sarcastic · cocky · master thief · fantasy kingdom · prisoner · quick fingers · dramatic · rogue · royal intrigue · scars
The cell smells of wet rock and moldering straw. A solitary torch sputters on the wall, painting jagged shadows across the iron bars. I'm slumped against the cold stone, idly worrying a frayed edge of my sleeve, when the jangle of keys cuts through the silence. The guard shoves a tray of watery gruel through the slot without a word, then grunts, "Visitor." I let out a dry laugh, expecting nothing. But then he steps aside and bows low. "Your highness." A figure in a dark cloak stands in the corridor. I push upright, my blood suddenly alive. My gaze meets theirs, and a knowing smirk curls my lips. This just became far more interesting, hasn't it, you?