Eliott pressed his body against the pillar, eyes squinted towards the immediate bend. He had lost count of how many minutes he had waited for someone—anyone—to pass by but so far, no one did. He was alone in the corridor.

His heart skipped at that notion. Looked like he still had a chance.

To do what, exactly, he still had no idea. His mind whirred with all the possibilities he could do once he made it to the castle's front door without being seen. He could visit Wendsholme undercover, taste some of those carrot tarts the Duke of Harwhane kept on going about. Maybe he could track down the horse he lost the other day and lead it back to the stables. Clem was still upset about it.

Or, better yet, he could sneak into the thick forest just outside the tall bricks stacked around Rosewall and maybe—just maybe—he could meet her once more. The fae girl who healed the lark with her magic. The one who also closed up the wounds on his leg. She was the reason he was able to go home that day without the slightest scratch on him.

Her name was Edge. From what family, he didn't know.

Eliott blew a breath and tugged at the plain shirt he threw over his body. It was part of the disguise he was hoping to sell, marking him as merely a page or a son of a random servant. Would it work, though? He hadn't really been able to test the idea since the only places he had been to were the royal wing and the noble halls.

Not a good place for a son of a servant to be found wandering about.

With that in mind, he brushed his hair off his face before peeling off the pillar and striding towards the bend. Let him hope he was truly alone and that no one had entered the corridor the moment he decided to act.

His heart thundered in his chest, pulsing and rebelling even against his temples. The soles of his boots—the only ones he hadn't changed out of—brushed against the floor, the stretch of patterned rugs thankfully muffling the sound. He tucked his hands into the pockets of his trousers, going as far as to duck his head and letting the long strands of his hair fall to his eyes.

The Prince of Rosewall wouldn't let a lock of hair get in the way of his face, after all.

The corridor whizzed by him, the portraits and other embellishments fading away in his periphery as nothing more than a diaspora of gold, red, and silver. The ceiling, albeit hovering higher than ten times his height, bore down on him. Even the murals depicting successful conquests and tales of the past kings' glory looked down at him with judging eyes.

To Eliott, living in a palace is often like that. Just eyes following him around. Just judgment twirling in his wake, leeching off each and every one of his steps.

If the Governess and the Manager of Affairs were to hear of him tromping around the palace like this, they'd surely blow their tops. Clement, the physical trainer to the royal family, already had enough pressure from the King. Naturally, Governess Julia and Sir Geoffer would be next.

Eliott didn't fight the oncoming wince. Of course, it was the least of his intentions to put the people serving him under the carriage like that. He ought to stop this foolish activity and just go back to his lectures and other responsibilities. His office wasn't known to function by itself, his duties to the crown, even more so.

Still, he couldn't shake the feeling that he needed to get out of the palace while he still didn't have a lot of things to think about. At heart, he still felt like a child and he was, at merely eleven. He should be out there, enjoying with kids his age, talking about the latest trend of kites or which dessert was the most worth it to stuff one's face with.

But, as the recent months proved, the Empire didn't see him as a child. By twelve, he was supposed to be inducted formally into the institution, given titles and such, and along with it, would come the duties, the expectations. At eleven, the King already thought it best to prepare Eliott for the coming trials he would face after he took on the offices his titles afforded him. So, since the beginning of the year, Eliott had been taking more lessons and more training.

It was only natural he desired a break. Gods, even the adults desired breaks and were able to take it.

Eliott rounded another corner, this time, coming up to the one which would lead him towards the main staircase. A few steps from that would be the foyer. After the foyer, the main doors. Then, the yard, the gates, the bridge, and finally, the walls.

All in a day's work. Maybe.

He rolled his shoulders and tackled the stairs as soon as his feet cleared the short landing. The red carpets spread over the steps muffled most of his footsteps but he still couldn't shake the feeling that someone was watching him. Hurry. He needed to hurry.

His fingers ran down his sleeves, keeping the nervous shivers at bay. He should have brought a cloak or something. Might have helped in concealing himself.

The moment he touched down on the last step, his heart soared. When he strode past the foyer and emerged to the wide yard, he nodded to himself, pleased. Maybe he was made for this after all. His steps regained their bounce and his limbs relaxed.

