One brutal shove to shut the old, splintered door isn't enough. Breathing heavy, Renit Marron, banished prince of Esaria, slams his shoulder against the rough surface once more. Not only for the need to hurry as the guards are getting close, but he's frustrated, too. Everything has fallen apart. He takes out his anger on the door until finally, the lock clicks shut and he's alone.

As he has been for the past month. Now a broken and guilted witch, he turns weakly towards the small attic space, presses his back against the door, and rests his head against the chipped wood. Even the sting of the splinters digging into his tunic, breaking through the thin fabric, isn't enough to bring him fully back to himself. He's forgotten who he is, it all went away the second Roux looked at him without a hint of recognition for the love they shared.

He squeezes his eyes shut in the dark but finds more waiting for him. Renit is tired of the dark, not only the swirling black clouds in his mind but the dim lighting of this petite attic space, the ceiling barely tall enough for him to stand at full height. The wooden beams stretched across the ceiling reach from one end of the space to the other, covered in the long-gone ghost of cobwebs and dust.

A small window barely big enough for Renit's hand is his only visual to the streets beyond and the cluster of guards that could have sworn they spotted the shadow of someone walking through the streets. His shadow. They spotted him, after the entire month of behaving in such a stealthy matter that no one, not even the king, could catch him.

He supposes the faults started when he heard rumors of Roux fighting in the pits tonight, her first time in two weeks after someone broke her arm. A dirty fighter. Renit had dragged a dagger along his throat later that night, in the quiet and soothing blackness of a tight alley.

When Renit heard Roux was fighting in the pits, he threw away all the caution he's been centering his life around. The guards spotted him as quickly as they would an innocent pedestrian moving from one place to the other. Before he got the chance to see her, to watch her brutally take down another fighter that never stood a chance in the first place, they forced him to come back here.

His sigh is laced with exasperation, and the banished prince pushes himself off the door. The wooden floorboards creak underneath his leather boots, now scuffed and ruined, ripped along the side from a piece of barbed wire that had lodged itself when he tried to escape. The condition of his clothes is something else he must worry about, among the many other things currently weighing him down.

A banished prince. The king believes Renit to be long gone, possibly in a different kingdom entirely. But Renit never left. Instead of giving his father the advantage, he chose an abandoned cottage in the capital, one that hadn't held a resident in years, and brought what he could up to the attic.

No one would check there. And, if they did, their lives would be over shortly after.

Renit's only belongings are stuffed away, hidden in an old chest. He stares down at it, reminded of the wooden chests he recovered with Roux. How had he been so foolish to waste that time? Why couldn't he have loved her from the start?

Those belongings mean little to him, they're merely changes of clothes, a spare pair of boots, and an empty journal he hasn't given himself the strength to write in yet. After those first few days, his hand hovered over the page, a sharpened piece of charcoal gripped tightly in his fingers, but he couldn't bring himself to come up with the perfect words for what happened.

He wishes to remember it all, everything his father did to ruin his life. He had lost Darlene and Oisin for the fault of his own but this one, losing Roux—that is entirely the king's fault. A twinge of guilt twists his heart as he realizes Roux could have never been here in the first place if he was kind enough to let her stay in that damn village near the cliffsides.

Although grateful to have met her, loved her, kissed her, explored her...she would have been better off if they never met in the first place.

Renit tips his head back to look at the ceiling as the ghosts of guilt plague him once more. He hasn't had a break from them, not after this entire month of listening to rumors and hiding in dark alleys where no one would ever dare to venture.

The only belonging he cares for, the only thing that matters anymore—Renit wraps his hand around it and allows the round, smooth nuummite to warm his palm. After the king banished him, it was the only thing he had time to grab that meant anything to him. Not the collection of daggers or the black shirts Roux always teased him for. No, it was this, resting on his bedside table and curled into a ball—as if waiting for him. He doesn't remember putting it there.

Echoing voices of guards searching for him weaken, their murmuring moving from one street to the next. They won't find him here, they couldn't track his destination. As good of guards as any, Renit thinks. His father could have employed someone with better tracking skills but alas, there are more important matters at hand. Turning his people into mindless killers, apparently.

