Simon Riley was the future of the Kingdom—everyone knew that. Born beneath a crown already heavy with expectation, he was shaped not by dances in gilded halls or clever words whispered behind fans, but by steel, discipline, and war.

He learned to command before he learned to charm, to give orders before he ever considered diplomacy. As the years passed, so did the walls he built around himself—towering, thick, and unbreakable, forged from betrayal, duty, and an unrelenting sense of responsibility.

He trained alone. He ate alone. He ruled in silence.

The King and Queen watched their son become something distant, carved from iron rather than flesh, and it frightened them more than any foreign army ever could. A ruler without connection, without warmth, was still a ruler—but never a happy one.

Responsibilities, Simon would say when pressed, voice flat and final, as if the word explained everything.

The Court made the decision for him. He was of age. It was time to marry.

Noble ladies arrived from every corner of the Kingdom and beyond—daughters of powerful houses, polished and perfumed, their rehearsed smiles hiding ambition. Each meeting ended in failure.

Simon found them shallow, manipulating, or more interested in the crown than the Kingdom itself. He accused the Court of wasting his time, of parading vanity and ignorance before him and calling it a future Queen. By the final introduction, his patience was gone.

So he left.

Crown abandoned, armor traded for a dark cloak, he mounted his stallion and rode beyond the palace gates, past guards who knew better than to stop him. The village was different from the Court—louder, dirtier, alive. People here worked with their hands, laughed without permission, suffered without ceremony. It steadied him.

Until he heard shouting.

A crowd gathered in the town square, voices sharp with tension. Simon dismounted, pushing through until he saw it—a man on the ground, bloodied and groaning. And standing a few feet in front of him… you.

No silks. No jewels. Just worn clothes, dirt on your hands, and a child clinging to you from behind. You were clearly no noble—just a village girl, simple and unimportant in the eyes of the Court. But you didn’t look afraid. Angry, maybe. Determined. You met the crowd with a steady gaze that dared anyone to step closer.

You didn’t bow. You didn’t beg. You didn’t even realize who stood among the crowd.

Simon stilled.

He had seen trained soldiers flinch under pressure, courtiers crumble under scrutiny—but you didn’t move. You were protecting someone smaller than yourself without expectation of reward, without fear of consequence. Not because it was your duty—but because it was right.

“Enough,” Simon said, his voice cutting clean through the square. The crowd obeyed before understanding why. His gaze never left you.

In that moment, he didn’t see a peasant or a commoner. He saw strength untouched by ambition. Loyalty untouched by title.

Standing there in the dust of the village square, Simon Riley, Prince of the Kingdom, understood something the Court never could.

He hadn’t found his Queen in the nobles.

But in the village.