A bounty of colors attacked his vision as the sharp smell of flowers and freshly-cut grass coated his nostrils. He took a deep breath of that fresh air, even going as far as to close his eyes. Basking. Feeling every bit of the kisses the wind placed on his skin.

The sun shone brighter than usual. It would be a bit uncharacteristic of him to believe it did so just for him but he thought it nonetheless. Swathes of clouds drifted in the sky, none too thick and fluffy to signal the advent of rain.

It was a good day. A perfect one, at that.

Golden rails comprised the gates leading to the bridge. As expected, soldiers clad in their tight, black coats and beige breeches patrolled the gates separating Eliott and the bridge. If he could just stride without being stopped then—

"Halt!" a deep baritone rang in the air. It didn't even register in his mind that he was just yelled at, his body tensing and stuttering to a stop. "Who goes there?"

Eliott opened his mouth but no words came out. What was he supposed to say to that? What's his cover story? He raised a hand in the air. "Uh..."

"There's no need for that, Officer," a new voice speared from behind Eliott. The next thing he knew was his world whirling back as a strong grip circled his arm and yanked him backwards. "Good work on catching the Prince running away. Again."

Eliott grimaced, knowing his chance was blown into miniscule pieces, scattered into the crisp breeze by the man standing beside him. Sir Geoffer Van Haile, the Manager of Affairs of the Office of the Crown Prince. His title might sound fancy but secretly, he viewed his job as nothing more than a glorified nanny. Eliott couldn't blame the man, though. His job literally included chasing Eliott through the palace and making sure the prince was showing up in the right places.

At the mention of the Prince, the guard's eyes widened. Then, he surged into a bow. "Forgive me, sire," he yelled, a little bit pointlessly. Eliott could hear him quite well with a normal volume. "I didn't realize it's you."

Eliott's lips parted, placating words already heavy on his lips. Sir Geoffer beat him to it. "At ease, Officer," the manager said. "It wasn't your fault the Prince is becoming good at making himself unrecognizable. Although, I would advise you to be vigilant against rowdy children," he flashed a stern look at Eliott. "And run-away princes."

The soldier bowed again. "It will not happen again, Sir."

Yup. There goes Eliott's chances of slipping through the front door.

Geoffer didn't respond. Instead, he whipped towards Eliott. Immediately, Eliott's foot skidded a step back, his soles crunching against the cobblestones. He flashed his manager a cautious smile.

The man sighed and held up a hand. "Not a word from you, Your Highness," he massaged the bridge of his nose. "Let's go."

Without waiting for him to agree, Sir Geoffer strode past Eliott and started his journey back to the castle's interior. Eliott glanced back to the bridge and the town beyond the gates. He had been so close. So close.

A frown pulled down on the corners of his lips as he followed Sir Geoffer back into the place he did his best to run away from. After receiving a whole fifteen minutes of reprimands and the painful reminder of the stuff he wished to forget, Sir Geoffer led him to the wing where most of his lectures were held. The man never removed his gaze on Eliott, even going as far as making him walk ahead, giving Eliott no room to bolt away. Bummer.

The whole day was spent like that. By the time the sun had been replaced by a pale moon, Eliott's shoulders were tight and his brain felt like soup sloshing inside his head. Snippets of the maps and trade routes he had been taught at the last lecture he endured flashed in his head. Oh, if he could just forget it as soon as he went out of the room. That'd be the grandest way of rebelling against his duties.

Instead, when he collapsed into his bed, the information swirled in his head, sticking to the walls of his recollection. And there they would stay for the rest of his life. Before, he was praised for his ability to pick up knowledge and store them as quickly as he did. Now, he wasn't too sure if it was something to be sensationalized. It was a pain, knowing he couldn't forget things even if he wanted to.

Like how the light in Edge's eyes sparkled when she healed the lark. Or how her unnatural red hair swayed with the passing wind, framing round face in luscious tumbles. Or how her laugh knocked around his heart with how innocent and pure it was.

And that's the kind of purity he wished for. He craved it. Unlike the other children of the nobility in this palace, Edge talked freely. Without care. She said what she wanted to say, to whoever she wanted to hear it. She was someone Eliott would like to encounter again, even just for a short while. Something about her and her presence instilled a sense of freedom in Eliott.

