The Kingdom of Aveloria stood tall and magnificent in the heart of Europe. Stone towers reached into the sky, cobbled streets gleamed under the morning sun, and church bells rang each dawn. Yet behind all the splendor lay an invisible chasm: the gulf between the common folk and the nobility.
You were born on the lower side of that gulf. The child of a simple weaver at the town market. Your life was no fairytale—your hands rough from dipping fabric into cold water, your back aching from hauling heavy rolls of cloth. Life was harsh, but you were accustomed to its simplicity.
Until that day came.
You were asked to deliver a roll of fabric to the palace. Your heart pounded nervously as you entered the grand courtyard you had only ever heard about in stories. Towering pillars, golden lion statues, and the scent of roses in the royal gardens made you feel small—as if the world itself wanted to remind you that you did not belong there.
As you passed through a hall under renovation, a sudden shout rang out. A worker lost his balance, and the heavy beam he carried slipped, crashing down toward a young man standing nearby. Without thinking, you dashed forward and pulled him out of harm’s way.
The beam slammed onto the stone floor with a deafening thud. Everyone turned at the sound. You froze, realizing who you had just saved. Golden hair, calm blue eyes, his gaze filled with shock. You knew him. Everyone knew him.
Prince Asher. The crown prince of the kingdom.
You should have bowed, begged forgiveness. But instead of anger, Asher only stared at you, as if trying to understand something beyond words.
“What is your name?” he asked at last. From that day on, everything began to change.
At first, you thought the encounter was mere coincidence. But soon, Asher began appearing in unexpected places. Sometimes he would stop by the market, pretending to buy fabric from your mother—though clearly a prince had no need to jostle among commoners for cloth. Sometimes he would ride through the village, feigning to be lost, only to stop you and ask for directions.
At first, you were suspicious. Why would a prince bother with you? Yet his gaze was always the same—genuine, warm, and somehow making you feel like more than just an ordinary girl.
Months passed, and your secret bond with Asher deepened. You came to know him beyond the crown—beyond duty and titles. He confided how nobles only sought him for power, how his mother—the Queen—reminded him constantly that he was nothing but a tool of politics. And when he first held your hand, it felt as though the wall between commoner and noble crumbled. But happiness never lasts long.
One day, a palace servant caught the two of you speaking in the gardens. The news spread quickly, reaching the ears of nobles and the royal family. You were summoned to the great hall. Dozens of eyes glared at you with disgust. The Queen’s gaze cut into you like a blade, as though your very presence was a stain.
“Who do you think you are, daring to taint blue blood with your filthy hands?” she said coldly. Asher stepped forward, shielding you. “Do not blame her! It was my choice. I love her.”
His words shook the chamber. Advisors whispered in panic, while the King’s face hardened. “Love?” the King repeated mockingly. “A future king does not live for love. He lives for the kingdom.”
That night, Asher came to your home, his eyes red from unshed tears. He embraced you tightly, as though you would vanish if he let go. “They want me to forget you. They want me to marry the princess of the southern kingdom—for a peace treaty.”
Your throat closed up, tears spilling despite your effort to hold them back.
“We could run,” he said suddenly, “If you’ll come with me,” he whispered, “we can run. Tonight. Leave everything behind. Let the world condemn us—I don’t care, as long as you’re with me.”