Chapter One

The Prince and the Commoner

Once upon a time, long ago, the kingdom of Paris was ruled by a strong King. He had one son, the young Crown Prince, whom the King prized very much.

The King longed for his son to choose a Princess to marry, but the Prince didn't seem interested in the fine ladies his father let him meet at all. Now, the Prince's eighteenth birthday was merely a year away, and the King was getting worried.

His son needed to find a wife – how else would the kingdom proceed to thrive? When he became king, the Prince would need a descendant to pass the kingdom on to.

In hopes of helping his son find a suitable wife, the King gave his staff orders to prepare a great ball in honour of the Prince's eighteenth birthday – and told them to make sure every young lady of nobility in the area was invited.

The King sighed. His son was stubborn; he hoped that the Prince would agree with this compromise. The King would much rather choose a lady whom he deemed a suitable Queen, but he knew the Prince would never marry someone he didn't choose. But, as long as the girl was nobility or royalty, the King didn't mind whom his son would choose.

He called his son to the throne room, to announce the news of the ball – and give his son a present.

The guards opened the massive, oak wooden doors, and a young man entered the throne room. His hair was sandy blonde and brushed in a way that clearly showed an attempt to make it look tidy and neat – the boy's emerald green eyes seemed happy, but they showed signs of worry – the Prince knew that whenever his father called him to the throne room instead of having one of the King's advisers speak in his name, it often meant the King wished to announce another rule the Prince had no choice but to obey.

"You wish to see me, Father?" the Prince asked, bowing down low as soon as he'd reached the steps that lead to the throne. His neat, white suit seemed to glitter in the light of the chandeliers.

"Adrien," the King said, as he stood up from his chair. "I called you to bring you good news."

Adrien looked up at his father. "And that is?" he said, straightening his back.

The King smiled wryly. "As you probably know, your eighteenth birthday will soon be upon us," he said as he descended the steps to approach his son. If you didn't know the two were father and son, you might be surprised when you heard they were; where Adrien's face was soft and kind, the King's face was long, with sharp edges. His hair was very blonde, near pure white, always combed back tightly. His eyes were grey and cold; the King always had a stern aura surrounding him.

The King grabbed his son firmly by the shoulders and smiled. "Son," he said, "to honour the special event that is the day you become a man, I've decided to throw a grand ball. There will be many fine young ladies for you to speak to and dance with; I'd like you to choose one of these women as your bride."

Adrien wanted to open his mouth, but his father halted his attempt with a simple finger to his lips. "Don't. I wasn't finished." He cleared his throat and proceeded to speak, removing his other hand (the one that wasn't at his lips) from his son's shoulder. "Now, I understand my men may miss someone while inviting them, and thus I'd like you to go out into our kingdom and find a girl – you know what kind of girl, I believe this is not in need of discussion, so I'll leave it at that – whom you'd like to invite to the ball." The King moved his hand to the inside of his robes, as if he was reaching for something underneath the belt around his middle – a sword?

"When you find her, give her this." The King handed Adrien an envelope, sealed with a golden version of the kingdom's seal. "A royal invitation, handed to her by the Prince himself – it'll impress her; it is important that we as Kings show that we have authority; you will make the girl feel special by giving her a personal invitation."

As Adrien took the invitation from his father, the King held back for a split second to catch his son's attention. "But do make sure she's the right girl," he said. "A commoner has no class, and is not fit to rule. They don't know how."

Adrien gave his father a small nod, the look in his eyes dull. "Yes, Father," he said, "I will." He'd originally wanted to protest against the idea of attending a ball, especially if it were a ball all about him, but knowing his father, the young Prince had little to no choice. He took the invitation with him as he left the throne room, planning to search the city for the perfect girl later that afternoon.

If he'd even be able to find the perfect girl, that was.

Meanwhile, in the city of Paris, a small bakery had just opened up shop that morning, and customers were coming and going. Marinette, the baker's daughter, had been tasked with making deliveries – mostly to the richer folks in town, who could afford to have their bread and baked goods delivered to their doorstep.

