Chapter Text
Tonight was one of those nights where Kyle had to turn his head toward the foot of the bed just to pretend sleep might come. The kind of restless maneuver you try after shifting pillows one too many times, after convincing yourself that the next position, surely the next, would be the one.
It wasn’t.
His hair itched. Ginger curls spilled across the cream-colored silk of his pillow, coiling around his pointed ears and brushing insistently against his cheeks. When he turned, the weight of his head flattened them just enough that the stray, rebellious strands tickled along his jaw. He shifted again, pushing his hair back with one hand, curling onto his side and drawing his knees toward his chest.
Maybe this would work.
It didn’t.
2:37 a.m.
The gold-painted clock across the room caught the moonlight just enough for him to make out the time. The numbers glimmered faintly, elegant and useless. Kyle knew this room so well he was certain he could navigate it blindfolded; every chair leg, every corner of the desk, every hairline crack in the stone floor. When you grow up this sheltered, your world becomes very small. Very familiar.
He knew why his world was small. His parents had made that painfully clear.
No amount of arguing had ever convinced them to let him explore even the edges of the forest. Not guards. Not walls. Not promises of caution. He had tried once, twice, (probably more times than he could count honestly) before finally learning which arguments were worth the breath and which weren't.
He used to be allowed in the gardens. On the roof. To lie on his back and watch the stars spill across the sky like something endless and alive. To feel the wind tug at his hair and remind him there was more than stone and silk and watchful eyes.
They took that chance with Ike.
They would not make that mistake again.
2:43 a.m.
Kyle gave up with a frustrated huff, throwing the covers aside and swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. The cold stone floor sent a sharp shiver up his spine, one he welcomed. He liked the cold. Liked the idea of wind on his face, of air strong enough to push his hair back and tangle it into the branches of his crown.
The closest he ever came to that now was a handheld fan in the summer, and even then it felt like pretending.
He crossed the room to the desk, pulling the chair free. Most of his learning happened here; self-disciplined, quiet, occasionally interrupted by his tutor, Craig, reminding him to focus. Kyle didn’t mind. There were worse things than solitude, and at least this kind gave him control over what he learned.
Maths and sciences were expected. Astronomy was not.
He gravitated toward it instinctively, as close to the outside world as he was allowed to get. His telescope stood near the window, well-loved, carefully maintained. Sleepless nights often ended this way.
Tonight was no different.
He found the North Star easily, then traced the constellations from memory, invisible lines connecting what the sky refused to label for him. He wondered how many stars he couldn’t see. How many patterns existed beyond his narrow slice of sky.
The window itself loomed nearby.
His only one.
A security risk, according to his parents, despite the height. Kyle sometimes wondered why they hadn’t boarded it shut entirely. The narrow stone balcony just beyond the glass taunted him, always just out of reach.
Years ago, a guard had caught him standing there, gulping fresh air like it might disappear forever. The shouting that followed the next morning had been swift and brutal enough to teach him a lesson he’d never forgotten.
Touch the window too much, and it might disappear.
He looked away.
3:04 a.m.
Too late. Far too late.
Kyle shoved the chair back beneath the desk and collapsed onto the bed again, staring at the ceiling and begging sleep to come. He had duties in the morning, royal and unavoidable, and exhaustion would not excuse him.
⚬──────────✧──────────⚬
The next thing he remembered was waking.
The sharp clank at his door tore him from dreamless rest. Kyle groaned, rolling onto his back. “Hold on,” he muttered, stretching as he reached for his robe.
The November air had settled into the room overnight, cool and crisp. He welcomed it as he slipped the robe over his cotton sleepwear.
“You should have been awake hours ago,” King Gerald called through the door. “The sun’s been up for two.”
Kyle winced as his father pushed inside before he could answer, filling the doorway like a barrier.
“You waste too much of the morning,” Gerald continued. “Think of what you could accomplish.”
Kyle bit back a retort as he crossed to his wardrobe. “And do what, exactly?” he asked instead.
His father sighed. “Study. Read. Prepare. Your coronation is only months away. There’s an itinerary to arrange. Decorations. Guests. A suitor—”
Kyle stopped moving.
He turned slowly, glare sharp enough to cut the sentence off where it stood.
The coronation loomed over everything now. A celebration meant to honor him after years of being hidden away. Hundreds of eyes. Expectations he wasn’t sure he could meet. People who barely knew him, trusting him with a crown.
“If I could actually see my kingdom,” Kyle said tightly, “maybe I’d be better prepared to rule it. If I could meet my people. Choose my own path instead of being handed one.”
He adjusted his crown with careful fingers. He always did.
“We’ve discussed this,” Gerald said, quieter now. “We can’t risk it.”
“You took that risk once,” Kyle replied before he could stop himself.
Silence.
“You’re all we have left,” his father said softly.
Kyle sat on the edge of the bed, hands clenched. “I know. I just wish it didn’t feel like a punishment.”
Gerald sighed, sitting beside him. “We’re protecting you.”
“I don’t feel protected,” Kyle whispered. “I feel trapped.”
“I know,” Gerald said, and though Kyle knew he meant it, it didn’t change how he’d felt for the past eight years. “But we can’t change this.”
⚬──────────✧──────────⚬
The next night unfolded the same way.
Restlessness. Pages turning. The steady glow of an oil lamp. Kyle’s eyes grew heavy over a childish story he loved despite himself.
Thwack.
He jolted upright.
The sound came from the window.
Kyle froze, heart pounding, staring into the moonlit glass. Nothing moved.
Probably an animal, he told himself.
He returned to the book, just as—
Thwack.
This time, he didn’t wait.
He extinguished the lamp, plunging the room into darkness, and stood watching as moonlight reclaimed the space. Something clung to the glass.
A scrap of paper.
Kyle’s breath caught.
He crossed the room before doubt could stop him, sliding the window open just enough to reach out and snatch it free. Cold air rushed in, sharp and exhilarating. He shut the window quickly, heart racing, and relit the lamp at his desk.
The paper trembled faintly in his hands as he unfolded it.
Do you ever wonder what it’s like outside?
Kyle didn’t hesitate.
He grabbed a sheet from his sketchbook, scribbled a response, and taped it to the window — rules be damned.
More than you could ever imagine.