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The sweet melody of a violin weaves its way through the low murmur of the crowd. Silks swish across the dance floor as young maidens are dipped and spun. They’re all bright, glittering, the best of the best dressed up to honor the crown jewel of the kingdom on his special night.
The over the top opulence makes Oliver feel sick. Chandeliers dripping with crystals and gold, tables overflowing with food, all the while the people living outside these palace walls barely scrape by enough to survive. He has more in common with the dirt on these people’s shoes than the partygoers themselves, and he has no interest in getting to know them any further. But, unfortunately for him, he’s stuck here for the evening, forced to witness their peacocking and shmoozing.
‘Remember the money, Oliver. Just think about the money.’ He’s a professional. He’s here for a job. He can do this.
Several months ago Stephanie had received a request for his services. Oliver has become known for his particular set of skills, and as word has travelled the stature of his targets has increased. Still, this was unlike anything he had ever been asked to do before. The instructions were clear: don the red mask provided, enter the party under an alias, and poison the Prince. Oliver almost chucked the request in the garbage, but then Stephanie handed him the envelope with the cash advance, and now here he is.
It was dangerous. If he’s caught, he will surely be killed, but it's enough money to pay off his debts, help Stephanie buy her bar outright, and leave her enough money that she’ll never have to worry again. He’ll be able to escape this town, with all of its shadows and haunted memories, and start anew somewhere that his past can’t reach him.
So Oliver sips on expensive wine that tastes like an old boot. He swipes fancy hors d'oeuvres from waiters as they slip by. He nods along to the music and avoids the eye of anyone who looks like they might ask him to dance. He’s not here to make small talk with the lords and their ladies, laughing at their bad jokes, or praising their mediocre achievements. His eyes never stop scanning the crowd, keeping an eye on his target.
Prince Henry is easy to spot, despite the large white mask covering his eyes, adorned with swan feathers and crystals. Even in the dim candlelight, he manages to shine golden—impossible not to notice. Surrounded by his loyal subjects, he tells them stories, hands waving in emphasis as they all stare, enamoured, hanging onto every word.
It’s been this way the entire night. He never gets more than a breath alone before another group of guests comes drifting over, moths to a flame.
Oliver takes a big sip of his wine. He just barely manages to scrunch his nose—it’s still disgusting. Adjusting his mask, he continues to wait for an opening, just one moment alone with the Prince. He bides his time, knowing that as the night goes on, as the liquor flows and inhibitions fall, he will get his opportunity.
A young lady strides over to Prince Henry, her long dress train trailing the floor behind her. Peacock feathers adorn the edges of her mask and the collar of her dress, and her pointy nose—turned so high up in the air, it’s a miracle she doesn't trip—reminds Oliver very much of the bird. She pushes her way to the front of the group surrounding Prince Henry, abruptly ending all conversation as she does so.
“Henry,” she says, with an air of casualness that makes everyone around her blink, stunned. “Would you be so kind as to give me one good dance for the record tonight? None of the other men around here can match my grace; it’s been truly a dreadful thing to witness.”
Prince Henry smiles—it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He straightens to his full height from where he was perched on the edge of a table. “Of course I will dance with you, Lady Madeline. It would be my pleasure.” The men and women around them part so that they can pass, Prince Henry holding out his hand so that he may lead the lady onto the dance floor. They smile furtively at each other, no doubt whispering about how gentlemanly and kind the Prince is. And on the outside it looks just like that: a young gentleman treating a young lady to a dance, but Oliver has spent years studying people. Most importantly learning how to spot when they lie.
Prince Henry is a masterful liar. His tells are subtle; if he wasn’t in line to be King, Oliver thinks the Prince to be a good assassin as well.
On the dance floor, they move through the steps seamlessly. People gather around the edges of the hardwood to watch as they glide alongside the long and slow bow strokes of the cello, as if floating on top of the music. Lady Madeline is beaming, shooting a sharp, smug smile at any young woman who dares meet her eyes. Prince Henry’s, though holding their gazes, are lost, drifting somewhere in the distance. His body is here, but it’s clear to Oliver that his mind has wandered far away.