While Marinette generally had no problem delivering the goods her parents made, she despised having to go to one particular house; the home of Governor Bourgeois. And the Governor himself wasn't even the problem in that story; Governor Bourgeois was one of the kindest noblemen in the city – some even called him a bit of a coward. The ones who were always causing Marinette and her deliveries trouble were the Governor's daughter and her handmaiden, Chloé and Sabrina.

Whenever she came along to make a delivery, Chloé and Sabrina would always make sure to remind Marinette of her status as a commoner. The two girls strongly believed commoners were nothing more than a tool to make the life of nobility easier, and that Marinette was their tool.

Though Marinette tried her best to ignore the girls, considering the fact that she was a commoner and that if Chloé were to make a complaint with her father Marinette's own father would probably wind up in trouble, it wasn't always easy. Every now and then, she would respond to the girls' remarks, who then – you guessed it – would go cry at Papa Governor. Luckily for Marinette, the man had taken a liking toward the poor baker's daughter, and often let her off with nothing but a 'stern talking to' and a 'warning'; Chloé didn't seem the least pleased whenever this happened.

And today was one of those days.

Marinette had made her way to the large property that belonged to the Bourgeois family, when she was stopped in her tracks by a blonde-haired girl in a yellow dress; her blue eyes were spouting fire. Behind her stood a red-haired girl in a faded purple maiden's dress; she didn't appear quite as furious as her mistress, but was obviously trying her very best to pretend to be so.

"What are you doing on my land?" Chloé sneered at the girl with the black hair standing in front of her. Marinette's hair was always surprisingly neat; she'd usually wear it in pigtails, but sometimes she liked to tie just the top layer back, letting everything else fall loose, just brushing her shoulders.

Marinette wasn't the least impressed by Chloé's outburst; her blue eyes remained cold as she responded, "That's none of your business, Chloé; I'm here for business with your father, not with you. I mean – you didn't pay for this, did you?" She slightly lifted up the basked of bread she was carrying.

"Well," Chloé said, crossing her arms defensively, "I would if I could, but Daddy's in charge of the money. And besides, at least I don't have to work for my money, unlike you, common baker's girl!" She obviously hadn't thought her sentence through before saying it, causing her sentence to fall apart mid-way into some whiny child's tantrum; Marinette had to do her very best not to laugh or chuckle, and hid the smile that crept up her lips behind a small hand.

Unfortunately, Marinette's amusement hadn't gone unnoticed.

"What's with that attitude, peasant?" Chloé sneered, wrinkling her nose. "What's so funny?"

Marinette shrugged. "Nothing," she said. "It's just... you. The way you always act like you have some kind of authority, while in realty, you have no clue what you're doing."

Chloé was furious; she tensed up and bared her teeth at Marinette. "That's no way to talk to a lady!" Sabrina yelled from behind her mistress, though her voice wasn't very confident.

"Why, you..." Chloé growled; suddenly, her hand moved backwards, and she slapped the top of the pile of bread out of Marinette's basket; the bread fell out of the basket, bouncing into the mud just beside the pathway that lead to the mansion.

"Why did you do that!?" Marinette complained, kneeling down to pick up the already ruined bread – she'd have to go back to the bakery for replacements.

"Because that's what you get," Chloé said, her face smug. "Oh, poor Marinette. A commoner girl... your family probably has to eat that muddy bread now to survive, huh?"

Marinette ceased to pick up the bread to glare at Chloé. She, however, proceeded to mock Marinette.

"Well, that's too bad," Chloé said. "If only you hadn't been so poor, huh? Perhaps you would've been invited to the greatest event of the year..."

Marinette raised an eyebrow. "What event? What do you mean?"

"Haven't you heard?" Sabrina said. "The King is throwing the Prince a ball in honour of his eighteenth birthday! And, since we're nobility, we're invited."

Marinette, holding the loafs of bread underneath her arms, stood up; her expression was cold. "And that's probably the only reason as to why you're invited," she said, the tone of her voice just as cold as the look in her eyes. "It's not as if you'd be invited because of your charming personalities."

"And you would?" Chloé snapped, "I don't believe that for a minute."

"Well," Marinette shrugged, "it's not as if you have proof that I wouldn't be invited just because my personality is kinder than yours." She smirked.

