The Peasant Prince

1

— Your Highness, I... — the captain of the guard’s voice trembled as he caught the prince’s side glance. Kalendor was already pulling up his hood, but that didn’t stop the man. — Allow at least two of us to follow you at a distance. After all, this is a border town, and it’s not as safe as the capital. It’s full of mercenaries, spies, and...

Kalendor, having thrown on his hood, suddenly turned around and took a few steps toward the captain — so sharply that even the wooden floorboards seemed to suppress their natural urge to creak, as if realizing that doing so now would cost them their lives.

— One more word, Loran, — he said in an icy tone, — and you’ll be standing in the square of Fleurmar, locked in an iron cage, covered in honey, until the flies turn you into a bedtime legend for children.

The captain turned pale.

— But, Your Highness...

— I said — no one. If I see even a single look from under a helmet, even a shadow of your shadow — you and your men will march barefoot over the castle coals.

He stepped closer, grabbed Loran by the collar, and, leaning in even nearer, added in almost a whisper:

— Am I making myself clear?

The captain, though a full two heads taller than the prince, recoiled like a boy caught stealing. His large hands trembled involuntarily, and his eyes darted aside, avoiding the prince’s gaze.

— Y-yes... Your Highness, — he rasped out hoarsely, feeling his throat go dry.

He knew — he knew damn well — that it was better not to argue with the crown prince, even if it meant disobeying a direct order from the king. Between two evils, it was wiser to choose the less painful one. Prison or... Kalendor’s wrath? For any courtier, the choice was obvious.

Prison, at least, left a chance to live. The prince’s wrath was a special kind of hellish torment that any self-respecting lord of the underworld would gladly adopt as his own.

Loran lowered his head even further, trying not to breathe too loudly while Kalendor released his grip on the armor’s collar and, without another word, stepped back. For several seconds, silence hung in the room — so deep that even the torch on the wall seemed afraid to crackle.

— This conversation never happened, — the prince finally said, straightening his cloak and stepping toward the door. — But I can remember it, if you prove slow to understand.

— Yes, Your Highness, — Loran exhaled almost soundlessly, keeping his eyes down, hearing the door creak — then slam shut. And with that slam, the room seemed to come back to life: the torch flame dared to flicker again, a faint draft slipped along the beams, returning life to that part of the room which had just frozen in fear.

Loran slowly raised his head and exhaled heavily — hoarsely — like a man who had just been allowed to live.

He stood still, listening to the fading footsteps, then whispered to himself:

— Madman... I hope his father rules for a long time yet. I’m afraid to imagine what’ll happen if he ever takes power.

He realized his hands were still shaking and awkwardly clasped them behind his back, trying to calm the nervous tremor and not think about how, at that very moment, he wished with all his heart that the prince would never return — even if that wish could cost him his head.

2

Meanwhile, outside, it was a bright sunny day — one of those days people say: "as if God Himself is washing in gold." The air was clean and clear, and the sky was so deep you wanted to drown in it. Fleurmar was alive with its noisy, careless rhythm: the creak of wagon wheels, traders shouting, children laughing, and the smell of fresh bread mixing with the scent of tar and horse sweat.

— Hey! Stop! Stop, I said! — someone’s voice yelled, breaking through the buzz of the busy street.

From an alley burst a fat peasant with a twisted face, waving his arms as he tried to catch up with a cart loaded high with sacks of grain. The horse had already broken into a run, the wheels clattering loudly over the cobblestones, and the man, breathing heavily, was trying in vain to chase it down.

— Dirty thief, may you sink in a swamp! — he bellowed, but the cart was already disappearing around the corner. — Stole my flour, that bastard!

The crowd in the market roared with laughter. A few boys, tossing apple cores, shouted after him:

— Run, old man, maybe you’ll catch it! — yelled a kid with a dirty carrot in his hand, and the crowd burst out laughing again.

But the laughter was cut short when the same “old man” was hit with a dull thud by a man in a hood. The peasant’s body spun like a sack of flour and crashed to the cobblestones, raising a cloud of dust.

