When Elian was twelve, sneaking out had felt like a game.

He'd done it partly out of boredom, partly to prove he could. The palace had seemed so big then; its rules, like a net he could slip through if he was clever enough.

He remembered sitting in his room while a storm rattled the windows, listening to the rain pound against the glass, heart racing with the idea. What if I just… left? No escorts, no ceremonial cloak, no hovering attendants. Just walked out.

The thought had felt outrageous. Exhilarating.

He'd waited until the guards rotated at midnight, until his nursemaid had fallen asleep in the chair by the door, her head tipped back. He'd slipped past her, bare feet silent on the rug, and made his way through the west wing, through the older corridors where the patrols were less strict.

It had been remarkably easy to step through a side gate that night, the storm working in his favor. The guard on duty had been half asleep under his hood; Elian had walked by with a basket of linens and his head bowed, heart hammering.

The city had wrapped around him like a different world—lanterns low against the rain, vendors still calling to those hurrying by, the slick cobblestones shining.

He'd wandered, soaked and grinning, the air full of smoke and laughter and the smell of wet bread. He'd watched a couple arguing loudly in the street and thought, They don't know who I am. They don't care. It had felt like flying.

Of course, the palace had noticed within an hour.

Later, Rowan had told him he'd taken one look at the empty bed and felt something icy slide down his spine.

"I thought you'd been taken," Rowan had said. "Or—"

He'd stopped there, jaw clenched.

Elian hadn't thought about that part. He'd only thought about himself.

He could still recall, with uncomfortable clarity, the way Rowan had found him—standing on a barrel, arm drawn back to throw a ring at a row of glass birds. Elian had been laughing, rain dripping from his hair, when a large hand had closed around his wrist mid-throw.

He'd turned, ready to snap, and found Rowan's face instead, pale under the rain, eyes blazing.

"Off," Rowan had said tightly. "Now."

Elian had obeyed without thinking. Even back then, there was something in Rowan's voice that cut through his defiance like nothing else could.

They'd walked back through the city with Rowan's grip firm on his shoulder, neither saying much. Elian had expected a lecture. Instead, halfway back, Rowan had just exhaled shakily.

"You can't do that again," he'd said. "Not like this."

Elian had bristled. "Why not? I'm not a prisoner."

"No," Rowan had replied. "You're a target."

Elian had opened his mouth with some flippant comment and then shut it again. There'd been something raw in Rowan's expression, something that looked a lot like fear.

He'd apologized then. Awkwardly, stiffly. Rowan had nodded once and dropped the subject.

The glass bird had survived the trip back, somehow. Rowan had carried it, wrapped in his cloak, and left it on Elian's nightstand without a word.

Elian had kept it.

He still had it now—a little thing of pale blue glass—which he sometimes picked up and turned in the light when he couldn't sleep.

Tonight, as the sun sinks and the palace shifts into its evening rhythm, he finds it again.

He takes the bird down from the shelf and runs his thumb over its smooth back. It catches the lamplight, throwing a small bright smear against the wall.

There had been a time when sneaking out was rebellion for rebellion's sake.

Tonight, it feels less like rebellion and more like oxygen.

***

He dresses carefully.

His wardrobe is an exercise in ostentation—velvets embroidered with gold thread, silks dyed in rich jewel tones, tunics with his family crest sewn into every other seam. Most of it screams look at me in a way that feels physically painful when he's already exhausted from being looked at all day.

At the back of the closet, though, are a few simpler things. Left over from hunting trips or training sessions where he insisted on wearing something he could move in: a plain dark tunic, well-worn trousers, a hooded cloak in a nondescript brown.

He pulls those on and stares at himself in the mirror.

Without the crown, without the high collar and thick embroidery, he looks… less like a prince and more like someone who might actually be able to vanish in a crowd.

His face, though, is still his face.

He rummages through a drawer and finds a bit of charcoal. It's a silly idea, but he's not above silly if it helps. He smudges a faint line along his jaw, darkens his brows, musses his hair more than usual. The result is imperfect, but it breaks up the neatness the palace demands of him.

He looks like a worse version of himself. Somehow, that feels right.

By the time the palace bells toll the hour after dinner, he's ready.

He slips out of his chambers through the side door, into the servant corridor. It smells like soap and steam and boiled vegetables, a far cry from the perfumed halls on the other side of the wall. He moves quickly, keeping his hood up when he passes the occasional maid or scullery boy. Most of them don't look up.

The western service stair is dim and narrow, lit by a single lantern halfway down. Rowan is already there, leaning against the wall, arms crossed.

He looks Elian over once, from boots to hood, and huffs out what might almost be a laugh.

"You look like you lost a fight with a coal bin," Rowan says.

"Excellent. That's exactly what I was going for."

Rowan reaches out and tugs the hood a little further forward over Elian's forehead, fingers brushing his temple. "Better."

"You're enjoying this," Elian says.

"I can't enjoy anything that has a high chance of getting us both killed," Rowan replies. "But I'll admit it's a slight improvement over the cloak with the ten-foot train."

Elian smirks. "You just don't appreciate fashion."

"If fashion makes it easier to stab you, I don't appreciate it. No."

Elian's smile widens in spite of himself. This—this easy exchange, this familiar rhythm—is what keeps him sane when everything else is narrowing around him.

"What about you?" he asks, eyeing Rowan's clothes. "Do you plan to blend in by radiating disapproval until no one comes near?"

Rowan is dressed in a plain dark doublet, the kind any middling tradesman might wear, with his hair tied back loosely instead of the tight knot he usually favors on duty. He's left the sword, but Elian knows there's a knife up his sleeve and another in his boot.

"I'm on leave with a friend who insists on bad decisions," Rowan says. "That's my cover."

"Tragically believable."

Rowan shakes his head. "Before we go, we need to be clear. If I say we're leaving, we leave. No arguing. No bargaining. Understood?"

Elian rolls his eyes. "Yes, Sir Hale."

"I'm serious," Rowan says, voice low. "This isn't the palace. If something feels wrong, we don't wait to see if we were right."

Elian holds his gaze. Something about the firmness there—the calm, the care—settles a piece of his frayed nerves.

"Understood," he says quietly.

Rowan nods, satisfied. "Stay close to me. Don't give your real name. Don't flash any coin if you can help it. And if anyone asks, you're—"

"Your younger brother?" Elian suggests.

Rowan snorts. "You'd last five seconds before someone questioned that."

"Why?" Elian lifts his chin. "We both have… faces."

Rowan actually laughs softly at that. "Your accent gives you away. And your spine."

"What's wrong with my spine?"

"It's used to people moving out of your way," Rowan says. "Try slouching."

Elian narrows his eyes, then exaggerates a slouch, rolling his shoulders forward.

Rowan considers. "Better. Terrible for you, but better."

"I'll see a physician about it when we're back," Elian mutters.

"Please don't let that be the thing that gets me reprimanded," Rowan says dryly. "Prince injures posture while pretending not to be prince."

Elian's laugh is real this time, light cutting through the tightness in his chest.

"Ready?" Rowan asks.

"No," Elian says. "Yes."

Rowan gives a short nod and pushes open the door at the bottom of the stair.

Cool air hits them, carrying the smell of lantern oil and distant sea salt. The palace walls fall away behind them as they step into the night.