The song lasts an eternity, thanks to Lady Madeline motioning over the Prince’s shoulder at the cellist to keep playing the refrain. Oliver is nearly done with his glass when it finally comes to an end. The Prince bows and steps off the dance floor. Lady Madeline tries to keep up, arm out to snag Prince Henry’s shirt sleeve, but he subtly pivots away from her. She less subtly bears left into his path, consequently shouldering a woman passing by.
There’s a gasp and the sound of glass scatters across the floor. Dark red blooms across the Prince’s lapels and drips down his entire front. The rest pools at his feet, staining his white, pristine shoes.
“Your Highness,” a woman stammers, eyes widened in horror as she lifts a corner of her dress to pat at the mess on Prince Henry’s waist coat. “I am so terribly sorry, Prince Henry, please accept my apology–”
He shushes her, laying his right hand atop where hers rubs over his heart, frantically—futiley—trying to clean up her mess. “Please, Lady Cassandra, it is quite alright.” His smile is soft and kind—nevermind that the woman ruined an outfit that costs more money than most people will see in their lifetime. “However, if you’ll excuse me, I am going to run to my chambers to change my coat.” Most people step out of his way, some offer him their clothes to change into, others follow him to see if they can help, but the Prince manages to slip out of the ballroom alone.
Once he is gone, the volume of chatter in the room doubles as everyone gathers to talk about the spectacle they just witnessed. With everyone distracted no one notices as Oliver slinks over to the door the Prince left from, setting his empty wine glass on a nearby table. He needs his hands to be empty for the next part of his plan.
Just as Oliver has positioned himself, the door creaks back open. Voices drop to whispers. Oliver turns and bows his head. “You know, they say spilled wine is a sign of good luck,” he starts. “That it signals you will have prosperity and cause for celebration in your future.”
“And who are these ‘they’ you speak of?” The Prince asks with amusement. His new suit jacket is a muted blue and gold, stitched with his family’s crest and colors. The tones compliment his features, making him no less pleasing to look at, but less ethereal than the all-white ensemble he started the evening in. More human.
Oliver shrugs, gesturing into the air. “Oh you know. They. The shamans. The monks. The gods themselves. Certainly not someone who just pulls nonsense out of their ass.”
The Prince laughs. “Your conviction has captured me,” the Prince says, leaning into Oliver’s dramatics. “Now, tell me then—what should I be looking forward to celebrating?”
Oliver thinks about the glass vial in his pocket. The clear liquid inside, odorless, tasteless, a quick death. “Well, I thought that was obvious,” he says, gesturing around the room. “Was this not hosted to preface your impending coronation? And is your future wife not in the room with us tonight, waiting to be found? Or maybe you’ve already discovered her—the peacock was certainly fluffing her feathers.”
“She is something, isn’t she?” the Prince says. His tone is neutral, even leaning complimentary, but Oliver can read between the lines—she absolutely ruffles the Prince’s. “But, despite my father’s best efforts, a partner still eludes me. I’m starting to think I’m the problem. I fear I’ll pass away before I’m betrothed.”
Oliver nods, mock somber. “Well, you know what else they say? A dance away keeps death at bay.”
The Prince raises an eyebrow. “And this ‘they’—real credentials this time, correct?”
“Of course, of course. Did you hear that rhyme? That one came straight from my head, no asses in sight.”
The Prince laughs again. It is a light, delicate thing, like sunlight breaking through the clouds, the first petals of spring breaching the snow. Oliver understands why people are so enraptured by Prince Henry: he plays his part well, makes you feel seen. The boyish charm is just the cherry on top; having only just spent a few moments in his company, Oliver already wants to hear him laugh again.
Gods, he really would have made a great assassin.
He chases those thoughts away as quickly as they come. This visit isn’t for pleasure, it’s for business.
Oliver holds out a hand. “So, would you do me the pleasure of a dance, Your Highness? I know you met your quota already today, but one more certainly can’t hurt.”
Prince Henry regards him for a moment, his expression unreadable, and Oliver worries that he’s been found out somehow. That his carefully laid out plans have gone up in smoke, and his reputation—or worse, his life—are going to be thrown upon the pyre.
“Forgive me, I just realized how rude it would be for me to accept this dance before asking your name,” the Prince says, and the tension within Oliver dissipates.
