If Arian Thorn had known he was going to fall in love with a princess that day, he would've at least washed his shirt.
But no, there he was—sweaty, shirt wrinkled, and dragging a stubborn goat named Myrtle through the cobbled streets of Alveria's royal city like his dignity wasn't hanging by a thread. Myrtle, as usual, was causing chaos. She had a taste for forbidden grapes, particularly those belonging to the palace merchant stands.
"Myrtle," Arian groaned, tugging at the frayed rope. "For the love of the gods, that's royal fruit. Do you want to be executed? Because this is how goats get executed."
Myrtle responded by headbutting a stack of apples, sending them rolling through the market like a fruity avalanche.
"Hey!" the fruit seller shouted.
Arian bowed in apology, trying to gather the apples while simultaneously gripping Myrtle's leash, his bag of tools slapping against his side. And then—bam.
He collided with someone.
Not just any someone.
A girl in a cloak.
She landed flat on top of him, both of them sprawled in a tangle of limbs and fabric. Myrtle bleated indignantly and trotted away like she had nothing to do with it.
"Ow," the girl muttered.
"Are you alright?" Arian scrambled to sit up.
She looked up—and he swore time stopped. Hair like molten gold tumbled from her hood, her eyes were the kind of green you wrote songs about, and her lips curled into a perfect scowl.
"Watch where you're going, goat boy."
He blinked. "I—you ran into me!"
She sat up with royal poise, brushed imaginary dust off her cloak, then glanced behind her. "Are they gone?"
"Who?" Arian asked.
At that moment, a trio of palace guards thundered past, swords drawn, shouting, "She went this way!"
The girl yanked Arian by the collar and dragged him behind a cabbage cart. "Don't move. Don't breathe. Don't be a hero."
"What are you—" he started, but one look from her silenced him.
When the guards were gone, she let out a breath and peeked over the cart. Then she grinned, full of mischief and chaos. "Close one. Thanks, goat boy. You're a surprisingly soft landing."
"I have questions," Arian said.
"Most people do." She winked. "Name?"
"Arian. And you are...?"
"El... Elly." She offered a hand. "Runaway dressmaker."
He squinted. "You don't look like a dressmaker."
She raised an eyebrow. "You don't look like a goat wrangler, but here we are."
Fair point.
Arian glanced at her again. Her cloak couldn't hide the delicate embroidery on her hem—royal craftsmanship. The way she carried herself wasn't normal. This girl had spine, spark, and probably secrets.
"Are you in trouble?" he asked.
"That depends. Do you mean legal trouble, royal trouble, or the kind of trouble where your life turns into a badly written play?"
"All three?"
"Then yes. Absolutely."
Suddenly, Lina—the princess's lady-in-waiting and human hurricane—ran up, panting. "Your Highness, you can't keep running off like that! I had to tell three guards you were inspecting the sewage tunnels!"
Arian stared.
"Elly" froze.
Lina gasped, slapped a hand over her mouth, and looked at Arian. "Oops."
"Your Highness?" Arian echoed.
Elly—no, Princess Elara—groaned and buried her face in her hands. "Well, the goat's out of the bag."
Later That Day…
Arian sat on a bench outside the palace bakery, still in shock. He had fallen in love—with a royal. The Princess of Alveria, no less. And she had hidden behind a cabbage cart and called him goat boy.
Meanwhile, inside the palace, Princess Elara was being scolded by her mother, threatened with etiquette books by her father, and told—yet again—that she was to marry Prince Cassian of Westerholt by month's end.
Cassian, cold as ever, simply nodded when she entered the throne room, said, "You smell like goats," and walked away.
Elara's eyes narrowed.
She didn't want cold. She didn't want royal cages. She wanted something wild, something real.
She wanted goat boy.
And that, dear reader, was the beginning of a royal scandal.