— Watch where the hell you’re going, you blind fool! — he roared, spitting and pushing himself up on his elbows. — You city brat, I’ll rip your guts out and wrap them around a wagon axle, you hear me?!

— Look at this! Elmar Kvoss, the lousy miller, putting on a show! — shouted one of the boys, which only made the old man angrier. He was about to unleash all his fury — for the stolen flour, for being called a “lousy miller,” and for this whole damn life — on the hooded stranger. It seemed a fight was inevitable.

The hooded man had clearly heard it and had already stopped. He slowly turned his head toward Elmar, who was just about to open his mouth for another outburst — but never managed to.

The man’s gaze under the hood merely slid across him. But even that was enough. Elmar froze as if an icy blade had been thrust down his throat.

He didn’t know who this man was, but those eyes… those eyes didn’t belong to any mortal. There was no mercy in them, no anger, no life — only the cold, bottomless awareness of something far greater. Elmar felt sweat bead on his skin, and his legs began to back away on their own.

— U-uh… forgive me, sir, — he muttered, swallowing hard. — I didn’t recognize… you must be of noble blood…

But the man had already turned away, as if Elmar didn’t exist at all. The crowd, it seemed, hadn’t even noticed what happened, still laughing at the “old man” while the figure in the dark cloak confidently made its way toward the edge of town.

Prince Kalendor Verden walked without slowing his pace. A hum of tension throbbed in his chest — anticipation that the incident had only fueled even more. He could feel the pendant hidden beneath his clothes vibrating faintly, like a living thing, impatient, ready to awaken.

3

The old barn at the edge of town didn’t look like anything special. The red paint on its boards had long since peeled off, exposing gray wood underneath, and the doors hung on a single hinge. Wind slipped through the cracks, and on especially stormy days it would fill the place with a haunting whistle — just like now, only this time, the sound breaking through from inside was not the wind, but loud, nasal, and all the more insane laughter.

He stood in the middle of the old barn, arm outstretched, and the pendant in his fingers shone so brightly that for a moment the wooden walls seemed to come alive — silver reflections ran across them, and shadows began to dance.

Kalendor smiled.

— Well then, — he said quietly, with that particular triumph with which mages pronounce a demon’s name, — let’s see what your life was worth, old Archmage Kaleus.

"If this thing really works, I’ll hand Father the wine cup myself and finally get what’s rightfully mine..." Kalendor thought, grinning. "Ah, what a pity, Father... what a pity that you’ll be killed by your best friend... or maybe by that bitch who whispers into your ear a little too often."

He pulled the stone closer to his face, almost touching it, and the blue light pulsing inside reflected in his pupils — calm as still water before a storm.

— Hm... — a smirk touched Kalendor’s lips. — But before I try you on someone worthy... I should make sure you actually work. Let’s start, so to speak, with the filth. With those stupid peasants.

He put the pendant around his neck — the motion sharp and impatient. The stone pressed coldly against his skin, as if some invisible creature beneath it had just drawn a breath.

Kalendor straightened, feeling the air around him grow heavier. A short, confident chuckle escaped his lips. He ran his finger along the glowing edge of the artifact and spoke the words he’d read in Archmage Kaleus’s journal:

— Rivath mor’elan, sanguis et forma…

At first, nothing happened. Then the light from the pendant poured outward — thick and mist-like, spreading around him. It wrapped around the prince, slid over his shoulders, his breasts, his arms… and suddenly a sharp pop hit his ears, like a lightning strike.

— What the... — he didn’t finish, because suddenly his chest tightened painfully.

The barn trembled. Dust rose from the ceiling, swirling in a spiral, and the walls creaked as if the old wood suddenly remembered it had once been alive. Kalendor tried to take a step, but his legs felt trapped in thick, viscous mud, impossible to move even an inch.

The light from the stone spread — then surged upward, into him. His whole body felt as though thousands of thin threads had seized it, stretching, twisting. He cried out in shock, but couldn’t hear it — only the roaring in his ears, growing louder and louder.

