Chapter One

Thousand-Mile Forest, 4 miles north of Snow White Memorial Prison

Prince Wendell Winston Walter White was bored.

He often found himself as much, but today seemed to have set a new standard. For the past few hours, the heir apparent to the Fourth Kingdom throne had been stuck sitting, just sitting, in a carriage. The vehicle was comfortable enough, with thick velvet cushions and wide windows through which to see the passing scenery, but it made little difference to his mood. Outside the sun shone brightly against a clear, blue sky while birds twittered to each other, their cheerfulness seeming to mock his confinement. Leaning against the window, he glowered at the lush, green forest passing by, hating that he couldn't be out there chasing down the local wildlife.

Hating too that his only company on this endless journey was his man, Giles, an elderly gentleman with perpetual frown lines and a strong sense of decorum. Wendell had known the man for as long as he could remember, yet both had spoken less than ten words since leaving the palace. Conversation had never the senior man's strong suit, and the younger man, begrudgingly, wasn't about to take responsibility for the trips' entertainment.

"So where exactly are we going?" Wendell demanded when he couldn't take the silence any longer.

"To Beantown in the southwest corner of your kingdom, sire. You're accepting the throne that the craftsmen there have made for your corona—"

Before Giles could drone on further, Wendell interjected, "Well, is it much further? Can't we stop and going hunting or something?"

"Very shortly, sir. We must make a brief stop at the Snow White Memorial Prison."

This was not the answer Wendell wanted to hear, so he made his displeasure known with an audible groan and eye roll.

"Your stepmother has applied for parole again," Giles merely continued, "which we will, of course, turn down. It's simply a routine, courtesy visit."

Wendell, of course, knew all of this already, and Giles knew that he knew it. These details had already been to him multiple times by his ministers, and any chance that the prince's displeasure would change them was hopeless. Even now, he still didn't understand why he personally had to venture so far for such trivial matters.

"Ho there!," a voice suddenly called from outside the carriage to Wendell's right. Both he and Giles peered out to see a hooded figure running from the forest towards them, clutching a basket in one hand. As the person waved the other hand to further attract the driver's attention, the hood fell back to reveal a young woman with dark hair.

"You going my way?" the figure hailed to the driver as she came alongside, jogging to keep pace with them.

"Piss off," the driver curtly replied.

Undeterred, the woman fell back a bit until she was abreast with the carriage door. Up close, Wendell could now see that she was about his age, with a dark brown tangle of curls and bright blue-green eyes. Oh, and a smudge of dirt marked her cheek.

"Any chance of lift, sirs?," she asked both men, her voice a little more ragged now as she struggled to stay even with the window. "I can ride on the back. Won't be any trouble."

No formalities? No attempt at a curtsy? Who did this woman think she was?! Wendell was just about to ask as much, but luckily, for her, Giles spoke up first.

"Be gone, girl. Go grate on someone else."

His tone when he spoke was considerably less refined or patient than it had previously been with Wendell. It might have been a trick of the sunlight, but Wendell was sure he saw a flash of blue light emit from her eyes at this response. Yet, she made no further protests and soon retreated.

"I hate these outer provinces," Wendell declared, once again slumping back against his seat. "People are so common." Giles only shrugged his shoulders.

"Common" or not, Wendell couldn't resist twisting around to take one last peek at the girl through the rear window. She was still walking along the road, though her pace had slowed considerably as she now focused on the contents of her basket. What was she looking for? Did she have any idea whose carriage she had just tried to hitch a ride with? Would she have cared if she did? Wendell squinted at her dwindling form, observing the curtain of hair falling haphazardly across her face, the dingy blouse, the dark green kirtle and plain leather belt. He couldn't deny she was pretty, albeit in a disheveled, woodland elf sort of way.

Nevertheless, pretty girls were abundant in his kingdom, each one determined than the next to be labelled "the fairest of them all" by any man, and especially by Wendell. Unfortunately, their beauty became less awe-inspiring with each encounter, quickly blending into a mundane swirl. This peasant girl was likely no different, he was certain.

"How much longer, Giles?" Wendell moaned as he grabbed a nearby pillow and shoved it behind his head. Any interest in the girl already forgotten as soon as she was out of sight.

