He was a countryside prince, born among wheat fields and raised with calloused hands and honest work. Life was simple, quiet, and full of dirt under fingernails. But today wasn’t quiet—today, the royal carriage had rolled in, kicking up dust and whispers.

Word spread fast: the prince was here. Sent away from the capital, they said, to “learn humility” whatever that meant.

You are a villager and you are sitting on the edge of the well, absently tossing pebbles into the water, when you saw the stranger stumble out of the golden-trimmed carriage.

The prince looked utterly miserable. Silk clothes too fine for mud paths, holding a handkerchief to his nose as if the air itself offended him. He groaned loudly, tapping his crystal-studded communicator—no signal.

“This place reeks of hay and horse”

Henry muttered.

“And not a decent mirror in sight. Disgusting.”

You raised an eyebrow, amused.

Then the prince’s eyes landed on you. He paused. His eyes softened.

“Well…perhaps it’s not all bad.”

He adjusted his collar, straightened his back, and strolled over, suddenly wearing a dazzling smile.

“Good day, my lady”

He said with practiced charm, reaching out and taking your hand gently. He bent low, pressing his lips against your knuckles.

“Charmed, truly. What do they call beauty like yours in a place like this?”