4

For a moment it felt like his very bones had turned soft — as if they were made of wax, reshaped each second by the invisible hands of some unseen sculptor.

He felt his waist tightening, as though unseen straps were pulling tighter and tighter. His shoulders narrowed, his ribcage sank, and then suddenly there came that pressure in his chest — heavy, strange, alien. It was as if something soft was growing beneath his skin, swelling heavier and heavier with each heartbeat. Horrified, he looked down and saw the fabric of his shirt rising, pushing outward.

— What... what is this?.. — he gasped, choking on air, feeling his lips grow softer, fuller, as though losing their sharp lines, turning into... something different.

His hands moved instinctively to his chest — his fingers grabbed at the fabric of his shirt, which stretched tight to the limit, outlining two heavy, round shapes that were swelling right before his eyes, growing larger beneath his palms, like dough in the hands of a marzipan baker. Kalendor gasped — and the sound that came out was far too high, though he didn’t even notice, consumed entirely by horror. The skin beneath his hands was hot, sensitive, and those... those swelling curves pulsed with his heartbeat, forcing him to jerk back in shock.

But retreat was impossible. His hips suddenly widened with a crack, as if the bones themselves had split apart, reshaping into graceful, feminine curves. His pelvis grew wider, heavier, and Kalendor felt his balance shift, his legs trembling from the sudden change in his center of gravity. Then came another wave of sensation in his groin — a burning, wrenching pull, as if someone inside had grabbed his cock and shoved it back into his body.

— No! No-no-no! This isn’t real! This... Ugh! — he hissed, cutting himself off as a brown corset materialized around his waist, tightening brutally with thick straps, accentuating the narrow waist and forcing his breasts up even higher. The fabric bit into his skin, arching his back into an unnatural pose until he collapsed to his knees.

As if mocking him, the very fabric of his trousers came alive before his eyes — growing thinner, softer, smoother — until it gave way entirely, turning into flowing, delicate fabric. Kalendor froze, unable to believe what was happening: the heavy cloth of his male breeches literally melted down his legs, reshaping into the folds of a skirt that wrapped around them like a warm wave.

He tried to open his mouth, but in that moment reality itself shuddered — like a mirror cracking from a blow. The barn walls flickered, the dust in the air swirled into a vortex, and then everything stopped.

The sound in his ears vanished. The air inside the barn once again filled with the smell of dust, hay, and freshly milled grain. Kalendor remained on his knees, breathing hard — as deep as he could manage, given that damned corset, which seemed to dig into his ribs on purpose with every breath, emphasizing the weight of his heavy breasts rising and falling with each one.

5

Kneeling, Kalendor slowly lowered his gaze — and froze, as if a bottomless pit had opened before him.

The white blouse with a deep neckline, pulled tight by a corset, jutted forward in two heavy, round curves that trembled in his hands — still gripping them, as if trying to tear them off his body. His fingers slid across the fabric but found no seam, no clasp — only smooth, warm skin beneath the thin cloth. The pendant — the blue stone on its rough cord — pulsed mockingly in the hollow between his breasts.

— This... can’t be real… — Kalendor rasped, and at the sound of his own voice, something inside him twisted. It was different. Much higher, softer — that girlish tone used by maidens dreaming of princes and still believing in fairy tales. His words ended with a faint, delicate chime, like a silver bell striking crystal.

Closing his eyes for a moment, Kalendor — if one could still call this girl that — took a deep breath, trying to grasp even a shred of the cold composure that once made captains bow their heads before him.

"Calm down..." the thought slipped through his mind. "It’s just... an unintended result."

He tried to recall every word the old Archmage Kaleus had spoken that night, when he lay bound on the laboratory floor, dying — his eyes still burning with that fanatical gleam.

— The spell doesn’t change form... it alters the fabric of perception itself, boy. Everything matters. Even the place where... kh-heh... khah...

The mage hadn’t finished, choking on blood, while Kalendor stood over him, smiling, tracing a finger along the dagger’s hilt.

— You’re just trying to scare me, old man. But your life’s already over — accept it.

