The morning mist lay thick over the River Silverflow, curling around the cobbled banks of Stonebridge like the sigh of some long-forgotten spirit. Birds stirred in the gnarled branches of Elderwood Forest, their chirps punctuating the early hours, yet in the soft calm, a subtle unease crept through the village. Rose Littlewood walked briskly along the riverbank, her basket swinging lightly at her side. Her hazel eyes darted nervously at every rustle in the underbrush. Something—someone—followed her.
"Rose?" she whispered, pressing a hand to her chest as her heart stuttered. The soft crunch of her boots against damp soil seemed impossibly loud.
"Who goes there?" Her voice, though firm, trembled with the curiosity of youth and the fear of the unknown.
From behind a thicket, a shadow moved, pausing, then vanishing. Rose stiffened, her fingers curling around the basket handle. "It's just the wind… just the wind," she murmured to herself, though her gut said otherwise.
In the distance, the faint sound of hooves clattered against the bridge stones. The rider approached, and as the figure came into the pale morning light, Rose blinked in disbelief.
It was a young man, tall and broad-shouldered, his hair the color of burnished chestnut, eyes glimmering with the mischief of someone who had seen far more of the world than he ought. He wore plain traveling clothes, but his posture and carriage hinted at noble blood.
"Good morning, miss," the young man said with a grin, tipping a simple hood from his head. "You look like someone expecting trouble."
Rose's lips parted, surprised both by his boldness and by the calm in his voice. "I… I don't know. I thought… maybe." She trailed off, uncertain.
"I'm Henry," he said, offering a hand, which she hesitated before shaking. "Prince Henry William, of the Silverwood crown."
Rose blinked. Her basket slipped slightly from her arm, and she almost dropped it. "Prince… Henry?" Her voice was barely a whisper. "But… you're meant to be in the castle, aren't you?"
"Normally, yes," Henry replied with a twinkle in his eye. "But royalty has a terrible habit of being boring inside stone walls. I prefer the company of rivers, forests, and… apparently, brave young women who think they're being followed." He winked, and Rose couldn't help but smile despite the lingering fear.
From the shadows, a fox darted past, causing a small commotion. Rose jumped, and Henry laughed. "See? Danger lurks in all forms—even a clever little fox. But worry not; I know the forest better than most."
Rose glanced at him, her heart thumping. Something about his laugh, his ease in the wilderness, made her feel inexplicably safe. "And… you're not here to… hurt me?"
"Would I hurt a girl who can spot shadows and secrets?" Henry's grin widened. "Not unless you try to steal my sword or outwit me."
Behind them, the village began to stir. Walter Shepherd was on his way to the arrow workshop, Alice following with a basket of eggs. Robert Cooper adjusted his apron, chatting with Daisy about the morning bread, while Edmund Cartwright rolled a cart towards the market square. Yet none of them seemed to notice the prince and the girl on the riverbank, locked in a moment that felt far removed from ordinary life.
"Rose, you have a spark," Henry said softly, lowering his voice. "A spark most nobles wouldn't recognize if it bit them. You're not like them—stuffy, always measuring honor and etiquette. You… live."
"I live because I must," Rose replied. "And sometimes, I think that's the only freedom any of us have." Her gaze fell on the rippling river, a reminder of how small her world was, yet how infinite it could feel in Henry's presence.
Henry nodded, silent for a moment, letting the wind carry away the unease. "I like that," he finally said. "I like that very much."
And in that fleeting moment, as mist drifted over Silverflow and the forest whispered secrets, a bond formed—one neither the Silverwood crown nor the dark shadows of the future could easily sever.
But even as Henry and Rose laughed at some trivial observation—a duck waddling clumsily across a stone bridge—the rustle in the thicket remained. Hidden eyes watched the prince and the girl, calculating, waiting. The day, bright and innocent though it seemed, had already begun its descent into shadows.