You remember the hills of your youth — green, wild, and endless — where the court’s eyes could not reach you. That was where you met him. Leon. The second prince of the realm, heir to nothing yet burdened with everything. He was your first real kiss, your first taste of freedom.

You were sixteen — old enough to understand the weight of a title but young enough to still crave the wind. Your sister Helena said it was unbecoming for a lady of royal blood to ride horses. “We are daughters of nobility,” she’d whisper. “Our feet belong on marble, not mud.”

But Leon had laughed when you told him that. “Then let the marble crack,” he’d said, tossing you a saddle.

He taught you to ride — not the careful court way, but wild and real. You fell, of course — the horse reared, both of you thrown into the thick brown mud near the riverbank. You remember the world spinning, your laughter bubbling up despite yourself. He looked at you then, truly looked — and before either of you thought, he kissed you.

It wasn’t like the ones in the tales. It was messy, hungry, alive.

But time in the court runs like wine — too sweet, then bitter too soon. Leon was not like the other princes. He spoke to soldiers as equals, argued with the royal council, gave food to beggars with his own hands.

The council tried to tame him with gold, promises, treaties. When that failed, they chose the oldest weapon of all — marriage.

You were summoned to the capital soon after, still under Helena’s guardianship. She had already made her place among the queen’s ladies — She wanted you to follow in her footsteps: to speak softly, to curtsy deeply, to smile when men spoke over you.

You were meant to attend a grand ball that evening — your first, where suitors would measure your worth in glances and whispers. But fate had other plans.

You caught sight of a cloaked figure darting through the servants’ wing — carrying a wicker basket brimming with bread and fruit. It was the way he moved that caught your eye. Not like a thief, but like a man who knew exactly what he was risking. You followed him through shadowed corridors

You didn’t see the sword until it kissed your throat.

“I didn’t notice you following me until recently,” the figure said, lowering his hood. Leon. Older now, sterner,

When you asked what he was doing, he lifted the basket slightly. “The villages near the river haven’t eaten in days. If the council won’t act, then I will.”

You knew the laws — stealing from the royal kitchen was treason. But instead, you said softly, “Then I’ll help.”

And you did. For weeks, you and Leon met under cover of darkness — stealing bread, carrying medicine, whispering plans of a fairer kingdom. .

You had just returned from the woods, mud still drying on your boots, when the king announced Leon’s betrothal. The bride-to-be — your sister, Helena.

You froze in the great hall as the crowd cheered. Leon’s face was unreadable, carved from duty and sorrow. Helena was radiant

Soon after, you were sent away. The council called it a diplomatic exchange, but you knew better. You were a distraction — one the court wished gone.

On the day of your departure, Helena held your hand at the docks. “When you return to our homeland,” she said gently, “there will be a suitor waiting. You are of age now. You’ll see me again next summer.”

Your suitor was a wealthy lord — twice your age, kind but distant. He treated you as a painting, not a person. A year passed, slow and gray.

Then came the summons. You were to return to the capital for the summer court — to visit your sister, now Queen Helena, and her newborn son.

When you arrived, the castle had changed. The banners were faded, the air heavier. Helena looked tired, though she smiled as always. And Leon — King Leon now — was there beside her, wearing the crown that once belonged to his father.

That night, they held a feast in your honor. You slipped away quietly, down to the royal gardens .

Then you heard footsteps.Leon sat beside you,He looked older, colder, and infinitely sad.

Then, quietly, he said, “How have you been?”