Prologue

"I had so many dreams about you and me. Happy endings, now I know." – Taylor Swift 'White Horse'

Tonight was the start of the rest of his life.

The candles flickered alluringly over his handsome face, making the lightly tanned face all the more golden. Dark, ocean blue eyes scanned the room, passing over all of the guests, only lingering in a few places. His father had outdone himself this time: the ballroom was impeccably decorated, every detail meant to be some sort of an aphrodisiac. From the red rose petals scattered on the ground to the rich gold drapes adorning the walls to the thousands of candles twinkling above on the ceiling, the room was meant to coax love and romance out of every attendee.

Prince Charles of Inglin was normally a rather charming and easygoing young man, but the weeks leading up to the ball were filled with sulking and very unbecoming tantrums. He thought that the idea of a ball was ridiculous; what was the point of such a charade when the marriage ensuing was destined to be an arranged one? But his father patiently explained to him that this ball was the only chance Charles would have to pick his bride—if he did not, then an outside marriage would be arranged.

"I wanted to give you the same opportunity my father gave me," King Richard explained, picking up his wife's hand and kissing it. "And look how well it turned out. Besides, balls exude romance, and you know how women love being wooed."

Charles scowled. "Why can't you just set up the marriage for me? You know how I hate these stupid games between men and women. We all know here that the alliance of my marriage is far more important than love or affection, so why go through with this farce?"

His mother, Queen Jane, sighed as Charles left the room. "Richard, how ever did he turn out this way? There is no need for him to be so pessimistic."

Richard pursed his lips. "I assure you I know not," he told his wife. "I just hope that he grows out of it. This kingdom needs a practical ruler, not a cynical one. The people will not respond favorably to him. If they do reject him as king… then I hate to think about the future of this kingdom."

But now that he was here, Charles supposed he might as well make the best of it. After all, it would be something if he found someone who he may grow to care for. If he had his way, he would not marry any of the girls his father had chosen. Charles wasn't stupid; he knew that while his father claimed that this was a great "opportunity" for Charles to pick his bride he knew that his selection would only be from the women that his father deemed worthy enough to receive an invitation to the ball.

Charles sneered. And what women they were. Although the ball was for the prince's 21st birthday, everyone knew that was merely a title and that the ball was held in order for him to pick the kingdom's next queen. It was sickening what some of the women were willing to do in order to gain his attention. Whether it was low-cut necklines, an appalling amount of rogue and powder on their faces, or the most blatant, scandalous flirting he had ever been subjected to, Charles was disgusted by every single guest he was forced to converse and dance with.

"Si-sire?" Stammered a voice to his left. Turning, Charles saw Nigel, one of his father's advisers. Although he was a nervous, timid man, Nigel was his father's favorite due to his loyalty and competence.

But why do his advisers have to be so damn twitchy? Charles wondered silently. He straightened his cravat; they made him nervous as well. "Yes, Nigel?"

"Your- your father wanted me to ask if there were any young women that caught your eye," Nigel swallowed. He knew how touchy of a subject this was in particular and loathed doing Richard's dirty work for him. Although, he supposed that was what he was being paid for.

Charles scoffed. "Look around, Nigel," he said with a sweeping motion of his arm. "Does it look like there is anyone who would possibly catch my eye in a way that is not whorish?"

Nigel fidgeted nervously but then he stopped abruptly, blinking rapidly as his eyes took in something beyond Charles's shoulder. When he spoke, his voice was surprisingly clear and calm as he rudely pointed and asked, "What about her?"

Charles turned.

Far across the room, by the entrance, stood a young woman. Because she had arrived so late, the announcers had already departed, and Charles was left mystified as to whom she was. He had never seen her in his life, and although he did not know all of the guests his father had invited personally, he generally knew their title and had probably glimpsed them before. This girl, however, was completely foreign to him.

It wasn't as though she stood out much. She was very pretty to be sure, but so were many of the other girls present that night. But there was something so refreshing about her, the way her face had little cosmetics about it, letting her big green eyes be the focus of her heart-shaped face. Her hair, long and blonde, was loose, except for two braids that held back her bangs. Her dress was a simple, virginal white, the fine material boasting of its quality.

