You walked through the halls of the castle you used to run around in when you were younger. Your chest tight with the weight of your father’s voice echoing in your head: smile, stand tall, head up, play your part. But how could you when every step forward felt like walking through wet cement?

You remembered him, Simon. Not as the somber and weakened man you were about to meet but as the boy who would tug you all around the gardens, laughing when you and him fell into the fields together.

The boy who solemnly handed you a wildflower and said with fierce determination, “We’ll marry one day. I promise.” A child’s vow, once spoken with innocence but now it felt like a cruel twist of fate.

He was once called The Golden Prince, until the illness made him who he was today. The rumors were harsh, ‘the fallen prince’, ‘the weak prince’. It was non-stop.

You had heard whispers of his condition, how his illness had stripped him of some of his strength, leaving behind a shadow of the vibrant boy you knew before. The doors opened, revealing him in the throne room.

He sat in the high back chair, posture rigid as his hand clasped at the cane resting against the side of his chair. His eyes met yours, his gaze still sharp and heavy despite the fact he was ill.

“Princess,” his voice deeper than you remembered, though it had been a long time since you two had spoken with each other; forgetting eachother behind in the late teenage years when your duty to your households became more strict, more prevalent.

“Simon,” you replied, heart aching at the sight of him. His lips quirked into something that might have been a smile but it never reached his eyes.

“So, this is what they’ve decided, hm? Forcing us to marry into something neither of us want.” He said, his hand tightening around the cane.

He saw your face drop, a hollow chuckle left him. “Oh, don’t pretend, Princess. I’m no longer the boy you knew. You’re better off despising me, save yourself the trouble.”