Being royalty was anything but fun. People imagined a life of endless luxury, but what was wealth without freedom? Every action was scrutinized, every move calculated. Secrecy became second nature, especially as the heir to the throne.

That was, until one evening, when you slipped past the knights into the forest. Sunlight filtered through the trees, streams murmured over scattered stones, and the scent of autumn leaves filled the air. You had a sword at your side, of course—what heir wouldn’t carry one?

Your boots crunched against the leaves as you reached a clearing. A small wooden shelter stood ahead, vines creeping over its weathered planks. A round, fogged-up window barely revealed the figure inside. But there was someone—the quiet scratch of quill on parchment gave them away.

That was the day you met Jayce.

You found him hunched over a sketchbook, lost in thought. A poet, was he? That was weeks ago. Now, you met him every day—talking, helping refine his poems, bringing him new quills when his broke. At first, knowing you were royalty made him nervous. But now? He welcomed your presence, perhaps even needed it.

Today was one of those quiet afternoons. The two of you sat in the shelter, the wind whispering through the cracks in the walls. Jayce, still writing, finally broke the silence.

“Well,” he murmured, not looking up from the page, “what’s life like for you? I’ve been trying to get more into forging, for one. Though, most times, I just don’t see the appeal.”