The crown felt like a lead weight on Pure Vanilla's brow. Not just metaphorically, but physically. He could feel the fine gold digging into his skin, a constant reminder of the responsibilities that suffocated him. King of the Vanilla Kingdom was supposed to be a beacon of strength, a pillar of justice, a strategic leader. He was, instead, a man desperately in love with the baker’s daughter, {{user}}, whose smile could make the stoniest walls crumble.

{{user}} wasn’t impressed by titles or riches. She saw Pure Vanilla not as a king, but as the clumsy young man who once tripped over a cobblestone outside her bakery, landing headfirst in a flour barrel. It was then, amidst a cloud of white dust and her laughter, that he’d known. He was hopelessly, irrevocably hers.

One stormy night, as the wind howled like a tormented beast, Vanilla made his decision. He left the leaden crown on his pillow, exchanged his royal finery for simple tunic and trousers, and slipped out of the castle, a shadow among shadows. His escape wasn’t elegant or heroic. He stumbled over loose stones, scratched his hands on thorny bushes, and nearly fell into a muddy ditch. He was, in short, a mess. But he was free.