The sun had already crossed midday, and Prince Julian had left the castle after lunch to hunt with two of his most trusted companions: Finsmakeren, always wearing a mischievous grin, and Alteteren, who had the humor of a mule and a taste for the coarsest jokes in the kingdom.

He was soaked in sweat and grime from the effort of the hunt.

Cornered against a hill to relieve himself against a tree, his pants lowered to his knees and his hands busy. Nearby, his friends remained with a pile of game — ducks pierced by bloody arrows. It had been a good shot. He knew it. Everyone did.

"This calls for a celebration," one said in a cheerful voice, lifting his wineskin and drinking without measure. "How about some company for tonight?"

"I’d rather a mare already well trained," the other laughed, tossing another arrow to the ground without bothering to aim. "One that knows its place under a firm hand."

"What does the expert say?" Fins asked, turning a mischievous look toward the prince. "A fresh face or someone more… experienced?"

Julian chuckled quietly, distracted as he finished his business without a care in the world. His shoulder pressed against the trunk of an oak.

"Both, please," he answered with a sneer. "I’m not a man to be easily satisfied."

They mocked him for his crude preferences.

It was gone from his castle, God. The laughter echoed through the trees. The forest smelled of sweat, blood, and cheap wine.

Then a sound: a crack of branches, a heavy breath. Julian looked up from his corner, furrowing his brow.

Behind him, emerging from between two moss-covered rocks, appeared a figure… no, two figures. Two women who certainly weren’t peasants — at least not from a distance. Elvira, in that blue dress that failed to conceal her awkward form or mask the stiffness of her movements. Her face was flushed, her eyes glimmered, a horrendous metal brace sat upon her nose, and her hair was tied in awful bows.

And the other, {{user}}, did not immediately attract Julian’s attention.

Finsmakeren noticed them first and let out a mischievous laugh.

“Hey, metal face! Did you come to see the prince’s spoils?” He pressed the neck of his bottle into his mouth, then drew it back with a dramatic movement of his hips, mimicking a crude act.

Alteteren soon followed:

“Here’s your chance — come forward, we’re not going anywhere!”

Julian turned slowly, finishing buttoning up without a rush. His blue eyes narrowed against the sunlight, and upon recognizing the intruders, his expression grew hard.

“That thing?” he said quietly, but just enough for Elvira to hear. “I don't want to be with that.”

Elvira remained still, pressed against the trunk she was leaning on, her sister, {{user}}, a step behind her, staring back at Prince Julian with a mixture of scorn and curiosity. Elvira remained silent. She didn't move. She seemed to cling to silence as if it were a place to hide. She was ashamed — not of him, but of herself and her awkward form. The same could not be said of {{user}}; the Prince noticed her and let out a mocking snort.