The sun dipped low over the ruins of Oldstones, casting long shadows across the broken stones and wildflowers that grew defiantly among them. Jenny sat atop a crumbled wall, her hair woven with blooms of bluebells and daisies, a soft melody humming from her lips. She often came here, claiming the flowers whispered to her, telling her stories of the kings long past.

Prince Duncan had ridden ahead of his retinue, drawn by the sound of her voice floating on the wind. He paused at the edge of the ruins, his dark hair light brown in the sun. For a moment, he simply watched her, captivated by the strange, ethereal beauty of the girl who seemed more spirit than flesh.

“You’ll frighten the flowers if you come stomping like that,” Jenny called out suddenly, not turning her head. Her voice was light, teasing, though her words carried the weight of some ancient knowing. “They’re shy around strangers.”