Sorry, Maman.
This is all I know how to be.
I turned away from the reflection and climbed down the fire escape. The bike was where I'd left it, engine cold but ready. I stowed the bow, stripped off the bloodied gloves, and pulled on clean ones from the storage compartment.
The ride back to the palace was slower. Quieter. The rain kept falling. The city kept breathing. And I kept moving because stopping meant thinking, and thinking meant remembering, and remembering meant drowning.
So I didn't stop.
Not until the palace gates closed behind me and I was back in the hidden garage, stripping off the gear and locking the bow away. Notuntil I'd climbed the servant stairs and slipped back into my quarters, the door clicking shut with a finality that felt like a prison sentence.
Apollo was waiting. He padded over, tail wagging, and pressed his nose into my hand. I sank to the floor and hugged him, burying my face in his fur. He smelled like home. Like safety. Like everything the rest of the world wasn't.
“You're the only one who'd still wait up for me,” I whispered.
He licked my cheek, and I felt something crack open in my chest. Something raw and bleeding that I'd been keeping locked down for eighteen years.
2
PRISONER IN THE MAKING
SEBASTIAN
I'd barely closed my eyes when someone knocked.
Not the sharp rap of palace staff. Not the controlled rhythm of security. This was familiar. Three soft knocks, pause, then two more. Our code since we were children.It's me. It's safe.
“Come in,” I called, voice rough from smoke and exhaustion.
Élodie pushed the door open, carrying a tray with coffee and something that smelled like the cinnamon pastries from the kitchen she knew I loved. My oldest friend. My only friend, really. The only person in this entire palace who knew what I did when the lights went out.
She was dressed impeccably as always. Dove grey suit that cost more than most people's monthly rent, dark hair pulled back in a twist that looked effortless but probably took twenty minutes. The King's personal aide. Trusted. Invisible in the way only palace staff could be. Which meant she had access to everything.
And she used it to keep me alive.
She took one look at me and sighed. Not disappointed. Just tired. The same exhaustion I felt mirrored in her green eyes—so close to mine in color that people used to joke we could be siblings.
“You went out again.”
“I don't know what you're talking about.” I sat up, wincing as bruised ribs protested. “I was here all night. Sleeping peacefully like the responsible prince I am.”
“Sebastian.” She set the tray down on the side table with deliberate care. “You have soot in your hair. Your knuckles are split. And you're moving like someone kicked you in the ribs.” She turned to face me fully. “Don't insult my intelligence by lying badly.”
I ran a hand through my hair. Came away with black residue. “Could be from the fireplace.”
“The fireplace that hasn't been lit in three days?” She crossed to the cabinet under the mounted screen. Found the remote. “Try again.”
The television flickered to life. News filled the room in a wash of sirens and rain-blurred footage.
DOCKS RAID MULTIPLE PEOPLE DEAD.
My chest tightened. I watched bodies being carried out on stretchers. Watched armed police securing the perimeter. Watched my handiwork displayed for the entire city.
A studio anchor spoke over the images of blue lights and taped-off concrete. “We go now to the Metropolitan Police briefing at Southwark. Detective Chief Inspector Reuben Akintola.”
The feed cut to a small press room. A man in a dark suit stepped to the microphones. Late thirties, eyes like polished flint, close-cropped hair, skin the warm brown of old mahogany. Calm voice that carried to the back walls. Patient. Dangerous.
“Good morning. At approximately 02:10, officers responded to shots fired in the Belmont warehouse district. We can confirm multiple fatalities and evidence of a significant illegal arms operation.”
