you an order. Rowan would obey. But the taste of that feels wrong in his mouth.

"Do you remember the festival?" Elian asks instead.

Rowan's frown eases a fraction. "Which one?"

"The one when I was fourteen. The Spring Moon festival. I disappeared for three hours, and you nearly lost your position because of it."

Rowan's eyes flicker, some old, half-buried emotion moving there. "I remember."

Elian smiles, but it's tilted. "You found me."

"You were standing on a barrel trying to win a glass bird from a throwing game."

"I won it."

"You missed every shot for half an hour," Rowan says. "The stall keeper gave it to you out of pity."

Elian laughs; he can't help it. The memory is absurd and vivid—colored lanterns swinging over crowded streets, musicians playing too loud, the smell of fried dough and spiced wine. For a few hours, he'd felt… ordinary.

"I want that again," he says quietly. "Just for one night. No crown. No speeches. No people measuring my worth in alliances."

Rowan watches him. Their gazes hook and hold, the noise of the yard fading into a dull backdrop.

"You're not fourteen anymore," Rowan says at last. "And if something happens to you now, it doesn't just cost me my position."

"So we're more careful," Elian says. "You're good at that."

Rowan lets out a slow breath. Elian can almost see the calculation behind his eyes: routes through the city, guard schedules, exit points, the odds of things going wrong.

"You're not going alone," Rowan says.

"I had assumed as much."

"And we stay out of the busier districts. No noble quarter, no river docks at night. We're in and out before midnight. If anything feels wrong, we turn back."

Elian tries not to show his relief. "So that's a yes."

"It's not a no," Rowan says, which from him might as well be a signed edict.

"Tonight?" Elian asks.

"Tonight," Rowan says reluctantly. "After the evening meal. Come to the western service stair. Wear something that doesn't have your family crest embroidered all over it."

Elian's heart trips. The day, which had felt like a low, endless line, suddenly has a bright point in it.

"I'll see what I can do," he says.

Rowan nods once and turns back to his sparring partner, but Elian catches it—the tiniest hint of a smile ghosting across his face.