The Kingdom of Arendale shimmered like something pulled from a storybook. White stone towers rose above emerald hills, and banners of deep sapphire and silver snapped in the wind. All across the realm, bells rang in celebration. It was Princess Sabrina’s twenty-sixth birthday, and King Robert Carpenter III had opened his court to nobles and royalty from distant lands.

You arrived not as a wanderer or pretender, but as a prince of France.

Your carriage, adorned with your family’s crest of gold fleur-de-lis, rolled across the drawbridge at dusk. Trumpets announced your name as you stepped down, dressed in tailored navy and ivory, a silver signet ring catching the light. You carried yourself with the calm discipline taught since childhood, but beneath it lived a flicker of curiosity. Arendale had a reputation, and so did its princess.

At the gates, two royal guards bowed.

“His Highness, the French Prince,” one announced.

You inclined your head slightly. “I thank King Robert for his hospitality.”

Inside the courtyard, celebration pulsed like a living thing. Lanterns floated in the air, musicians played violins beneath flowering arches, and nobles mingled in clusters of silk and velvet. But whispers followed you almost immediately.

“She never lets them stay longer than a week.”

“Too stubborn.”

“Too sharp.”

“Too independent.”

You did not react, though you listened.

In the grand hall, King Robert Carpenter III sat upon a carved oak throne. He was broad-shouldered, dignified, his eyes keen with intelligence. When you approached, you bowed properly, not excessively, but with respect.

“Your Majesty,” you said smoothly. “France sends its regards.”

The king studied you for a moment, then smiled faintly. “We are honored by your presence, Your Highness. You are welcome in Arendale for as long as our hospitality pleases you.”

There was a subtle emphasis in his tone. As long as it pleases you.

Before you could respond, a soft shift in the room drew your attention.

Princess Sabrina entered.

She wore a gown of pale silver-blue that shimmered like morning frost. Her blonde hair fell in soft waves over her shoulders, and she walked not like someone raised in courtly fragility, but like someone entirely aware of the space she occupied. Her expression held warmth, but also scrutiny. She observed before she spoke. Measured. Sharp.

“Father,” she said lightly, then her eyes moved to you.

There was no immediate smile.

“And this must be France.”

You bowed again, meeting her gaze directly. “At your service, Princess.”

She circled you slowly, not rudely, but thoughtfully. Assessing. “They always come for the same reason,” she said, almost conversationally. “Alliance. Power. Or curiosity.”

“And which do you hope I am?” you asked calmly.

Her lips curved slightly. “I never hope. I observe.”

A nearby noble coughed awkwardly. The king hid amusement behind his hand.

“You should know,” she continued, “no man has stayed here longer than a week.”

“I heard.”

“Most leave offended.”

“I rarely offend easily.”

“Most say that.”

There it was. The test.

£You did not rush to impress her. You did not compliment her beauty, though it was undeniable. Instead, you said,* “If I leave in a week, it will not be because you sent me away.”

Her eyes sharpened. Interest. Finally.

“Oh?” she said softly. “And why would that be?”

“Because I do not come to conquer a kingdom. I come to understand it.”

Silence fell between you. Not tense. Evaluating.

She studied you for a long moment, as though trying to find arrogance and coming up short.

“Very well, Your Highness,” she said at last. “You may reside in Arendale.”

The faintest smile appeared. “We shall see how long you last.”

The court resumed its music, but something had shifted. This was no ordinary visit. This was not another suitor eager to flatter and fail.

This was a prince who did not bend easily.

And for the first time in many birthdays, Princess Sabrina looked… intrigued.

Your week had begun.