“Not rude at all. You may call me...” Oliver is interrupted by the conductor tapping her baton on her music stand, signaling the start of the next song.
"Oh, we must hurry," Prince Henry says, gripping Oliver's outstretched hand and leading him across the room. Oliver feels the weight of every gaze turning to look at them, all of them wondering who this nobody is, and why he has been given the honor of dancing with their beloved Prince. Their heels click against the polished wood of the dance floor.
Prince Henry’s hand finds Oliver’s waist, strong, steady. He leans in, his lips brushing the shell of Oliver’s ear, and whispers.
“Keep up.”
His hand squeezes Oliver's hip, and then when Henry leans back, something other than the reflection of the crystals is twinkling in his eye. The violinist runs her bow over the strings and the world rushes back into focus. Oliver is given one brief moment to wonder what he has gotten himself into before the music begins.
The cello rumbles and the violin sings. They pick up into a gallop, their melody encouraging those on the dance floor to pick up their feet and run alongside it. The Prince leads, feet quick and hands sure as he guides Oliver alongside him. The synchronized echo of boots and heels on the wood floors sounds like a stampede as they dance and dance. Prince Henry’s eyes are bright, sparkling like the delicate gemstones that outline his mask. As the music crescendos Oliver can barely keep up. He feels a bit lost, woefully out of his depth, but every time he thinks he’s going to trip, there’s a warm hand steady on his arm and pulling him back into the music.
They continue to swoop and glide like Starlings. They crowd each other’s air until they share a single breath, only to break away before the exhale; the space between them stays fluid, but the Prince is never out of reach. A flock of bodies surrounds them, but Prince Henry, with his solid touch and golden grin, somehow makes Oliver feel like the only person in the room.
‘This is what flying must feel like, Oliver thinks as the world spins around him.
Building and building, the music reaches a fever pitch. The last stanza has them crashing into each other as the violin dies out with one final shriek. Heartbeat rabbit quick, chest heaving in air like a drowned man, Oliver looks up at the Prince. He is in no better shape than him, but a wide and manic grin splits his face.
“That,” the Prince gasps, “was the most fun I’ve had in a long while.”
Oliver can’t quite find his words between his gasping breaths, so he just nods his head in agreement. Prince Henry pulls out a cloth from his pocket and blots the sweat on his brow.
“It is quite warm in here. Shall we go get some fresh air?” This time the Prince must not be expecting an answer from Oliver, instead grabbing him by the elbow and leading him towards the back balcony doors.
This is the opportunity Oliver has been waiting for. All he has to do is wait for the Prince’s guard to be down, slip him the poison, and then disappear out into the night air. No one will recognize him as the man in the red mask, and by the time anyone realizes something is amiss, he will have made his escape towards a part of the continent where The Crown will never find him.
Oliver will be rich, free from all his debts with plenty to spare, and be able to live the kind of life he always dreamed of back when he was a little boy with nothing to his name and even less guarantee of a future. After this he will never have to adorn any masks again, finally free to live his life as himself, stepping out of the shadows of his past and into the light of day.
The Prince will hardly be the first man he’s killed. This isn’t even the most complicated assignment he’s had. This night was over the moment he picked up the contract request from Stephanie a month ago. He has nothing against The Crown, but money is money, and this was far too much to ignore.
Oliver does feel a little bit sorry for the Prince, though, as he follows him out to one of the more secluded balconies. He is set to inherit his father’s title later this month, moving from Prince to King now that he is 25. The kingdom adores the Prince, and after tonight, Oliver is beginning to understand why.
The cool night air is a welcome reprieve from the sticky heat of the ballroom. The full moon provides enough light to look out at the immaculate gardens that stretch on for acres below them. For a moment, they stand there in amicable silence, the Prince leaning against the railing, chin propped up in his hands. The moonlight bounces off his dark curls, making them look soft as silk.
He is so beautiful. The thought comes so suddenly that it almost knocks Oliver off balance. He had finally caught his breath, but it feels like it’s been punched out of him again. He has to grip the handrail to steady himself.
“Are you enjoying the party?” The Prince breaks the silence, looking over to catch Oliver staring.