— You won’t even understand what you’ll become... — Kaleus had whispered just before the blade pierced his heart. Kalendor no longer needed him. The foolish old man had already explained how the artifact worked. The only important thing now was that it required twelve hours before it could be used again.

Kalendor exhaled, pressing a hand to his stomach, squeezed tight by the corset. His fingers felt lighter, his skin thinner, softer — even breathing didn’t feel the same as before. The corset wouldn’t let his breasts expand fully, and every breath turned into a short, strained gasp.

"The artifact worked," flashed through his mind, "just... not the way I expected. But the power’s there."

He opened his eyes. Light filtered through the cracks in the roof, falling across the straw in golden stripes. In that glow, the skin on his hands seemed almost transparent — too thin, too... fragile. Kalendor clenched his teeth.

— This... is a trial. That’s all it is, — he said under his breath, but the sound of his own voice sent a chill down his spine. — Maybe I shouldn’t have killed that old bastard so quickly...

6

He rose slowly from his knees, feeling the skirt slide softly along his legs and settle around his ankles. The fabric rustled gently, obediently following each movement, but the prince could feel its weight — instinctively paying attention not to drag the hem through the dirt.

Taking a step, he immediately stumbled over a small stone underfoot, hidden from view by the swell of his neckline — which at that moment jiggled noticeably on his breasts, sending a pulling ripple through his back. He kicked the skirt aside irritably and, breathing heavily, looked around.

The barn was the same: dust, beams, hay — but... something had changed. Something subtle yet tangible. From outside came the noises of the Fleurmar outskirts: barking dogs, the clang of a hammer, and the hum of voices — soft female ones and rough male ones alike. Kalendor approached the door, but just as his fingers touched the old latch, a sharp creak sounded behind him.

— Teresa! — came a gruff, angry male voice, one that struck Kalendor as far too familiar — as if he’d heard it his whole life.

He froze, not even having time to make sense of anything.

— Teresa, are you messing around in the barn again? I’ve been looking for you all over the yard!

He turned around. Standing in the doorway was the same peasant Kalendor had knocked down earlier — Elmar — his face red from anger and fatigue. But now... his eyes looked at Kalendor with such warmth that the prince suddenly felt a strange tightness somewhere beneath his breasts.

— Father?.. — he breathed out, the word slipping from his lips on its own.

— Of course, I’m your father, who else, you silly girl, — Elmar replied with a weary smile. — What, touching your pendant again? How many times have I told you — stop daydreaming, or you’ll forget where you left the grain sacks again.

"What? Father? Silly girl?!"

Kalendor flared inside, wanting to retort — but the words stuck. He felt the muscles of his face stretch into a shy smile all by themselves. As if he wasn’t the one controlling them.

— I... I was just... — the words came out softly, obediently, as though someone was dictating them from within. But as soon as Kalendor realized that, he forced his will to take over, trying to bring back his usual sternness — furrowing his brows and lifting his chin, the way he did in the throne room when he could silence opponents with a single look.

But the result turned out... strange. His cheeks twitched slightly, his lips curved despite him — and instead of cold authority, his expression turned into that of a confused young woman, embarrassed by her own excuse. Kalendor, of course, didn’t notice that; all he saw was the old man’s unfamiliar reaction. Elmar just sighed, waved a hand, and turned away.

— All right, don’t look at me like that. Didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, — he muttered, setting down a bucket of grain. His rough, sunburnt, flour-dusted hand rubbed his cheek nervously, as if uneasy from this sudden “girlish offense.” — You’ve always been sensitive like that, ever since you were a child...

Kalendor almost laughed — but the sound caught in his throat, pushed aside by something else. Warmth? Shame? He felt his cheeks suddenly burn.

"Since childhood?!" he hissed inwardly. "What the hell are you talking about, old man?! Do you even realize you’ve just signed your own death sentence?!"

7

Kalendor took a confident step forward, frowning. His back straightened, his chin lifted proudly. Everything in him — or so he thought at that moment — radiated that familiar authority, the kind that could make even the captains of the guard lose their words.

