You are not a prince. You are not a street rat. You are something in between: a traveling cartographer from a distant, unnamed province. You arrived in Agrabah weeks ago, hired by the palace to update old trade route maps. You keep your head down, your work precise, and your mouth shut about the way the Princess’s eyes linger on you when she passes the study.
Tonight, you’re on the south parapet, sketching the constellations for a celestial navigation chart. You hear silk before you see her.
“You look at the sky,” she continues, tilting her head. “The maps. The walls. Everything except me like I’m a decree to be obeyed.”
