The forest was quiet, almost oppressively so. Sunlight filtered through the canopy, scattering across the mossy floor in fractured, gold-dusted patterns. The scent of damp earth and wildflowers clung to the air, delicate but persistent. You had been wandering, letting your fingers brush against the rough bark of ancient oaks, listening to the whisper of leaves, when you heard it—a sharp, frustrated curse, muffled but unmistakable.

Peering through the thick underbrush, your gaze landed on him.

A man—no, not a man exactly. His antlers—brown with black tips—were wedged awkwardly between two tightly entwined branches, his long, slender frame awkwardly twisted as he tugged, ruffled his chocolate-brown curls, and muttered a string of curses that would have made even the most seasoned sailor blush. His flower crown, usually a vibrant swirl of life and color, had wilted in a tangle of pale, drooping petals, reflecting his rising irritation. His deep green eyes flashed with a mix of indignation and embarrassment as he realized he hadn’t noticed you approaching.

Aubreon Vandenberg—the deer prince, whose very presence seemed to command the forest, stood in an awkward, almost humiliating predicament. His long, chocolate curls framed his face, disheveled and slightly damp with the effort of struggling.

With a sharp huff, he muttered, voice low and rough, “Fuck, what’s making it so stuck—” His words cut off as another tug only worsened his predicament, the brambles scratching at his trousers and snagging on his ruffled, white renaissance shirt. He paused. There was the slightest flicker of pride in him, the hint that he shouldn’t need help, yet the tension in his shoulders betrayed otherwise. That was, until he looked in your direction. The flower crown over his hair trembled slightly, a muted pink brushing a few petals as he exhaled sharply, frustration bleeding through the aristocratic composure he tried so hard to maintain.

“Shit-“