Renit shifts his stare to the cot in the attic's corner, only a thin pillow and blanket being his cover. Nothing compared to the warm, comfortable mattress in the castle, the one he shared with Roux towards the end. To spare yet another day from endless questions, Renit shoves them down. They already got him into one deadly situation, he need not discover another that doesn't end so well.

He pulls the cloak over his head, shadowing the dark features covered in dirt and grime from lack of proper washing over the past month. He's paid copper coins to use the services of those in the slums, one every three days, and he's due for another wash tomorrow. Thumbing through the coins in his palm, tugged from the small pouch dangling from his belt, Renit decides he has enough to pay for a wash of clothes, as well.

But there are more important matters to stew over, Roux being his main focus. A proper wash will come after as can this attic or the foolish guards moving on without a thought to check abandoned buildings. The king has increased security in this area, already knowing what Renit might do to stay close to Roux, but the men are no better than civilians. Actually, the people towards this part of the capital have a stronger wit.

Renit found himself on the end of many losing deals when he wasn't paying close enough attention to what they were offering compared to what he had.

The door dislodges from its locked position after he tugs on the metal handle a few times. The streets outside are silent, leading Renit to believe the guards have long gone. Ever so, he takes careful steps down towards the first floor, following the rickety staircase as it twists from top to bottom, around an abandoned bedroom appearing to belong to a young girl.

Renit had long ago gone through the abandoned belongings in this cottage of stone walls and rotting floorboards. But he hadn't been the first. Others before him hardly left anything behind. Toys, dishware, clothes that are no better than strips of fabric. Nothing useful to Renit, although the little girl that lived here had a makeshift knife stuffed underneath the cot. Smart child, Renit thinks.

The star-flecked night opens before him. Renit checks both ways before stepping out of the cottage and listens for guards that might linger around. Citizens are able to see him and recognize who he is, they could report that information back to the king. Renit had been certain that was the case the first few days when he made his face known to the slums but no one, not even the filthy street rats, gave away his identity.

Appearing as normal as one of those slum citizens, Renit forces his spine straight and his stare low. Keep your head low, but your eyes open. Wise words his mother once shared, one of the few pieces of advice one of his parents gave him. Renit's father never cared much for training his sons, he let the assassins and murderers do that for him. And they got paid a hefty sum to turn the prince into one of them.

Renit keeps to the alleys, stepping over heaps of trash and discarded food that throughout the night, rats and raccoons will pick through. By tomorrow, most of it will dry in the balmy summer sun.

Outside of taverns, Renit slithers by and avoids the low-lit environments stocked with citizens attempting to drown their lives away. A fight breaks out in one and Renit moves to the other side of the street to avoid colliding with anyone being thrown out the front door and taking him out with them. He can't take any chances.

The fighting pits are merely a few blocks away from the cottage he resides in now. It's one of the most popular destinations in the capital. Everyone comes here, whether they're rich or poor, on the wealthier side or living in the slums themselves. Everyone wants to make a bet on who will win in the pits, all while buying themselves a pint of ale from the slushed barrels on the other side of the tavern counter.

It's a bustling place of blood-driven activity, making The Iron Spoon a very dangerous and effective place to spend one's nights and silvers. Renit has been there one or two times in search of escaped and suspected criminals, had fought in the pits himself when one criminal jumped in there, demanding a fight before Renit took him. The prince had been all too pleased to oblige him and ended up winning, killing the man before he could crawl his way out the stone walls enclosing them, crusted in blood, urine, and yanked hair from the heads of both sexes.

Renit turns a sharp corner, once again losing himself in the trance of his thoughts. A mistake, considering down the street, a group of guards is heading in his direction. "Shit," he mumbles underneath his breath.

All he wanted was to see her. Just to know she's alive.

He hadn't wanted to talk to her or approach her or find a way to get her out of the trance the king put her in. All Renit wants is to see her. Not tonight. And it's too late to turn back—he'll make himself look more suspicious than he already does.