He already opened his mouth to scold the old man, to silence him and make him listen — but Elmar didn’t even glance his way.

— You won’t believe it, Teresa, — he started irritably, not noticing her menacing posture, — someone stole the flour, right off the wagon! In broad daylight, on a crowded street! — He waved his hand, tools clattering noisily. — And then some passerby knocked me flat on the ground, I swear! I thought he’d break my bones, he was... terrifying. Like a demon straight from hell, by God...

"Demon! Ha! Thanks for the compliment, old man," Kalendor thought, planting his small fists on his waist and grinning with that same wicked smirk that once made knights tremble and courtiers go pale. He even lifted his chin a little higher, furrowed his brows — everything exactly as it should be. The corset, of course, made it hard to breathe, and those heavy breasts only felt heavier, but for the sake of proper presence, he could endure it.

But Elmar, lifting his head from the sacks, froze for a second... and then chuckled warmly.

— Oh, Tereska, you’re such a funny one — acting all brave again, huh, my little fox? — he said, and the corners of his mouth twitched in amusement. — You know, I look at you and see your mother all over again. She was the same way when something bad happened. Would stand just like that, all proud and serious, like some queen from Marzipania, ready to scold me — and then she’d be the first to run over, feed me, and hold me close...

Kalendor froze. His wicked grin slowly melted away, like ice dissolving in his hands.

"Feed him? Hold him close? What the hell is he talking about?!"

He wanted to snap back, to cut the fool down with all the royal contempt he could muster — but his tongue felt coated in tar. Somewhere deep inside, something clicked — and along with the irritation came a strange, warm feeling. Not anger, not pride... but care?

— Well... what are you standing there for, my little fox? — Elmar went on more softly now, smiling so simply that Kalendor suddenly wanted to look away. — I’m not mad. Just tired. Lost all the flour — my own fault for not watching. Not the end of the world, but... it’s going to be hard now, without it.

Kalendor opened his mouth, ready to say something cutting, something like: “Your own damn fault, stupid peasant — learn to keep watch!” But the words stuck somewhere in his chest — and instead, what came out was:

— I... I’ll help you, Father. Everything will be fine!

He said it automatically, without even realizing what he’d said. Those words... they just slipped out.

— That’s my girl! — Elmar clapped his hand on his knee with satisfaction. — Aye, everything’ll be fine. Your mother would’ve been proud!

8

Something inside Kalendor snapped.

"Mother?! Proud?! That’s the last damn thing I needed! I’m the heir to the throne, not some peasant girl!"

He turned sharply away so that neither anger nor confusion would show on his face. His breasts moved softly with the motion, and that gentle bounce threw him off balance even more than Elmar’s words.

"No. I can’t stay here. I just need to endure these twelve hours. Calmly. No more of this ‘girl’ and ‘father’ nonsense. When I get my body back, I’ll have this peasant executed! But for now... for now..."

— I... I’ll step outside for a bit, — he said, staring at the floor, just to avoid meeting the old man’s eyes.

— Step outside? — Elmar echoed, surprised and with a hint of sadness. — I thought you... wanted to help?

Kalendor froze.

Help? The word struck inside his head like the great bell of the Marzipania capital’s tower, echoing painfully through his chest. It splashed over him like a cold wave of humiliation at the very thought that he — Kalendor Verden, crown prince of Marzipania — should help some peasant.

And yet, somewhere deep beneath that outrage, he felt something else — shame. Shame for thinking exactly the way Kalendor always did.

He opened his mouth again, ready to reply sharply — but once again, what came out wasn’t quite what he wanted... or thought he wanted.

— I’ll help later... I just... need some air, — his voice trembled, sounding almost apologetic. And in that same moment, he noticed the pendant flash faintly as he spoke.

Elmar frowned, looking at him with tired concern.

— Teresa, are you sure you’re all right? — he asked, stepping closer and reaching out a hand as if to touch her shoulder. — You’re pale, girl. Like a bedsheet. You sick or something?