Oliver dips his head, heat rushing to his cheeks. He is enjoying himself, but it’s not because of the party. Fuck the party and everyone in that ballroom. “Yes, it’s very nice,” he lies.
Prince Henry hums softly. “I think it’s all a bit much. Everyone in there is tripping over themselves to be in my presence. Like gnats swarming rotten fruit, trying so desperately to earn my favor. All because I’m the next King.” He spits the word King like it’s something spoiled on his tongue. “Unfortunately for them, it’s all a big waste of time.” Prince Henry looks over at Oliver, shoulders still relaxed, a small smile on his face. “So, how are you going to do it?”
Still a little off kilter, Oliver doesn’t understand. “Do what?”
“Kill me.”
Everything falls silent, like the world has suddenly been shrouded in cotton. The din from the ballroom fades, even the crickets stop chirping. The floor falls out from beneath Oliver’s feet, his stomach dropping with it.
“Your Highness, I have no idea what you are talking about.” Oliver tries to sound offended, like this is absurd, all the while replaying the entire night in his head trying to pinpoint where he went wrong. How did he give himself away? Or maybe did someone tip Prince Henry off? But only Stephanie knows why he is here, and she would never tell a soul. A bolt of fear hits him, lightning quick, at the thought that they had done something to her to get the information.
“Relax,” Prince Henry says, body still loose. He turns, back to the railing now, elbows propped on the dark wood. His head lolls to the side to look over at Oliver, a smile still on his face. “No one else knows anything, and I’m not going to try and stop you. I was just curious.” Outside, with only the moonlight, Prince Henry’s eyes have lost their sparkle. They’re dark, like the inky still water of a lake, so deep that no light touches its depths. The longer Oliver looks into them the colder he feels. He suddenly feels very out of his depth.
“Prince Henry I believe there has been some kind of mistake–”
The Prince rolls his eyes and waves a hand. “Please, call me Henry, and you can drop the act. I am the one who paid you after all.”
Oliver blinks. “Come again?”
Henry has the audacity to huff in annoyance, as if Oliver is thick for not understanding.“I paid you”—he points at Oliver—“to kill me.” He crudely mimes being stabbed in the chest. “I was told you were the best of the best, but perhaps I have been misled.”
This causes Oliver’s hackles to rise. Never once has anyone been displeased with his services. “Stabbing you would have been too bloody. Not to mention too high risk of getting caught. And if I missed an artery, your chances of survival are too high, too.”
This, bizarrely, causes Henry to smile. “So what’s your plan?” He sounds excited, like a child asking about his Christmas presents.
“Are you ill?” Oliver asks, incredulous. Maybe Henry has some terrible disease that will kill him painfully and slowly, and instead of suffering, he decided to take matters into his own hands. It’s the only thing that makes sense in this world that has suddenly flipped upside down.
“No, no, nothing like that. I just…” Henry goes quiet for a moment, suddenly serious. He picks at one of the tassels on his sleeve. It’s the first time Oliver has seen him unsure all night. “I don’t want to be king.” He says it in a whisper, like the weight of the words might break him if he utters them any louder.
The closest Oliver has ever been to royalty was the time that Stephanie declared him the Pathetic King one night after they both got drunk. Oliver had been complaining that he wished everything was different, and he got so into his misery that he started crying. She took great joy in calling him it the entirety of the next day as he sulked at the counter of her bar, nursing one of the worst hangovers of his life.
That’s all to say that Oliver doesn’t really understand how the royal chain of succession works. But surely Henry’s only options aren’t death or coronation?
“So, don’t be?” Oliver tries.
Henry laughs softly, but there is no humor in it. “Unfortunately, even though my brother and I are the same age, on account of being twins and all, I was born eight minutes earlier. I was doomed the moment I left my mother’s womb. Shackled to this burden with my very first breath. And though Richard would be much better at it than I, a fact I have told my father and mother numerous times, they always harp on tradition and duty and bloodlines. But if I died, I wouldn’t have to deal with a responsibility I don’t want, and Richard could live his dream of leading the kingdom into its next era of prosperity. Everyone wins.” He slumps against the railing, like a puppet with its strings cut. His life doesn’t seem so far off from a puppet’s, his actions since birth controlled by not himself. And, in that metaphor, he’s begging Oliver to cut the strings, to sever the ties.