Although it was tempting to immediately go up to her, snatch her away before another man seized the opportunity, Charles was content to watch her for a moment, let her green eyes soak up the atmosphere. It was odd because she was dressed like a noblewoman, yet the way her eyes looked at everything made him think she had never been exposed to such finery. Of course, it was more than likely she had never been to the castle before, thus explaining why he had never seen her.

He took his time in approaching her, leaving Nigel behind as he focused in solely on her. Charles was only a few feet away when she finally noticed him. She blinked confusedly at first, but then her cheeks flushed pink. He bowed to her and she curtsied. When they straightened he told her, a calm smile on his face, "Welcome to the ball; His and Her Majesties are glad you could attend and hope you enjoy yourself. There is food and drink in the banquet room next door and dancing and the main festivities are here in the ball room." He held out his elbow to her. "Unless you were interested in eating, would you like to have this dance?"

She looked at him amusedly as he gave his opening speech, but it was hard for him to know if she recognized him. There was no batting of the eyelashes or saccharine smiles, but just pure attention given to him. "I would be honored," she murmured, slipping her hand into the crook of his elbow as he led her onto the dance floor.

There was not much time to talk during the dance, but what time they did have, they would merely look at each other and smile. All of the previous confidence Charles had faded away as he looked at her. It would be so easy to try and attain her favor like he could for the rest of the girls there, but he knew that casual flirtations and corny lines would not work on her.

"May I inquire as to what your name is, my lady?" Charles asked her as they moved fluidly between the other couples.

"Cinthia," she replied with a slight smile. "My father was the Viscount Latimer, of Danby."

Charles's eyebrows rose. "I was unaware he had a third daughter," he told her. The Viscount had been dead for some time, leaving behind a widow, if he remembered correctly, and two daughters, whom he unfortunately had the horror of meeting earlier. Piggish and priggish, the girls and their mother were a few of the worst gold-snatchers he had the misfortune of meeting. They had not mentioned a third daughter.

Luckily for Charles, Cinthia was not offended by his remark, but he saw her eyes darken ever so slightly. "My stepmother… does not like people to know of my existence. I am from my father's first marriage, you see, and my stepmother would prefer that only her two daughters have the attention from the royal court."

Cinthia drew out a long necklace from her bodice. On it hung a ring. Perching it on an open palm, Cinthia showed it to Charles: it was the Viscount's signet ring. "He wanted me to have it," she told Charles as he, forgetting about the dance altogether, stopped to inspect it. "He gave it to me shortly after his remarriage. I think he knew, even then, what sort of woman he had married. But by then, of course, it was too late."

"I see," Charles said, deeply concerned for Cinthia. "Does she… treat you well?"

Cinthia simply looked at him for a moment, but he could see a multitude of emotions in her eyes: sadness, anger, hurt, and something darker, something he could not quite name. "No."

"My Lady, I am so sorry," he told her, feeling a strange wave of affection crash over him. He felt compelled to protect her. It was probably the chivalry in him, he mused humorously.

"I have grown used to it," she said, putting on a small, brave smile on her face. "I have told myself that I will rise above them all, and prove them wrong about my worth."

Charles thought that very brave of her, and found her ambition and strength two admirable qualities that a potential queen should have.

Catching himself, Charles inwardly frowned. Within five minutes of meeting her, he was already singling her out as his future wife? It was preposterous and completely unlike him.

And yet… out of everyone he had met, Cinthia was, by far, the most enjoyable one in the room. Her smile was pleasant and genuine, she conversed well, and lord, was she beautiful. The most beautiful girl in the room, of that much he was certain.

"If you do not mind me being so bold," Cinthia said slowly, as their third dance ended, "what is your name, my lord?"

Charles bowed. "Charles," he told her as he rose.

Cinthia blinked. "As in—as in the Prince?"

Charles laughed, genuinely enjoying himself for the first time that evening. "Yes, I am afraid." As Cinthia flushed crimson and curtsied deeply, Charles said, "I am terribly sorry. As arrogant as this sounds, I assumed that you knew who I was. I forget your circumstances and how you might not have ever been to Court before."

"I have before," Cinthia said once her embarrassment faded, "but I was very young—before my mother died—and I barely remember anything."

"Do you not remember what the king and queen looked like?" Charles asked innocently.

"It is all very vague," Cinthia said, not catching his point. "I suppose I would recognize them if I saw them, however."

A clock began to chime in the distance.

