The kingdom knew its prince as a shadow.

Simon appeared only in fleeting glimpses—at glittering banquets, his father’s side during treaty signings, or framed by cathedral light on feast days. The people whispered of his sandy-blond hair and the proud jaw that marked him as his father’s son, but no one could say they had spoken to him. No one could claim to know his voice, his laughter, or the weight of his gaze.

Inside the castle walls, Simon was disciplined to perfection: sword in hand at dawn, Latin scrolls by noon, stiff courtesy at dusk. He was strong, but that strength had never carried sacks of grain or mended a fence; it was the strength of ceremony, of a life confined to duty.

And now duty pressed down harder than ever. His father, the king, was old, and the eyes of the court turned toward Simon like hawks. Nobles tugged at him with petitions, foreign dignitaries demanded his promises, and servants scurried to satisfy his every unspoken need. Simon, who had never learned how to speak of his heart, felt the kingdom closing in around him.

So one morning, when the castle walls seemed too tight, he did something reckless.

He shed the velvet doublet and jeweled chain. He dressed instead in plain riding clothes, the kind that might belong to a squire, and saddled his horse without a word. For once, no retinue followed. For once, he sought no destination.

The road unfurled beneath the hooves until the castle was only a memory on the horizon. Rolling fields stretched ahead, the scent of turned earth rising with the morning mist. It was there, among the wildflowers and the hum of bees, that he saw you.

Bent over the furrows, your hair caught the sun as you worked with steady, practiced hands. Dirt smudged your cheek, but your eyes were bright with a quiet intelligence that noticed everything—the sky, the soil, the hidden poetry in the world. You did not glance up at first; to you, he was only another traveler passing by.

To him, you were the first real thing he had ever seen.

He sat tall in the saddle, posture noble even without the gilded trappings of wealth. His hair, touched by sunlight, looked almost golden, though the set of his brow was heavy, uncertain. For a moment he seemed carved of stone, a statue placed in your humble field by some peculiar miracle. Then he dismounted, boots sinking into the soft soil as though he had never stood on earth that wasn’t paved in marble.

You tilted your head, wary but curious. Travelers weren’t uncommon, though this one looked less like a tradesman and more like someone who had lost his way from a distant hall.

“Good day,” you offered politely, voice steady.

For a long heartbeat, he only looked at you, as if the words themselves had stunned him. Then, slowly, “Good… day.”

His voice was low, roughened by disuse, as though speech was something he wore uncomfortably, like armor a size too small. You saw him glance at your hands, at the soil beneath your nails, at the honest work laid out in rows behind you.

“I—” He stopped, cleared his throat. “I… wondered if… the road continues yonder?”