Only when the carriage had rounded a bend and turned out of view did Rose dare to look up from her basket. Even then, only when the rustling branches swallowed the sound of horse hooves did she push her hair back from her face and remove her still twitching hand from under the basket's lid. Of their own accord, her curls twisted themselves into a simple bun at the nape of her neck, secured with a bobby pin that flew into place from a pouch hanging from her belt.

Her hand was not so easily tamed. A single blue spark escaped from her pointer finger, bouncing off the basket's edge and landing on a small rock at her feet. Said rock instantly began to skip a few feet along the gravel road before bursting into a shower of glittery dust. Rose breathed a sigh of relief. As harmless as the conjuring had been (for once), she still clenched her hand into a tight fist to contain any other errant sparks. When no more emerged, she drew her hood back over her head—you could never be sure what or who might still be watching—and continued down the path. Her boots crunched any remaining glitter into oblivion.

She wasn't entirely sure why she had tried to catch a ride from the royal carriage in the first place. Previous experience had taught her that a farmer's wagon was much more likely to oblige her request. Maybe it was the twinge of a growing blister on her right heel, combined with the weight of her basket and the miles left to walk that evening. The full moon was due in four days, so she had spent the afternoon gathering wolfsbane and mandrake root for Wolf. Back in her shelter just downstream from Snow White Memorial Prison, she would create a tincture from the plants and deliver it to her brother in time to stave off the worst of his lupine symptoms. Such potent herbs weren't abundant in the Thousand-Mile Forrest, so Rose had to travel farther and farther from home each month to find enough.

Or perhaps her spontaneity had been due a simple desire to view the richly appointed carriage and its occupants up close. Yes, there had been no mistaking exactly who the vehicle belonged to, even from a distance. In her rustic, homespun world, it seemed a welcome change to be able to momentarily glimpse into the lavish, comfortable lifestyle of royalty. To have a new story to share with Wolf during their next visit.

Like so many in the province, Rose also knew well Prince Wendell's countenance from his portrait hanging in almost every shop and home. As he grew from youth to manhood, Rose more frequently overheard the twittering of shepherdesses and village girls over his smile and golden hair, declaring him to be the bravest and kindest of princes.

How surprised they would be at reality's stark contrast! There had certainly been no kindness in Wendell's pinched, skulking demeanor. Rose had no illusions that she wasn't a dirty, haggard mess after an afternoon stooped over plant life, nor did she expect any sort of special treatment, but the utter disgust in his gaze had still been like a lightning bolt to her pride. None of the sideways glances or hissed insults she and her family had received over the years had made her feel lowlier. He hadn't even had the gallantry to reject her himself, letting his servants speak for him instead. If being immensely wealthy and riding in a coach meant having so little regard for your common subjects, then she would just as soon walk the entirety of the Nine Kingdoms on shards of broken glass than accept any of his charity.

Indeed, regardless of her motivations, she was in the same situation now that she had been in before that moment, with only her resolve and two tired feet to guide her back home. Just as it always was and would be.

"A shepherdess makes quite a mess, but little lambs are lovely," she mumbled to herself, readjusting the basket on her elbow.

It was curious how this simple mantra could have so many different meanings. When it was first uttered by her belated parents, it had been a sinister catechism. A reminder to their children that everything has consequences, especially for wolves. The inclusion of "little lambs" also appealed to their seemingly insatiable hunger in later years, becoming even more deranged when chanted under a full moon. To Wolf, however, it was a cunning little ditty hummed in the midst of some mischievous plot. With a twinkle in his eye and a wolfish smirk, each repetition seemed to give him confidence.

If she were aiding him in his scheme, Rose couldn't help being equally motivated. But in this moment, on her own, the words had the opposite effect. Each utterance cautioned her to moderate her emotions and, more importantly, contain her power. Small actions were easier to control and overcome than bigger "messes." In other words, no matter how annoyed she was by Prince Wendell and his manservant's dismissal, it was far better to expel her indignation by turning a rock into dust than, say, the carriage into a pumpkin.

Or better yet, transform the royal brat himself into a pitiful toad. Make him hop every inch of the gravel road just to teach him a lesson in humility, as the fairies of old would have done. As erratic as Rose's magical abilities could be, there was no denying that the image of His Highness capering about, complete with a scepter and crown, made her snicker.

And it was for that very reason that she continued to whisper the mantra to herself as she strolled along. Any seriousness though was now somewhat tainted by the more comical mental image at the forefront of her imagination.

Thanks for reading! Until next time . . .

"Rose are red

Violets are blue

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