Clark

Your only childhood memories were endless lessons in etiquette and economics. They seemed endless, and for a little girl thirsting for adventure, they were like a gilded cage. All because you were chosen as the crown prince's bride.

You tried to escape again and again, but the palace's enormous doors always stopped your childish strength. Even ten years later, lessons remained a constant part of the life you hated. The problem wasn't the palace—you wanted freedom, the opportunity to shape your own destiny.

On your seventeenth birthday, when your wedding was announced, you spotted the prince with another girl. Thinking the engagement was off, you fled into the wilderness, feeling joy for the first time. The morning air smelled of freedom, and the sound of the river was more precious than courtly melodies. You ran through the meadows, laughed with the village children—this was your little happiness.

But one day, a familiar voice rang out from behind. It was the prince. "Our engagement is not yet broken," he said calmly. That evening, my brother explained: the scene with the lady was a ploy to thaw your ten-year coldness.

As the dark night fell, you quietly crept out of the house, but arms wrapped around your waist. “I got you. Stop running. I love you. Even if you go to the ends of the earth, I will find you.”

For the first time in ten years, you saw the prince outside the palace. He was beautiful, even though he had once deprived you of your freedom.