"Well, then," Charles began, turning to where his parents were seated at the front of the room. Both had their eyes on him; his mother looked pleasantly surprised while his father looked curious. As much as he loathed to admit it, it was them he had to thank for setting up the ball. If they had not, he might have never met Cinthia, and now he wanted them to meet her as well, to gain their approval on the girl he was going to marry. "Would you like to-?"

But when he turned around to look at her, she was gone. He looked around wildly only to see her running up the steps from the ballroom and into the night. What in the devil is she doing...? he thought bewilderingly to himself.

As much as Charles wanted to call after her, he did not want to make a scene. Instead, he pushed his way through the crowd after her, trying to be as discrete as he could.

He made it up the stairs and once he got to the top and looked out into the starry night, she was gone. Feeling something nudge against his foot, Charles looked down. Glittering in the dim light from the castle was a delicate shoe. It was very plain, the heel no more than two or so inches, no buckle or adornment in sight. What made the shoe noticeable, however, was that it was made entirely from glass.

0 0 0

Cinthia tore through the night, jumping over fallen branches and loose roots, praying her dress would not snag or have mud stains she would not be able to wash out. It was bad enough that she had lost one of her precious glass shoes, but to ruin her mother's wedding dress was unthinkable. Of course, the horses and carriage she had brought to the castle had disappeared; heaven knew where they were. Before the ball, when she was alone at the manor, debating on whether or not she should go, outside she saw a plain black coach and two white horses. She went outside and found it to be abandoned, and impulsively decided to use it as a means to get to the ball. Now she realized it was too good to be true and she should not have taken it; they must have gone back to their real owners, or said owner found them at the ball and took them back. But finding them was a sign, wasn't it, a sign that she was destined to go to the ball? There were so many signs that day—from finding her mother's old wedding dress and glass slippers, hidden away in a trunk she found while cleaning the attic, to the carriage, to meeting the Prince (oh the Prince!)— signs that made Cinthia sure that this was a night made for her.

Things hadn't always been like this—where she had to sneak around just to get out of the house. She remembered her father, and she remembered her mother, and the love that seemed to pour out of them whenever she was around. She remembered long hugs, soft kisses, and bedtime stories with warm milk.

And she remembered both funerals. First, her mother's, when she was five, where she wore a stiff, black-laced dress and did not understand why her mother had not come to tuck her in that night.

Despite her mother's absence, Cinthia had led a happy life with her father. He spoiled his daughter, giving in to her every whim. Cinthia found that replacing her mother with material items gave her a sense of security and meaning.

That security was sorely threatened when her father decided to remarry when she was ten years old. Instead of choosing another noblewoman, her father married his housekeeper, something frowned upon within circles and something little Cinthia did not approve of as well. She did not like having her servants telling her what to do! And although her stepfamily had been good to her those first few months, Cinthia resented them for taking away her father's time, attention, and money. She hid it well, treated them cordially, completely unsuspecting of the loathing in their eyes of the pretty, titled girl.

Once her father died—a few months after he remarried—Cinthia found her stepfamily cornered her, taking away all of her lovely things and reducing her to a servant. "Now you can see how we lived all of these years, spoiled girl." She fought back in the beginning, but her stepmother was still bigger than her, and the lashings quickly silenced the young girl. Her stepmother liked to tell people that her stepdaughter ran away and never let anyone see Cinthia. In essence, she did not exist.

Since then, she grew up, quietly serving them but inwardly seething with hatred every time she saw the way they squandered their money on pretty baubles that Cinthia secretly wished she could have. She never forgot her old life and sometimes Cinthia cursed herself for remembering too much.

All of the troubles she had gone through—the verbal, emotional, and occasional physical abuse she endured those long years from her stepfamily—seemed behind her. Although Cinthia did not realistically envision that the Prince would marry little old her, that night was a magical night that made the loneliness, the despair of other long nights worth it. This night, she would remember, if only because it would help get her through the nights she knew she would have to endure in the future.

By the time she finally got to the manor—three miles away from the castle—Cinthia was relieved to see there were no candles or fire burning in the windows. She had gotten home before them.

Nevertheless, she crept in through the back door. She lit a fire and as she turned around, still in her finery, she saw her stepmother, flanked by her stepsisters. In their hands they held rope and horse whips.

"Coming back from the ball, princess?" hissed her stepmother, drawing closer. "We saw you, trying to seduce the prince like the common whore you are. It clearly didn't work, and now you shall have to pay the consequences of disobeying our orders of staying behind."

