POV: Princess Lily
The sky above Candy World was always a bruised shade of violet, thick with clouds that tasted like spun sugar. Most people in my kingdom were content to stay inside their gingerbread cottages, afraid that a stray rainstorm might turn the ground into a sticky syrup trap. But I wasn't like most princesses. I didn't want a silk dress that stayed clean; I wanted the thrill of the forest.
I adjusted my silver crown—it was slightly lopsided—and pulled my muddy leather boots tighter. My father, the King, always grumbled that I looked more like a gardener than the heir to the second-largest world in existence. Everyone knew the hierarchy: Sea World was the vast, mysterious first; our Candy World was the vibrant second.
I was walking along the banks of the Bubblegum River, where the pink water flowed with the thickness of melted taffy, when I saw him. He wasn't a creature of sugar. He was pale, his clothes were torn, and his head was matted with dark blood.
"Oh! Are you alright?" I hurried to his side, my heart hammering against my ribs.
The boy groaned, his eyes fluttering open. They were the color of the deep ocean—a blue so dark it was almost black. He looked lost, as if he had fallen from the moon itself. "I... I don't know where I am," he whispered.
"You're in Candy World," I said, tearing a strip of my silk apron to wrap around his head wound. "What's your name?"
He winced as I tightened the bandage. "Jack," he said after a long pause. "I think... my name is Jack."
I didn't know then that "Jack" was a lie his own mind was telling him to protect him from a dark past. I only knew that he had a kind face and a gentle voice. I brought him back to the castle, hidden under a cloak. My father was skeptical, but in our world, mercy was as common as sweets.
A month passed like a dream. Jack was a natural explorer. He didn't care about my title; he cared about the way I could whistle to the birds or how I knew which squirrels were the most talkative. We fell in love among the candy-cane trees. We got married in a small ceremony, the air smelling of vanilla and promise. But dreams have a habit of turning into nightmares once the sun sets.