"Psh," Chloé scoffed. "And what would you wear? These rags? They'd kick you out of the castle the moment you arrive at the front gates! You look filthy!"

Marinette swallowed and looked down at her old dress; it was brown, with soft pink and white details. It was old and a bit ragged, but before Chloé mentioned it, Marinette thought it didn't look that bad. Guess she was wrong.

Chloé smirked; she'd finally won the argument. "That's right."

"What's right?"

Marinette looked up, only to see both Chloé and Sabrina standing there, their mouths gaping; Marinette figured she should turn around and see what they were looking at, only to be met with the biggest surprise she possibly could've run into that day.

Marinette was looking right at a tall, young man dressed in a white suit covered by a green coat sitting on a horse; Marinette was quick to recognise the boy as the Prince.

"Your Majesty," the girl gasped; as she was about to curtsy, she was rudely pushed aside by Chloé and Sabrina – now all the bread lay soaking in the mud, and Marinette lay next to it.

"Ah, Your Majesty," Chloé said as both girls curtsied, "what brings you here today? Are you here for business with my father, or," she couldn't help but giggle as she got to the second half of her sentence, "are you by any chance here to see me?"

When Chloé got back upright out of her curtsy to face the prince, she wasn't pleased with what she saw; the Prince was frowning at her.

He quickly got off his horse, not caring about the mud that lay around him, and knelt to help the girl that had been thrown into the mud get herself back on her feet.

"Are you alright?" he asked her; she nodded. Then, the Prince turned his head to Chloé and Sabrina. "Why would you do that?"

"Well," Chloé said, obviously put off by the Prince's reaction but ready to defend herself, "that peasant girl was standing in our way. We wouldn't have been able to greet you properly otherwise."

"But look at what you did!" the Prince quickly scrambled to pick up some of the loafs that had been ruined by the mud. "This bread – no one can eat it anymore! She was supposed to deliver these to people; they're waiting for their food!" he quickly glanced at the girl, who nodded thankfully.

Chloé looked like she wanted to respond, her mouth half open and a blaming finger pointing at Marinette, but she quickly closed her mouth. What she was about to say either wasn't fit to say to a Prince, or she just had no idea what to say anymore.

The Prince gave the girls one last disapproving look before turning to the girl next to him. He bent over to grab the basket out of the mud, tried to wipe it clean with his handkerchief (which then was returned carelessly to his chest pocket, dirt stains and all), and handed it to her.

"I'll refund the loss you made with this accident," he said. "You're the baker Dupain's daughter, aren't you?"

The girl nodded. "Yes," she said. "Thank you, Sire. Thank you for helping me."

The prince smiled at the girl. "It's alright," he said. "Now go home and get cleaned up, then when your father has finished baking new bread, deliver it. I will have my father's men visit your house with a sack of gold – they'll pay him what I promised you."

The girl curtsied. "Thank you, Sire."

She was about to say goodbye and walk away, when the Prince stopped her. "Wait," he said. "There's no need to thank me."

He quickly took out the envelope with the invitation, and placed it inside her basket. "This is for you," he said. "Open it when you get home. I'd like to see you again."

The girl smiled. "Thank you," she said. "I guess I'll go now."

"Wait," the Prince repeated himself. "May I at least know your name before you go?"

The girl turned beet red; she hadn't expected the Prince to ask this question. "Marinette, Sire," she said, dumbfounded.

"It was nice to meet you, Marinette," the Prince smiled. "My name is Adrien... but I think you already knew. Have a safe trip home."

"Thank you, Sire," Marinette said; she curtseyed, and rushed down the street.

The Prince watched her until she'd turned the corner and out of sight. It felt right to give the invitation away to such a sweet girl like Marinette. The King would probably disapprove, considering she was a commoner, but Marinette seemed like someone who worked hard, day in day out – Adrien felt like she deserved to have some fun.

He could hear the two astonished girls behind him bicker loudly about what had just happened, obviously questioning the Prince's ability to make reasonable choices, but he paid them no mind as he got on his horse and began making his way back to the castle; he stood behind his choice, and no one could make him change his mind. Not even his father.

Thinking of his father, seeing Marinette had brought Adrien an idea that had to do with the ball's dress code; he hoped his father would agree.