Saying nothing, Cinthia swallowed and closed her eyes, willing the earlier events of the night to take her somewhere safe as a hailstorm of whips rained down upon her.

0 0 0

Charles took a bite of his apple as he hummed a tune to himself. He found himself in his favorite room in the entire castle—the kitchen. Charles had always loved the atmosphere of the kitchens; it was warm and homey, with enough chaos and excitement to entertain him, and enough stability and motherly women to make him feel secure and like he belonged.

At a young age he befriended the head cook's daughter, Rosella, and for many years the two were inseparable playmates, something Charles's parents did not approve of, but tolerated. As they grew older, the two saw each other less and less, each preoccupied with their own duties. But their friendship never died and Rose was still privy to all of Charles's woes and triumphs, which was how it came to be that she was the first to hear of Cinthia.

"Rose, her eyes were just—the most incredible thing I have ever laid eyes on," Charles crowed, waving his arms about in excitement. "She was so—everything about her was so—"

Rose smiled. She was a pleasantly pretty girl, with dark, curling hair and smiling amber eyes. "So I suppose your night turned out to be better than expected?"

"Yes!" Charles said. "Although I can't imagine why she left so abruptly..."

"Isn't it obvious?" Rose said, throwing some berries into a creamy concoction she was stirring. "You told me she left just as the clock was striking midnight. She was trying to get home before her stepfamily did. Your Cinthia must have known the time they were trying to get home and trying to avoid getting caught."

Charles frowned. "I hope she made it to her home before they did. I must act quickly. I am to meet with my parents soon and tell them if I have chosen any maiden. I will tell them about her and then, I shall go find her and rescue her from her evil family!"

Rose chuckled, taking some freshly baked bread out of the oven. "My, aren't you the knight in shining armor?"

"I suppose I am," he told her, crunching loudly upon his apple. "She makes me feel the need to take care of her. Her life seems so horrible and I want to give her the things she has never had."

"Well, if there's anyone who can take care of her, it is you," Rose told him, giving him a warm smile, her eyes affectionate.

"Thanks, Rosie," he told her, giving her a small peck on the cheek, as he left the kitchen, completely unaware that Rose's gaze turned wistful as she watched him leave.

0 0 0

Charles knocked on the door of the Latimer estate, and then immediately thought better of it. His plan had seemed so simple in his head, but in reality, what had he been thinking?

Once he had explained everything about Cinthia's circumstances, his parents immediately approved of the union. His mother had said, "If I hadn't have seen the girl with my own eyes, I would not have believed that she was nobility. However, she looks exactly like her mother, the late Viscountess, so she mustn't be lying."

Charles was baffled. "You thought she might be lying?"

"Just because she has the signet ring does not mean she is the real daughter," his father told him, slightly discomforted by his son's naivety. "She could easily be naught but a maid who stole the trinket. But since her resemblance is so great, your mother is right: Cinthia is the daughter of Viscount Latimer. Besides," here the king chuckled slightly, "the way Cinthia's stepfamily burns through their money, no one would believe they have enough to hire a maid."

The queen shook her head. "That poor girl," she murmured. Seeing Charles's distraught face, she said, "Bring her home, dearest."

With his parents' blessing, Charles hastily left, grabbing the agreed upon engagement ring and Cinthia's glass shoe (he would have to ask her how she acquired such a unique bauble) and, accompanied by two of his men, sped off on his horse towards the mansion. He did not want to waste any more time to find her and be with her.

The manor was in rough shape. The piece of property it sat on was once well-kept and serene, but weeds overran the property, the flowers long dead. The brick was chipping and faded, and the shutters were in desperate need of a fresh coat of paint. How could anyone stand to live in such a place? Knocking on her door, Charles worried more about what he would find inside the manor, rather than out. How was he going to deal with her stepfamily?

The door began to open; he was going to find out.

To his utter shock, it was Cinthia. But it was not the girl he had met last night, although she was in the same attire. This Cinthia looked haggard, pale, and about ready to collapse. She was still in the gown from the night before, but it was filthy, the bottom two inches brown with mud and dirt.

"Cinthia!" he gasped.

Once she saw who it was, her eyes went wide and she said not a word.

"Who is at the door, girl?" he could hear a voice bark in the background. "Answer me, you deceitful whore!"

