Time passed, bringing the kingdom muted tidings from the front. Somewhere far away, on the northern border, Ethergard was waging a sluggish, positional war against the lands of Sylvan. But for the inhabitants of the palace, these events seemed like distant, almost imperceptible background noise.

  After that memorable instance of "Confectionery Diplomacy," Prince Damian and his young entourage had fully accepted Amelia into their circle. Forced study had imperceptibly blossomed into a solid friendship. The days filled with laughter, excitement, and a carefree lightness that Amelia, in her previous life of labor, could only have dreamed of.

  The sun shone hotly over the manicured field. Amelia, prancing on a graceful white pony, yielded nothing to her brother. Their excited shouts mingled as they raced neck and neck with the restless Tristan and the freckle-faced Rowan. In quieter hours, they glided across the palace pond in a fancy white boat: Amelia sat at the prow, directing the clumsy efforts of the rowers with a self-important air, using a willow branch as a conductor's baton.

  And so, today they had settled on an emerald clearing for a picnic. A luxurious wicker basket of fruit stood in the center. Lying on a plaid blanket, head propped on her hand and kicking her legs carelessly in the air, Amelia was reading a thick tome on medieval politics. Tristan and Rowan sat with books as well, though they were clearly reading nothing but the boredom on each other's faces.

  Suddenly Lord Tristan, a person whose internal restlessness was always too great for reading, slammed his volume shut with a loud clap.

  "Enough of this dust of centuries!" He sprang up, a conspiratorial, sly smile playing on his lips. "The weather is too fine to waste on tedious treatises. I propose a game: the last one to the old oak on the hill grants one wish to the winner!"

  Amelia’s eyes lit up. Violation of rules and the thrill of gambling had always served as excellent fuel for her.

  "I'm in!" she shouted, tossing her book into the grass.

  With merry laughter, the children dashed across the sun-drenched meadow. The speed was intoxicating; the wind whistled in their ears.

  At the very edge of the clearing, just as victory was almost within grasp, Amelia’s elegant slipper caught on a gnarled root traitorously protruding from the earth.

  The world turned upside down. There was a dull thud and a pained cry. Her small body lost its balance and landed hard on the grass, scraping her knee.

  A few steps ahead, Tristan and Rowan skidded to a halt and spun around in horror.

  "AMELIA!" their voices rang out in unison.

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  The boys rushed back. Tristan, with a decisiveness unexpected for his flighty character, immediately dropped to his haunches in front of her, inspecting the abrasion where droplets of blood were welling up.

  "Rowan, to the palace! Fast!" he commanded, pointing at the spires visible in the distance. "Bring a pitcher of fresh water and summon the servants with the healer's satchel! Make haste!"

  Rowan, whose common sense rivaled his speed, objected for a moment:

  "What? The palace is far! Let me call the guards at the park gates, they’re closer!"

  "You are the fastest among us! Only you can make it in time! Run!" Tristan barked, not taking his concerned gaze off Amelia’s knee.

  Rowan, muttering something about being "the fastest only when running Tristan's stupid errands," dashed away.

  Tristan remained alone with Amelia. He pulled a snow-white batiste handkerchief from his pocket and, smiling awkwardly, whispered:

  "It’s alright, Princess. I’ll take care of you now."

  Heh... the boy has grown up, Amelia noted mentally through the subsiding pain. Already learning to be a gentleman. How adorable.

  Tristan’s hand was unexpectedly gentle as he began to carefully brush the dirt from the skin around the wound. And then, when the worst was over, he suddenly leaned in.

  A soft, completely innocent, yet at the same time frighteningly possessive touch of lips to the skin just above the wound.

  SMOOCH!

  Amelia’s eyes, already large, became absolutely saucer-like. Her jaw dropped. A sensation of a critical system failure erupted in her head.

  WH-WH-WHAAAT-T-T?! a panicked scream tore through her consciousness. STOP! WHAT?! WHAT THE HELL?.. THIS WAS NOT IN THE EDUCATIONAL CURRICULUM!

  Shock gave way to a new spiral of bewilderment. Tristan, ignoring her frozen face, took hold of the edge of her white lace stocking, which was smeared with earth, and pulled it down slightly, as if intending to continue the "treatment."

  At that moment, like a vortex of rage and platinum mane, the squire Leo flew into the clearing. His usually timid face was distorted by righteous anger.

  "LORD TRISTAN! STEP AWAY FROM HER HIGHNESS! IMMEDIATELY!" his voice thundered with power and resolve, for the first time completely stripped of insecurity.

  Not waiting for Tristan, dumbfounded by such insolence from a Marquis's son, to find words, Leo scooped the Princess up into his arms in one strong motion.

  "Your Highness, you are injured," he spoke, now more calmly but firmly, pressing her to his chest. "I must deliver you to the healer immediately."

  He carried Amelia away at a brisk pace, leaving Tristan alone to stare confusedly after them.

  A moment later, Rowan ran onto the clearing, out of breath, clutching a pitcher of water. He stopped, looking at the retreating back of the squire carrying the Princess, and at Tristan sitting on the grass looking like a man whose genius plan had failed miserably.

  Absolute understanding of the situation froze on Rowan’s face. He shook his head reproachfully and sank onto the grass next to his friend.

  "I told you," Rowan grumbled, setting the useless pitcher on the ground. "Stop your tricks. She's not as naive as you think."

  "...Shut up," Tristan replied quietly, covering his face with his elbow.

  Leo carried Amelia in his arms through the palace park. Her shock had finally passed, replaced by familiar analytical curiosity. She studied his profile closely. In his bright blue eyes, not a trace of youthful embarrassment remained—cold concentration boiled there instead.

  "Your Highness," Leo spoke quietly but insistently, without slowing his pace. "As soon as we deal with your wound, I must speak with you. Urgently. This concerns your safety."

  Amelia bit her lip, seeing in him for the first time something other than the pitiful status of an "intern."

  "Very well," she replied calmly.