Maybe it was just the forest playing tricks in his mind back then. Being far away from the palace while being injured would do that to a boy. Or maybe it was his conscience and gratitude playing with his sentiments, saying he should pay Edge back for using her precious fae magic on him. Better yet, perhaps it was just an unbridled fascination with the unordinary. Fae were among the most secluded people since the humans forced them to retreat to the forests. It wasn't every day one of them got to encounter him.

Either way, Eliott had to meet her again.

A sour cloud erupted in his gut as he tossed and turned on his bed. The sheets were still tucked underneath the mattress and he was too tired to even slip under them. He hadn't bothered drawing a bath or changing out of his clothes. The temptation to just fall asleep on the chaise chairs or the carpeted floor had never been that strong.

How in the gods' names was he supposed to see Edge again if he couldn't even get out of the damn castle? If only there was something he could do. Something...

It clicked. Of course. They met because of a lark. Perhaps, a lark could help them meet each other again.

Excitement burned through his veins. He bolted upright, his exhaustion flitting out of his mind in a thousand, scattered pieces. He had never dashed around his room as fast as he did. This time, he snatched the cloak hanging from the coat pole at the corner of his room. Then, pulling the door as quietly as he could, he slipped into the corridor.

When he got to the menagerie, the birds he was taking care of twittered in delight, bursting into melodious songs. Panic unfolded in Eilott's gut. He whirled left and right, looking for anyone who might have heard him. Apart from the few guards patrolling the palace at night, he hoped there wasn't anybody else awake.

He turned back to the birds and whistled a low tone under his breath. The songs ceased. That's good. At least they know him well enough that way. Then, he whistled again, this time, holding up one finger in the air. The nearest lark, a cloudlark perched on the vines dotting the walls of the menagerie, hopped into it. Once its claws were wrapped around his finger, he drew the bird closer.

It was always a wonder how he was able to get away with keeping birds in the menagerie. This place was supposed to house the gifts the other empires give to the King on state visits or in official conventions. It was created for the sole purpose of taking care of the presents that were alive and moving. Larks, judging by how commonplace they were in Rosewall, weren't part of that deal.

Perhaps the caretaker had done a good job in deflecting any of Eliott's connection to the birds. So far, he's doing a good job in taking care of them too when Eliott couldn't.

From the corner of his eye, the white-striped tiger gifted by the Karnate of Siande pranced around its grated cage, its beady eyes trained on Eliott. He swallowed against the lump forming in his throat and turned back to the lark.

His other hand patted his pockets in search of something to tie to the lark's leg. These birds have great homing senses. If there was anyone who could find Edge again, it was them. So, Eliott tucked the bird under his cloak and trudged back to his room.

When the door behind him shut, he breathed a sigh of relief. It's a miracle no one noticed him creeping in and out of his room so late in the night. It's even more of a miracle the lark hadn't made a noise or squirmed much under his hold. Had he really become a bird whisperer overnight?

A small chuckle shook his shoulders as he zipped towards his nightstand. He picked up the single feather he had left of Edge. Then, he opened one of his drawers. Various knickknacks greeted him in a jumbled mess. Oh, he should have listened to Julia when she told him to arrange his things.

Never mind that. He stuck his fingers into the mess and grabbed the first thing he could. He came up with a small pebble. What was this rock doing in there?

He shook his head. Instead, he snatched the lace tying his tunic from the front and wrapped it around the pebble in a series of knots. He was about to tie it to the lark's leg when he paused. Of course. He needed to send it too.

Without thinking about the possible consequences, he strode towards his closet, drew one of the vests he wore on working days, and tore off the Crown Prince's crest. That's fine. They'd get him a new one anyway.

When both the pebble and the crest were secured on the bird's legs, he waved the feather from Edge's wing in front of the lark. "Go find her for me, will you?" he whispered to it. He had no idea if it ever understood or heard him, but it chirped and tilted its head from side to side.

Then, it hopped to the sill of Eliott's open window and, without looking back, spread its wings and launched itself to the inky black sky.

Let him wish he could do the same.