Shocked at what he was witnessing, Charles too was speechless as Cinthia's stepmother came to the door.

"Your-Your Highness!" she stammered, going into a wide curtsey. "What brings you to our humble home?" By now, her two stepdaughters had come, their eyes hungry with greed and longing as they tried to get a better view of the prince at their door.

"I am here because I am in love with your stepdaughter," Charles said, standing up straighter and leveling her with a hard stare, "and I have come to take her and marry her."

The blood drained out of the Viscountess's face, leaving her with two ugly patches of rogue on her cheeks. "You-you are?"

"Yes," snapped Charles, drawing Cinthia into his arms. She flinched violently and spinning her around, Charles almost wished he had not.

Criss-crossed on her back were multiple lacerations, which were clearly visible through the scoop back of the dress. Dried up blood was everywhere, seeping through the white of the gown, now stained in dark red and brown. Charles was horrified with the amount of blood and puss oozing from the sores. He was stunned that Cinthia could remain upright, let alone could answer the door. And perhaps the most disturbing thing of all was beneath the new wounds, were white scars from old ones. They were faint, but Charles wondered how he missed them earlier.

"How did this happen?" he uttered, his voice crisper than ice.

"I, I…" the stepmother trailed off.

Finding her useless, Charles turned to Cinthia, whom he held, very gently, by the upper arms. He spun her around to face him again. He held a hand up to her cheek, whispering, "Who did this to you?"

Tears filled the girl's haunted eyes. "All three of them," she choked out.

"That girl is a liar!" roared the stepmother, finally finding her voice as her two daughters squawked behind her as well.

"Arrest them," Charles told his guards, who immediately went to the women, quickly subduing them. "I want them in the foulest dungeon below the castle."

He turned away, guiding Cinthia to his horse, hoping she could endure the pain a little longer before the healers could look at her.

Before he left with Cinthia, Charles addressed the three women, who were wailing uncontrollably. "I will ensure that you three receive the harshest punishment imaginable."

Charles was true to his word. The day of his and Cinthia's wedding, he rid his wife's torturers from the kingdom forever: he had them hanged.

It was not long after the wedding, however, that Charles realized that the girl he met at the ball was not the same one who he married. Whatever happened that night of the ball when Cinthia returned back to the manor had broken her. Though her wounds eventually healed, it took a long time for her eyes to not look so haunted, and for her stare to not be so blank, and for her to engage in extended conversation again.

The king and queen were worried about her and especially the reputation of the kingdom. People were talking about the new princess—how crazed she was and how the prince had chosen a beautiful, but dumb bride. The commoners and townspeople were terrified at the hangings of the Latimer wife and daughters, afraid that their prince married a lunatic who would have the prince kill anyone who she disliked. The maids had no shame and would whisper about Cinthia within her hearing, uncaring that she might hear, for she never reacted.

When Cinthia did emerge from her daze, however, months later, she was filled with a bitterness and anger that Charles had never imagined she was capable of. Although she never reacted to what was being said around her, she clearly had absorbed it and remembered it. She lashed out at the maids, her revenge for all the cruel words they said about her previously, and she grew to be suspicious of the common people, for she knew what was being said about her.

To her husband, Cinthia was grateful to, but there was no love between the two. She did not know him and he did not know her, and through stilted conversations and awkward dinners they learned that they had nothing in common: their upbringings were so vastly different that their perspectives on the world were as well. And with Cinthia's new outlook of being paranoid and cold to all commoners, Charles knew that their marriage was doomed: she hated the very people he had sworn to serve and protect.

It soon became evident that Cinthia thought only of herself and her newfound wealth. She took great pride in her access to material items and in the beginning Charles spoiled her, giving her what she hadn't had for so many years. But soon Cinthia began to abuse that privilege and Charles cut her off, giving her a monthly allowance so that she would not "squander away the royal fortune on stupid trinkets."

Those words burned into Cinthia and thus began lifelong battle between the two of what Charles thought was right versus what Cinthia wanted.

