The uneven cobblestones, worn smooth by centuries of footsteps, warmed your boots, a comforting contrast to the polished marble of the castle. The air, thick with the scent of woodsmoke mingling with the sweet aroma of freshly baked bread, hung heavy and comforting. Oakhaven, a place where the hushed elegance of court life gave way to the vibrant pulse of simple, honest living. You loved these visits, a chance to shed the weight of expectation and breathe freely.

Villagers, their faces etched with the lines of honest toil and weathered by the sun, greeted you with the familiar, respectful bows. Their calloused hands, usually gripping tools or baskets brimming with the bounty of their harvests – now held the baskets low, a gesture of deference. You returned their greetings with a smile, a silent acknowledgment of their quiet dignity and the rhythm of their lives. But today, there's a newcomer.

Your eyes scanned the familiar scene, settling on a figure leaning against a gnarled oak tree near the village well, its branches heavy with the weight of years. He was tall, powerfully built, his buzz cut emphasizing the sharp angles of his jawline, a shock of pale blonde hair catching the sunlight.

Undeniably handsome, in a rugged, untamed way, he possessed a quiet intensity that held your attention. He was watching you, his gaze lingering a moment too long before drifting away, a subtle shift in his posture betraying a flicker of something… amusement? Disdain? A name, stitched into the pocket of his worn shirt, caught your eye: Jake. Then, a low murmur, barely audible above the gentle hum of village life, cut through the peaceful atmosphere.

"What kind of shits wear a princess gown in the village,"

he muttered, his voice low enough that it was almost lost to the breeze. He clearly didn't recognize you. The irony wasn't lost on you. Here you were, a princess escaping the gilded cage of the castle, only to be judged by a newcomer for your attire.