Kalendor recoiled almost violently. His body reacted before his mind — a shiver, a quick chill crawling over his skin, and a stupid, uncontrollable feeling of vulnerability.

— I’m fine! — he burst out sharply, almost shouting. — Don’t come near me!

Elmar froze, blinking in confusion, then let out a rough, short chuckle.

— Ah, that’s you all over... always in your own head. Just like your mother. All right, go then — but stop by Elina’s place, tell her we’ll bring the flour by evening. She’s been grumbling for three days already.

Kalendor nodded automatically — not even realizing right away that he’d done it with a soft, almost submissive tilt of his head. When he stepped out the door, the creak of the hinges sounded louder than usual, and the air outside felt colder, even though the same summer heat filled the day.

He drew in a deep breath — but the corset once again pressed hard into his ribs, not letting him breathe freely. He had to stop, grabbing the barn wall for support.

9

“Damn. Can't even breathe! How do these women live in those... fabric armors?... I need to get away from this place!” thought Kalendor, and immediately he clenched the pendant with his hand. “Goddamn trinket! So this is all your doing... Or is it the dying curse of the old mage? Fuck it.”

Kalendor squeezed the pendant harder, feeling the blue stone under his fingers as if it were breathing in time with his heart.

— In any case... — he hissed, pressing it to his chest. — I'll wait out these twelve hours. And then... I'll burn that old man and... this whole district... to hell.

But his voice sounded uncertain. Not like a terrible threat — which in reality was very frightening — but like an unsure grumble from a girl trying to sound menacing while her cheeks were already burning with embarrassment.

And at that moment a sharp smack lower on her back made her flinch so violently that the hem of her skirt flew up, and her heavy breasts under the corset rocked forward dangerously.

— Oh! — escaped from her, ringing out as if she were not a prince but actually a plain girl, while a wave of heat ran through her thighs, making them clench involuntarily.

Kalendor... Teresa turned with a face as if she were about to bite off the head of the one who dared, but that expression changed immediately when she saw him — Rodrik. A tall, ungainly fellow with tousled light-brown hair, in a gray shirt half-tucked into his trousers, and that same eternal mischief in his eyes that always annoyed Teresa… and for some reason warmed her breasts.

— Rodrik! — she breathed out, equal parts outraged and bewildered that she even knew his name. — Have you completely lost your mind?!

He grinned, scratched the back of his head and snorted:

— Why'd you jump like that? You always say your skin's as thick as a mill sack.

— I'll show you a sack! — Teresa squinted angrily, but even she heard her voice tremble on the last words. — Try it again, and I… I—

— And you'll what? — Rodrik stepped closer, his shadow falling across her face, and Teresa, feeling her heart pounding too fast under the corset, took a step back.

— I… — the words tangled. She wanted to say “I am Prince Kalendor Verden, heir to the throne of Marzipania! You'll die, you filthy animal!”, but she couldn't... or didn't want to say that. She didn't want to hurt him and at the same time she was offended that her pride was wounded. She raised her eyes to him, looking from an unfamiliar angle from below, and uttered the most logical thing that came to her to show offense while not frightening the boy away: — …my father is nearby.

10

Rodrik burst out laughing so loud that even the birds on the barn roof took off in fright.

— Oh, Teresa, — he said, still laughing and stepping back a little, — that’s a good one. You’re threatening me... with your father!

He stepped closer again, and now no more than a couple of handspans separated them. The shadow of his figure fell directly across her breasts, making the white fabric of her blouse look even thinner, and something beneath the corset tightened uneasily.

— Rodrik, I’m serious, — she tried to say in a stern, low tone, but what came out was soft, almost pleading.

— Yeah, I can see that, — he smirked, tilting his head slightly. — So serious, your cheeks went red.

Teresa turned her gaze away sharply. Cheeks? She quickly touched her face — her skin was indeed burning, as if she’d been caught doing something indecent.

— It’s from the sun! — she blurted out. — It’s just... hot.

— Sure it is, — he drawled, still smiling. — Hot because I’m standing close, huh?

