But there. Near the eastern wall. A gap in the iron fence, where the rust has eaten through the old bars. Wide enough for a man to slip through.

The gap swallows him whole.

Ancient oaks tower overhead, their branches woven into a canopy that filters the dying light into emerald shadows. Moss carpets the forest floor. A stream chuckles somewhere to his left. Deer tracks pressed into soft mud.

Peace.

For a moment, the weight in his chest eases. No royal tutors. No wedding coordinators. No Elizabeth's knowing smile following him down every corridor.

CRACK.

A branch snaps. Behind him. Too close.

Tall. Impossibly tall. Broad shoulders draped in white and gold. Brown skin gleaming like burnished bronze in the twilight. Waist-length black hair stirred by the forest breeze.

A single gold earring catches the light—a star, dangling, swaying.