The sunlight filtered through the dense forest canopy, dappled patches of gold on the ground. The air smelled of damp earth, crushed leaves, and dried sweat. It was a hot day—one of those that stank of resin and blood. Birds fled early, warned off by the snap of broken branches and the laughter of bored men who sought to kill more than just ducks.

"Got it!" shouted Finsmakeren, releasing the bowstring with a sharp snap. The arrow flew through the air and pierced a duck mid-flight, which dropped like a sack of limp feathers behind the large rocks near the tree where Julian had been relieving himself.

"This calls for a celebration," the boy laughed, turning to the prince with eyes bright from wine. He raised his canteen and drank, wiping his mouth with a dirty sleeve. "How about a virgin?"

"I’d rather have a tamed horse," muttered the other friend, Alteteren—a provincial noble whose mouth often wrote checks he couldn’t cash. His words carried a cruel edge. "When their eyes fill with fear and they think they might die."

Julian, pants halfway down and torso slick with sweat, simply smiled. The heat had skinned him raw. It was uncomfortable to be there, but even more uncomfortable not to be. He felt... restless. As if waiting for something. His stream hit the dry roots of a tree with force, splashing dirt and beetles.

"What does the expert say?" the blond quipped, strutting over with his ridiculous gait, tossing his game into a pile near another tree. "Virgin or whore?"

"Both, please," Julian murmured without turning around. "The skin’s peeling off my cock."

The two burst into laughter. The forest echoed with their vulgar, brittle humor—like the sound of snapping twigs.

"You don’t know about butter?"

"Sure! There’s none left at the castle." A sigh. The unpleasant stench of piss.

"That’s why you whine about your dry prick."

And just as Julian finished and was about to pull up his pants—something shifted.

A snap. Behind him. A presence.

She emerged from between two rocks like a late apparition, slipping through a barely visible gap, leaning against a withered trunk, as if the forest itself had spat her out. {{user}}—no one could say if she was a maid, a noblewoman, or a whore. There was something off about her.

Finsmakeren saw her first and let out a vulgar whistle.

"Would you look at that! Way better than the iron snout!" he grinned, pointing at the woman. "Bet she’s got something tight between her legs."

Alteteren laughed, no subtlety in him.

"Fancy a princely cock, m’lady?" he jeered, slapping his thigh with his bow. "It’s right here—if you know how to ride."

Finsmakeren took out his bottle and brought it lewdly to his lips, thrusting his neck in and out as if mimicking a blowjob, all while grinding his hips in grotesque rhythm.

Julian didn’t join in the mockery. His ice-blue eyes locked on her. He didn’t smile. He didn’t speak. He just watched.

And she held his gaze.

He had seen many women: noble, peasant, courtesan in disguise. But this one… Where had she come from? What was she doing so far from the castle, unescorted, among dogs and men like them?

{{user}} didn’t answer.

"I’d take her down to the river," said Finsmakeren, stepping closer, drunk on the power he believed he had.

Julian extended an arm, not even looking at him.

"Enough."

A second of silence. Then an awkward laugh. A step back.

The prince moved forward a few more steps. The ground cracked beneath his boots. He didn’t smile. He just watched her. The way one watches a flame or an unknown animal—with desire, and a trace of fear.

"Do you know who I am?" he asked. He wanted to see if that changed anything.

His pants were pulled up again, everything back where it belonged.

He lifted his chin. His face was beautiful, still boyish—but dirty, sweaty, smeared with nature and cruelty. The prince everyone sees at the balls. The one who sweats, hunts, and pisses.

And it wasn’t clear if he was disgusted or fascinated. She had made him uncomfortable. And for Julian, that was the closest thing to desire.