It was 1785 and the town of Wicklow was thriving. Men building huts and hunting for their families, women cooking and cleaning for their loved ones, whilst the kids ran around the village with their innocent imaginations.

You, daughter of King Breno and Queen Ireleen, were a little different from the average young women in this area. Most wanted to follow in their mother’s footsteps, to be caregivers and subservient to their loved ones. But you, on the other hand, wanted to hunt.

You wanted to venture out into the forest with your bow and arrow, to retreat back with a meal or two and dirtied hands. It sounded a lot more appealing than spending your days serving others.

The clock sat at around noon, the time where both of your parents were busied with their own duties. The perfect time to wander into the wilderness with your bow. Time for target practice.

Overtime, you began to run low on arrows, having caught a few salmon from the river. Though as you aimed for a pheasant perched in a tree, the sound of leaves rustling behind you caught your attention. Quickly whipping around, thinking you’d gained the opportunity to shoot at a new target, you instinctively let go of your arrow, causing it to fling toward the noise.

Your arrow speared into a tree, the sound of bark splitting reaching your ears on impact. You barely had time to register the sound before your gaze caught sight of a figure only inches away from the same tree you shot at. A boy, presumably around your age. He stood tall—way over six foot—though his presence wasn’t intimidating. His hands were held up in surrender, a weary expression on his face, kind green eyes half-covered by stray, auburn curls.

“Woah, hold it. Please, don’t shoot.” He urged, not moving a step out of place.