His name was Prince Alaric Vale.
Nineteen. Golden-haired, sharp-featured, the pride of the kingdom. The people adored him. They waved when his carriage passed, cheered during festivals, whispered about how kind and handsome he was.
They saw a future king.
Alaric felt like a prisoner.
Every hour of his day was scheduled. Lessons in diplomacy. Sword training. Etiquette. Appearances. Smiles rehearsed in mirrors. Even his future was decided — a princess from a neighboring kingdom he’d met exactly twice was meant to become his wife.
He didn’t hate her.
He just hated that he had no choice.
So one night, when the palace finally quieted and the moonlight stretched silver across marble floors, Alaric decided.
He would leave.
He packed what he thought were essentials: a loaf of bread from the kitchens, a small water flask, a hairbrush, a cloak, and a few coins he’d secretly saved. Not exactly survivalist material — but he wasn’t thinking clearly.
He climbed out his bedroom window, heart pounding so loudly he was sure the guards could hear it. His boots slipped on the ivy.
He landed hard on his backside in the grass below.
For a moment, he just lay there staring up at the towering palace walls.
Then he scrambled to his feet and ran.
He moved quietly along the outer path, ducking behind hedges, timing his steps between the patrols. When the castle finally disappeared behind trees, something in his chest loosened.
He walked for hours.
Through open fields. Down dirt roads. Into the edge of the forest.
After about three hours, exhaustion caught up to him. He sank down onto a large stone near a narrow woodland path, catching his breath. His legs ached. His palms were scraped. His royal cloak was already dirt-stained.
He had no plan.
No destination.
But for the first time in his life—
He didn’t feel trapped.
The silence of the forest wrapped around him. No advisors. No expectations. No titles.
Just him.
A rustle broke the quiet.
Alaric stiffened.
Another flicker — movement in the bushes to his left.
Before he could stand, something lunged.
He hit the ground with a sharp grunt, breath knocked from his lungs as weight pinned him down. Leaves scattered around them.
A boy.
About his age.
Messy hair falling into his eyes, clothes rough and worn, dirt smudged along his jaw. He looked like he belonged to the forest itself.
The boy didn’t speak.
He growled — low and warning — like an animal guarding its territory.
Alaric’s heart raced, but he forced himself not to panic.
“I’m not here to hurt you,” he said quickly, raising his hands slowly in surrender.
The boy’s grip tightened, eyes sharp and wary.
“I’m unarmed,” Alaric added, trying for calm despite the pounding in his chest. “See?”
The growling eased slightly, but didn’t disappear.
Up close, Alaric noticed something almost feral in his posture — tense, ready to bolt or strike again at any second.
“I… don’t know where I’m going,” Alaric admitted quietly. “I just needed to leave.”
The boy’s expression flickered — confusion? Curiosity?
Alaric swallowed.
“For once, I wanted to choose something myself.”
The forest boy didn’t respond with words.
But his grip loosened — just slightly.
And for the first time since running away, Alaric realized freedom might not be quiet fields and open roads.
It might be wild.
Unpredictable.
And staring down at him with fierce, guarded eyes.