Their circumstances couldn’t be more different, and yet, Oliver understands. Understands how hopeless it feels to be stuck. They’ve only known each other one night, only shared a single dance, but Oliver has seen the incandescent glimmers of light in Henry’s eyes. As ephemeral as they were, they were there, and Oliver knows there's more to him—so much life ahead of him. Normally, Oliver is fine with snuffing that out, but this time he can’t imagine being the reason behind that light being lost.
Maybe that’s why Oliver says it—even though it's insane.
“You could come away with me.”
Henry looks up at him, eyes wide, and for a fraction of a second, Oliver can see him considering it. “What, so you can hold me for ransom and then ship me right back here?” the Prince snorts. It’s an ugly sound. Oliver doesn’t mind it. “I may be pretty, but I’m not stupid. Just push me off the balcony or give me whatever poison you were planning so we can be done with this.”
Oliver’s hand automatically goes to his pocket, thumb running over the glass vial hidden there. He doesn’t take it out. “I don't have enough money for the both of us to live off forever, but the full payment you were going to give me for completing your assignment would be enough to help us get far from here.” He doesn’t know why he keeps talking. Why doesn't he just do his damned job and leave? Why does he suddenly care so much about Henry’s well-being, when earlier this evening all Oliver had wanted was for him to be dead?
Henry spins to face Oliver, eyes lit up with fury. He chokes out a laugh, but it catches in his throat. “Surely you cannot be that stupid.,” he spits. “I hired an assassin, not some knight to whisk me away.”
Oliver looks out at the gardens and thinks of the world that stretches beyond them. Thinks about Stephanie and her blonde curls. The years of friendship and security she has brought him. He thinks about the streets he called his home for so many years as a starving child desperate to survive. So desperate that he agreed to be Dimitri’s apprentice. Agreed to trade the lives of others so that he might have a chance at one.
Part of him can sense that Henry is going to be trouble—maybe more trouble than he’s worth—but tonight Oliver saw the person hiding behind the practiced smiles and perfected poise. Glimpses—a snort, sagging shoulders, distant glances—but there’s someone in there that is desperate for any escape. Oliver looks at Henry in the moonlight, and it feels like looking into the past. He sees someone who is lost. Someone who is alone. Someone who just needs a chance.
So Oliver takes a chance of his own.
“I’m not saying the Prince still won’t die. I’m just saying maybe Henry should get a chance to live.” Oliver’s already looking back out the gardens. He sees a pond in the distance, right on the edge of a thicket. The wheels start to turn. The small embers of hope starting to grow, fanned by the winds of possibility.
Out of the corner of his eye, Oliver can see Henry’s shoulders soften. “I’m the Prince, I can’t just run away from here. People will recognize me. I have no idea how to survive out there alone. I can’t—”
Oliver interrupts him. “You won’t be alone. I’ll help you. And if we do this right, no one will be looking for you because they’ll think the Prince is already dead.” It’s crazy. His brain is ringing all the alarm bells, telling him it is a horrible idea, but his heart is telling him that he has to try. “I want to leave but I don’t have the funds. You want to leave but you don’t have the skill.” He dares a sideways glance to find Henry staring at him, the flicker of hope in his eyes mirroring Oliver’s own.
Alone they would fail, but together there’s a chance. A tiny sliver, smaller than a crescent moon, but it’s there, and it’s real, and it’s theirs—no one else’s.
For the first time, a decision that is entirely their own. They just have to take the leap.
Oliver holds out a hand. “Do you trust me?”
Henry snorts, rolling his eyes. His lips turn up into a smile, but it’s not the perfectly practiced ones he was using inside before. It’s a little crooked, a little shy. Oliver likes it.
“Not in the slightest,” Henry says, but his palm slips, warm, into Oliver’s.
“Smart.” Oliver pulls him over to the balcony edge, looking down at the rose bushes below. It’s not far enough to kill them, but it’s enough to drop them into a new future. One where they live for themselves. One where they live together. He spares one glance over at Henry and finds no fear on his face. Instead his eyes are wild, lit with the promise of tomorrow. The wind blows around them, fueling their fire.
“Now, Henry, are you ready to die?”