"Oh, and I will be going somewhere," added the young boy, as casually as if he were talking of something mundane, like what he had for dinner last night.

"Where to?" came little Margaret's quick reply, instantly reading that her friend is making light of a rather serious situation.

The boy kept his nonchalant manner of talking. "Oh, the dragon's lair, I guess."

She began to scold him. "Did you truly think I would fall for that? If dragons exist, my father should have an army's worth of them now, and I should have a whelp as a pet." But she narrowed her eyes at him, having known better. "You and your roundabout manner of talking. I know you're going someplace dangerous."

"Be honored. You're the only one I ever told this to."

"Why should I? I'm your betrothed; you have no right to keep things from me."

The boy scowled at her. "Hmph, you always talk big." Then his expression grew unnaturally somber. "But hey, this is not something simple."

"I know," was Margaret's reply, still trying to act like she knew everything, but worry was showing on her face. "We always have places to go, and some of them can be dangerous so we have guards with us, but we don't tell each other because we already know." She frowned even deeper. "How long will you be away?"

"I don't know."

She lost her patience. "You are annoying me right now. You won't tell me where or how long you'll be away. And to a dangerous place! Wait till your parents hear about this—"

"Don't!" he cried in a much louder voice.

She sighed. As if she would tell on him. She would rather go with him. Or maybe order the guards to stop him by force. But he trusted her with his plans—she could not betray him.

"Maybe six or eight years," he finally answered in a low voice.

"That's too long!"

"...I'll come back for you."

"You idiot!" Her voice quivered. "I won't wait for you, then someone else will marry me." A teardrop fell. "Change your mind, or you won't ever see me again."

The moment one wakes up, all her senses return. Her eyes may remain closed for a while, but her consciousness inevitably creeps in. When everything is still shrouded in darkness, all other sensory perceptions grow keener.

Such as the warmth of her cheeks basking under the early morning sun.

Or the itchy, ticklish sensation on her skin as she suspects herself lying on grassy ground. The long stalks poke her shut eyelids.

The heavy pain that envelopes her body with every attempt to stir and sit up. Her hand furtively reaches towards her thigh. It felt tender, as if it were covered in bruises.

Her other hand reaches up to wipe the sleep and grass from her eyes. Instead, it rudely disturbs a fresh wound on her forehead. She winces.

Her half-lidded eyes can make out a figure in the distance, walking to where she lay. 'Ah, someone has come for me,' she assumes. She drifts off to slumber once more while feeling her body being lifted off the ground, onto someone's arms.

This time, she wakes up without a hint of sleepiness in her. She was supposed to have woken up some time ago, but she dozed off again. She could have dreamed of something, but she remembers nothing of it. Now, she is lying comfortably on a mattress covered with fresh white sheets. To her left is a small table with a basin of water and a washcloth on it.

The scratches and scrapes on her forearms have been cleaned. She peeks underneath the blanket spread out over her and notices that her clothes have been changed into new ones. Her face grows warm. 'Who could have done it?' she muses, hand on bandaged forehead. With pursed lips, she shuts her eyes and conjures the image of the person who carried her back. 'That young man—it cannot be—of course not,' she admonishes herself at the apparent silliness of the idea. 'There has to be a woman in this house, perhaps his mother. That's it.'

She becomes increasingly aware of two voices whispering from across the bed.

"Her Highness seems to be awake."

"Well, she must have been roused by your incessant murmuring."

"I am not being noisy; I was only asking—"

"Oh, I shall answer your questions later, love! I myself haven't the slightest idea. I shall talk to her, so please let me do the work, lest you mention something rude."

"You are now the loud one, dearest. Her Royal Highness is staring at you."

'Whatever could they be arguing about?' the girl wonders as she cannot help but stare at the middle-aged couple. 'Is it me they are addressing in that manner? I haven't stumbled upon a strange bunch, have I?'

The woman approaches her bedside, stopping at three feet away, with her head bowed low. "My deepest apologies for disturbing your sleep, Your Royal Highness." The man follows suit, doing as his wife had done. "Please rest until Your Highness has regained her strength, and we apologize for the humility of our abode, but we will do everything in our power to serve you."

The girl sits up, peeling away the blanket and setting her feet on the polished wooden floor, where a pair of slippers are already prepared. Now she is sitting up, facing the couple.

"Please do not address me in this manner," she hurries to say, her lavender eyes filled with bewildered apprehension.

It is now the couple's turn to be confused. "Your Highness, how can we disrespect you?" asks the woman, her head bowed down still.

"I am never a princess. I have no idea why you address me as one."

The man glances at his wife, and ventures to look at the young girl straight in the eye. "Then young lady, please tell us your name. Who might you be that you resemble the princess so much?" The girl is surprised at the question.

She opens her mouth to speak. "...Marigold," she reveals, and at the reaction of the two, she suspects they still doubt her. "An orphan for sixteen years," she adds.

"How can this be?" the woman asks her husband in a hushed voice.

"I am baffled," the man murmurs. "But look at her—she is not lying, it seems."

Marigold clasps her hands in unease. "I would like to know your names as well," she cuts in, albeit being nervous about it. "I thank you from the bottom of my heart, for nursing me."

The two jump back at her voice. "W-we apologize," the woman stutters. "I am Doreen, and this is Hamish, my husband."

