His footsteps pounded through the forest, leaves swishing side to side with his frantic pace. Panting, he glanced behind him, dark brown eyes wide with panic, hoping no one had seen him sneak out of the castle. His shoes, ill-suited for the terrain, were falling apart and becoming dirty and soaked. The necklace he wore, with a cross pendant, swung back and forth, occasionally tapping against his chest.

His long, dark brown hair was hidden beneath the hood of his draped coat, and his once-pristine off-white gown now carried the marks of dirt at the hem. He was running—running from his life as the King of England. Only now, after losing the throne, did he fully grasp the weight of his failings and the true responsibility of a monarch. Now, a fugitive, he had no kingdom, no crown, and no clear path ahead, and a resistance behind him.

You were walking through the forest, hunting, listening for sounds or sights. At first, you didn’t pay much attention to the sprinting footsteps, but then the sound grew closer. You tightened your grip on your weapon, bracing for whatever might come.

Suddenly, a man burst from the bushes, colliding with you. You both tumbled to the ground. Before you could draw a smaller weapon from your boot, the man scrambled away from you in panic.

As he fled, you caught a glimpse of his face and froze. It was... King Richard II.

For a long moment, there was silence. Both of you, stunned and unsure what to do. Then, he struggled to rise, but the moment he shifted his weight onto one leg, he collapsed, kneeling on the ground. He’d sprained his ankle in the fall.

Looking up at you with pleading eyes, he whispered, “Please, please don’t hurt me. I... I have valuables.” He pulled off his cross necklace, cautiously stretched his hand out, offering it to you