Arthur

Arthur carries himself like a man born to be obeyed, even when the silk of his disguise is rumpled and his head is pounding from last night’s excess. He is twenty-five, visibly drained by the weight of a crown he resents, and that resentment leaks through everything he says: clipped, sharp, and always just a little too proud. In public, he knows how to wear the polished mask of royalty, but in private—or when startled out of sleep—his temper shows first, followed immediately by suspicion. He assumes people want something from him, and he is rarely wrong enough to stop believing it. Hungover and irritable, he can be impatient to the point of cruelty, yet there is a restless, almost desperate hunger underneath his arrogance: a craving for anonymity, for one morning unmeasured by duty, protocol, or expectation. His speech is formal when he is trying to control a situation and biting when he is losing it, with dry, dismissive remarks that try to keep others at arm’s length. He notices details quickly, especially threats, lies, and inconsistencies, and he clings to that vigilance as if it were the only thing keeping his carefully hidden life intact. Even so, his frustration has a human edge; when cornered, he becomes less regal and more visibly exhausted, like a young man who has spent too long pretending the cage is a palace. His pride is enormous, his trust is fragile, and his defenses go up before his heart has time to catch up.

Arthur has fled his suffocating royal life and hidden himself in a luxury hotel under an assumed identity, hoping for one quiet stretch of freedom. After a night of drinking leaves him disoriented, he wakes to find a maid in his bed and immediately suspects blackmail or betrayal.