"Please do not apologize, Miss Doreen and Mister Hamish—I should be sorry for imposing on you like this."

"Not at all!" the two cry in unison. Marigold holds back a smile.

"You are too kind," she remarks. "Also," she adds, looking absently as she gathers her thoughts, "I remember seeing a young man carry me back here before I fell asleep. Could he be your son?"

"Yes, that was Steven," Doreen answers with a fond expression. "he must be sitting under that large oak tree by now; he spends the rest of the morning there."

"That boy is always there with a book up his nose," Hamish adds, with a hint of fatherly pride in his voice. At this rate, he shall be finishing every last book in the study."

"Then I shall buy him new ones to read," Doreen responds right after. Hamish chuckles. "A doting mother you are," he tells his wife.

"The old tree is just up the hill, and it's not far from the house," Hamish informs Marigold. "I could take you there if you want."

"You can just call him to come here," Doreen suggests to her husband. "Marigold might need to lie down some more." She turns to the young girl and asks, "Marigold, can you stand?"

"Yes, Miss Doreen, I think I can stand and walk just fine," Marigold assures them gratefully as she stands up from the bed. "I wish to meet Steven there and personally thank him."

"All right, but walk carefully and don't run," Doreen says. "Your body must still be sore so don't strain it too much."

"Come. I'll show you to the door," Hamish beckons to her as he leads the way. Marigold smiles at Doreen and leaves the room.

Outside, the bright sun greets Marigold's mauve eyes. The soft curls of her long amber hair are being tousled by the playful spring breeze, like the waves that seem to appear on the vast fields of grass about her. The hem of her dress sways and floats with every step she takes. The hill is not far from the house, but it becomes quite the hike for her rather sore limbs.

She emerges from the bottom of the hill to where the young lad is sitting, a cool spot underneath the shade of a large oak tree. He sees her coming and regards her with kind eyes. She is a bit taken aback. He has jet black hair and dark blue eyes, and he is quite good-looking, but that is not the reason at all. He seems familiar.

"You are awake," he says as a way of welcoming her.

"Thank you for saving me, Steven," she responds, noting the subtle shift in his eyes at her words, which disappears as fast as it comes. He smiles.

"Anybody would have done the same," is his modest reply.

Marigold seats herself near him, sneaking a peek at the book the young man was reading.

"I liked that as well. And it seems you're getting at a good part," she expresses with interest. He laughs softly and looks at the book on his lap once more.

"I'm actually reading it for the third time," he replies as he casually flips through the pages. He then closes it and sets it on the grass beside him.

"I suppose I know it well enough by now. I'd like to know what you think of it instead." He looks into her eyes again.

'This person has not asked for my name, yet we are speaking so familiarly now,' she thinks, and yet the idea seems insignificant for the moment. She picks up the volume, her thumb feeling its worn leather cover.

"Among countless stories of heroes rescuing princesses, seeing a princess that refuses to be rescued from the dragon's lair is a breath of fresh air," she declares with a smirk.

"What do you think of her reasons for rejecting the hero's help?" He asks once more, his cat-like eyes lit with interest.

"Well," she begins. "She had motivations the hero would never understand. Valid ones, nonetheless. But the hero will meddle out of love, and just as he could not stop the princess from solving her problems on her own, the princess cannot keep the hero from protecting her, because that is a decision he is free to make."

He regards her silently and intently, as if in deep thought. She tries to return the stare, attempting to comprehend the depth of the look in his eyes, but all in vain. Instead, she feels as if Steven could read into her more than she would allow.

"I have a question for you as well," she ventures.

"Go ahead," he says, not breaking the stare just yet.

"Have we met before?"

Silence ensues.

They are both sitting still, staring into each other's eyes.

Marigold feels as if the moment has gone on for too long.

"...Perhaps."

"I see," says she, disappointment showing in her eyes. "You seemed very familiar."

"I could say the same to you," Steven responds just as easily. "We might have crossed paths before."

'He could have said that just to keep me from losing face,' thinks Marigold ruefully, yet she felt rather grateful to have met someone rather sensible. And she does not fail in letting him know. "I know you said that to make me feel better. That's sensible of you."

Steven smiles while bowing his head down, which seems to Marigold as if he is embarrassed, but she cannot see his eyes. "That's an undeserved compliment," he replies.

"It is but a feeble thank-you for what you have done." Upon saying this, Marigold begins to stand up, straightening her dress with her palms. "I shall not burden you anymore. Thank you from the bottom of my heart, and I promise to repay your kindness someday."

"What do you plan on doing now? The castle is a mess."

Marigold briefly glances at Steven. 'Castle? Whyever would he mention that?' But she decides to match his nonchalance. "If I cannot work there now, I shall make a living elsewhere." She stares at the distance, where the dirt road should be. "The town is a good place to start."

"You're right. I wish you well; take care."

"Likewise."

Steven watches Marigold's retreating figure down the hill, through the meadows and back to the house, from where she also reappears after a few moments. She bids goodbye to the couple and heads out to town.

His deep-blue eyes follow her until she is but a dot in the distance. In his chest, he feels nothing but unease. His brows furrow ever so slightly, and his jaw tightens. Resolve flashes through his irises.

He gets up and dashes down the hill, leaving the book lying on the grass, forgotten.

a (rude) author's note: Have you read the prologue? lol