It made Charles miserable and all who loved and knew him were made miserable as well: Rosella, now the head cook, tried to make his favorite meals for him on particularly rough days, but could only watch as the man she once knew turn into someone cold, heartbroken, and angry. Charles seemed to withdraw in himself, and although he never displayed the cruelty his wife did, he threw himself into his work as a new king and was no longer the charming, cheerful young man he used to be. He was serious, blunt, and almost unfeeling. He was a good, considerate king, and the common people liked him for what he did for them, but they were also intimidated by the man who never smiled anymore. There was nothing anyone could do, however. Divorce or annulment was not an option, because by that time, a year after their marriage, Cinthia was pregnant with the first royal heir.

Luckily, the child was a son: James Reginald the first. Cinthia tolerated him, did her motherly duties, but for the most part left him to the maids and nannies. Any kindness or motherly instincts she may have had once were no longer with her. As for Charles, although he had changed in many aspects, he now had one soft spot: his son. Charles adored James and was very attentive to him, making sure he gave him the affection that he knew James would never receive from Cinthia. James was immediately set on being groomed to be the next ruler, which Charles took great care in overseeing, making sure that James had a good balance between studies and play time.

When James was a toddler, however, Charles was summoned by a mysterious letter to the country of Fraanc. There he learned that the Crown Prince there was, in fact, a werewolf. He felt appalled, threatened, and cornered, and was very alarmed by Prince Derek's secret. When war broke out between the countries, one almost as widespread as the world war that dominated Charles's childhood. Determined to keep his child and his country safe, Charles remained neutral in the war, but knew that someday he would have to rebuild his relationships with the countries of Italle and Fraanc, the victors of the war.

That time had passed however, and Charles was faced with another surprise. Everyone in the palace assumed that since their child was a boy, that Cinthia and Charles would not have to procreate any longer, but, after a ball, the two monarchs, who were very drunk, angry and repressed, managed to conceive another child. This time, however, the child was a girl: Victoria Catherine. From a political standpoint, Charles mused that having a girl would be good so that he could potentially create a political alliance from her marriage, an idea that he had ironically loathed as a younger man. From a parental standpoint however, secretly, Charles had hoped that Victoria would be his "little girl", but it was evident that the moment she was born, she was wholly and entirely Cinthia's creation.

A carbon copy of Cinthia from her blonde hair, pointed nose, and green eyes to her arrogance and sense of entitlement, Charles could only watch as Cinthia doted and spoiled the girl, hardly ever letting Charles come near her, for whatever reason. Charles could only watch as he was barred from one of his children. In hindsight, he should have fought harder; he was, after all, the goddamn king, but he had so many duties to attend to, that he let his wife have her way.

Some years later, however, something odd occurred on a stormy, blustery night. Charles awoke in his chambers to find that, oddly enough, he was not alone. He looked down and as the lightening flashed, he saw pale blonde hair spread across his pillow. It was Cinthia.

She was fast asleep and Charles understood what had happened: Cinthia was deathly afraid of storms—however, she seemed not to know it. On nights like that, it was normal for her to be found wandering the palace, sleepwalking. That particular night she had sleepwalked into Charles's bed.

A bit later, she seemed to half wake up, and began to kiss Charles. By that time, he too was half asleep and both seemed to not realize what they were doing. In the morning, they convinced themselves that what had happened the night before was naught but a dream. However, nine months later, another baby was born.

Her mother wailed the moment she was born; she had just gotten her figure back to the way she wanted it to be before she found out she was pregnant. Cinthia felt resentful that Charles had not let her abort the child and thought that there was no need for another child: they already had a boy to inherit the throne and a girl to marry off. Realistically, Charles knew this as well, but he took one look at her and saw his reflection in her face. He had found his little girl.

Charles named her Eliana Elizabeth, a name Cinthia spitefully called ugly but one that Charles thought unique. Unlike his other children, Charles had no specific political plan for Eliana and for some reason that pleased him greatly. He knew that this child would create her own path in this world.

How she would create that path, however, would change the kingdom of Inglin forever.

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Author's Note: Hello, everyone! It has been a very long time (too long, in my opinion) since I have last written and for that I apologize. To those of you who haven't written me off in frustration, you deserve a gold medal in patience, one that you, I am sorry to say, will continue to need. I make no promises on updates of this story, but I have the full outline completed, so hopefully it will not be too difficult. I want this story to be written in a way so that I will not have to edit it later, unlike OATGITW.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy this story. It will be more character-driven rather than plot-based and I hope I do my characters justice.

Enjoy and tell me what you think!

M. Elena

18 July 2010

Edited: 14 June 2011