— Rodrik! — she breathed out, more from embarrassment than anger.

— What, me? — He stepped even closer, leaned in, and whispered: — Or maybe it’s not just the heat?

She stepped back, but her back immediately pressed against the barn’s wooden wall. Her heart pounded so hard she was afraid he’d hear it. Her breasts rose heavily under the corset, and every uneven brush of fabric against her skin reminded her of what she’d become.

— Step back, — she whispered, but it didn’t sound threatening at all.

— And if I don’t? — he said quietly, almost playfully, but for the first time there was something else in his voice — soft, uncertain, as if even he didn’t know why he was doing this.

She lifted her eyes, and in that moment the whole world seemed to shrink to a single gaze.

Rodrik’s blue, slightly furrowed eyes looked straight into hers, and that look made Teresa’s breath catch. Her chest felt tight, as if the corset had pulled tighter, and waves of trembling warmth ran across her skin. Her heart wasn’t just racing — it was pounding blood into her ears, her fingertips, her lips, which had suddenly gone dry and parted slightly on their own.

"What... what’s happening to me?..” — flashed through her mind, but the thought drowned in the beating of her heart, as her gaze slipped to Rodrik’s slightly parted lips, with their rough edges and a small red blemish near the corner.

She saw him breathe. Saw the faint quiver of his lips, like laughter he was barely holding back — and somehow that only made her pulse race harder. He tilted his head just a little, and his warm breath brushed her cheek, making her nipples stiffen. Teresa shuddered, and everything inside her — from her knees to her throat — filled with something tender that threatened to spill out any second.

His face came closer.

11

Another moment, and their breaths mingled. She caught his scent — a trace of flour, a touch of sunlight, and that simple warmth she had never known at court.

Rodrik’s lips moved slightly, as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t. Teresa didn’t look away. Her fingers tightened around the hem of her skirt, her legs felt heavy as lead, and her whole body froze in anticipation. She knew she had never felt anything like this before.

Another heartbeat — and their lips were almost touching. She could feel his breath, and—

— Teresa! — the loud, booming voice struck the air like a hammer.

Both of them flinched, as if waking from a dream. The barn door flew open with a dull thud, letting in a ray of sunlight — and Elmar stepped out from within.

— Teresa! What are you doing in there, girl? — he thundered, frowning. — Rodrik? And what the hell are you standing over her for like some scarecrow?

Air rushed back into her lungs, wrapping her whole body in a scorching wave of shame. Teresa jerked away, stumbling on her skirt, pressing her hands to her breasts as if trying to hold in her wildly pounding heart.

— I... I wasn’t doing anything! — she blurted out, too fast, too bright. Her voice trembled.

Rodrik stepped back, coughed, and ran a hand through his hair.

— We... I was just... — he mumbled, eyes down.

— Just what? — Elmar frowned, then sighed and waved a hand. — Ah, you young fools... Teresa, I knew it’d be something like this. Go to Elina, stop wasting time.

— Y-yes, of course, Father! — she stammered, and without looking at Rodrik, she almost ran away from the barn — anywhere, just to get out of there.

Teresa stopped behind the corner, pressing her palm to her breast. Her heart was still hammering, as if trying to break free. She stood there, gasping, feeling a bead of sweat slide down her neck, her knees trembling as if she’d just escaped a battle.

"What the hell was that?!" — flashed through her head. — "I... I almost let him... touch me! I, Kalendor Verden! What the fuck?!"

The very thought made her shiver, as if doused in cold water. But along with that came something else — something warm, tender, fleeting — yet unwilling to fade. The kind of feeling that burns into memory forever and later becomes a story told to grandchildren.

She closed her eyes, fists tightening.

— No, — she whispered barely audibly. — No, I’m not her. I’m Kalendor. A prince. A prince! A PRINCE!

But even she could hear how foolish that sounded. And her mind kept circling back — again and again — to that fleeting instant when their lips were so close. And her heart beat on, whispering that she had to hurry to Elina... so she could come back home later — to her father... to Rodrik.