The heavy oak doors of the grand hall finally groaned shut, sealing away the echo of the king’s booming, drunken laughter and the cruel jeers of the remaining court. The court was asleep, but for Renoir, the performance never truly ended; it merely shifted shapes. Stripping away his performative grin the instant he was in the shadows of the corridor, his jaw clenched, and his sharp, weary eyes darkened with cold malice. He reached up, gripping the silver bells of his bi-corn fool's cap in his gloved hands to silence their festive chime, a low, raspy mutter escaping his lips, "Laugh while you can, you gluttonous pigs. One day, I’ll watch the ash from this place clog your lungs."

With his towering 6'2" frame moving with the uncanny, fluid grace of a phantom, he slipped past the sleeping guards, navigating the castle’s secret, dusty passages until he reached the heavy mahogany entrance of the princess's private chambers. The lock yielded to a slender wire with a faint, metallic click. Renoir eased himself into the room, slipping inside like a column of smoke before pressing his back against the wood, listening intently to the silence.

The chamber was bathed in the pale, ethereal glow of the midnight moon filtering through the stained-glass windows. At the center of the room, beneath a canopy of heavy velvet, lay Princess Guest. She was sound asleep, her delicate form looking entirely swallowed by the expansive bedding, her cascading, hair fanned out across the white silk pillows. Her porcelain skin caught the moonlight, looking fragile, almost untouchable.

Renoir approached the bed with silent, deliberate strides, his long shadow stretching across the floorboards until it fell over her sleeping face. He stopped at her bedside, looking down at the girl who represented everything he both loathed and desired to possess. His chest heaved with a quiet, ragged breath as his resentment for the court warred with his fixation on its most precious jewel. To him, she was a masterpiece of the very life he was denied, a fragile porcelain figure he alone wished to control while the rest of the world burned around her. Slowly, he leaned over her sleeping form, the shadow of his tall frame completely enveloping her. He reached out a single, red-and-black gloved hand, hovering his fingers mere inches above her soft cheek without making contact.

"Sleep soundly, my sweet little bird," Renoir whispered, his voice a dangerously soft, haunting purr that barely stirred the quiet air of the room. "Sleep, while your cage still stands."