Chapter One: The Exiled Prince

The grand halls of Buckingham Palace echoed with the clamor of an argument, the typically serene atmosphere shattered by the fury of a monarch. Rich tapestries adorned the walls, depicting the proud lineage of the royal family, and the chandeliers above cast a golden glow on the opulent surroundings. Outside, a thick London fog enveloped the city, the damp air seeping through the palace windows.

Prince Kor, the third son of King Frederic III, stood resolutely in the center of the throne room. His posture was rigid, his jaw set in defiance. He was a striking figure, with dark red hair and piercing green eyes that held a fire few could withstand. He had always known that this day might come, but he hadn't anticipated the torrent of emotions that would accompany it.

"How dare you defy me, Kor?" The king's voice was a thunderclap in the cavernous room. His regal bearing was accentuated by the crimson robe draped over his shoulders, the crown atop his head glinting in the candlelight.

"I dare because I must," Kor replied, his voice steady despite the storm raging within him. "I will not marry a woman I do not love, a woman who despises me as much as I do her. You cannot command my heart."

King Frederic's face flushed with anger. "You are a prince of this realm! Your duty is to your family and to your country, not to your whims and fancies."

Kor's eyes blazed with indignation. "My duty is to my conscience. I will not live a lie for the sake of tradition."

The king's rage was palpable, his fists clenched at his sides. "Then you leave me no choice. You are hereby stripped of your titles and lands, you will get your part of the Inheritance, but don't expect much as the 3rd Boy. You will leave this palace and never return. You are no longer my son."

The words struck Kor like a physical blow, but he did not flinch. "So be it," he said quietly. He turned on his heel and left the throne room, his heart heavy but his spirit unbroken.

Kor's exile began on a cold, foggy morning. The London streets were damp and slick with rain, the air thick with the mingled scents of coal smoke and horse manure. With a considerably small sum of money and a few personal belongings, he embarked on his new life. The transition from prince to commoner was stark and unforgiving, but Kor was determined to carve out a new path for himself.

As he walked through the city's crowded streets, the reality of his situation began to truly sink in. He had no titles, no lands, and no family to return to. The weight of his decision pressed heavily on him, yet beneath the fear and uncertainty was a quiet resolve. He would prove to himself—and to his father—that he could survive, even thrive, without the trappings of royalty.

He adopted the surname Anderson, a common enough name that would draw little attention. He knew that in order to thrive he would have to make sure of a steady income. His inheritance would keep him afloat for quiet a long while if he didn't spend much more than the bare necessities. He decided it would be best to invested 2/3 of his Money in burgeoning businesses, his sharp mind, keen instincts and good negotiation skills would be turning his modest inheritance into quiet a sum over time.

Finding a place where he could start anew was not easy. London, with its constant bustle and ever-present memories, held no appeal. Kor knew he needed to get far away, to a place where his past could not reach him. After weeks of searching, he found it: a grand, if neglected, mansion deep in the countryside, far from the prying eyes of society.

The mansion, known as Ravenwood Hall, sat on a vast estate that had once been the pride of its former owners. But time had taken its toll—the once-manicured gardens were now wild and overgrown, the stately facade was weathered and cracked, and many of the rooms were filled with dust and disrepair. It had been on the market for years, its size and condition deterring potential buyers. For Kor, however, it was perfect. The price was low enough to be covered by what remained of his inheritance, without bothering his investments, and the isolation it offered was precisely what he sought.

The first few months at Ravenwood Hall were both liberating and deeply lonely. Kor threw himself into the work of restoring the mansion, finding solace in the physical labor. He worked alongside the craftsmen, learning as much as he could about carpentry, masonry, and gardening. His hands, once soft from a life of privilege, grew calloused and strong. The mansion began to take on a new life, slowly shedding its air of neglect and decay.

But as the days stretched into weeks and months, the initial satisfaction of the work began to wear thin. The vast halls of the mansion, once filled with the echoes many footsteps, now fell oppressively silent. The servants, though polite and efficient, kept their distance, sensing the invisible barrier that Kor maintained between himself and the rest of the world.

In the quiet hours of the evening, as he sat alone in the grand drawing-room or walked through the moonlit gardens, the reality of his isolation would creep in. He had left behind the expectations and constraints of royal life, but he had also left behind the people he loved, the sense of purpose that had once driven him. The very thing he had fought so hard to protect—his freedom—now felt like a prison of its own making.

#### **Reflections in Solitude**

One evening, as Kor sat by the fire in his study, he found himself reflecting on the events that had led him to this point. The argument with his father played out in his mind over and over, the king's angry words echoing in the silence. "You are no longer my son." The finality of those words still stung, a wound that had not yet healed.

Kor reached for a bottle of brandy, pouring himself a generous glass. As he sipped the amber liquid, he thought about the life he had left behind. The courtly intrigues, the endless obligations, the constant scrutiny—he had never felt truly at ease in that world. But there had been moments, fleeting though they were, when he had felt a sense of belonging. Moments with his brothers, with friends he had known since childhood, with people who had understood the pressures of royalty.

He missed those moments more than he had expected.

As the fire crackled softly in the hearth, Kor allowed himself to remember the young woman his father had tried to force upon him. She had been beautiful, yes, but cold and distant, her eyes always calculating. It had been clear from the start that she had no interest in him as a person, only in what he represented—a stepping stone to greater power and influence. The thought of spending his life with someone who saw him only as a means to an end had filled him with dread. And so he had refused, knowing full well the consequences.

Was it worth it? The question haunted him in the quiet of the night. He had traded everything for his principles, but what had he gained in return? A crumbling mansion, a life of solitude, and the uncertain future of a man without a past.

And yet, despite the doubts and the loneliness, Kor knew he would make the same decision again. He could not have lived with himself had he capitulated, had he allowed his life to be dictated by duty alone. He had chosen freedom, and with it came the responsibility to make something of himself, to build a life that was truly his own.

A few weeks after Kor's arrival at Ravenwood Hall, the sound of carriage wheels on the gravel driveway heralded an unexpected visitor. Kor was in the midst of inspecting the kitchen renovations when he heard the commotion. His curiosity piqued, he made his way to the front entrance.

To his surprise, Mrs. Peterson, the former palace chef, stepped out of the carriage. Her presence was both a comfort and a shock. His heart raced as he approached her, a mix of joy and anxiety flooding through him.

"Mrs. Peterson," he greeted, his voice tinged with genuine relief. "I did not expect to see you here."

She looked at him with a warm, maternal smile, her eyes reflecting a depth of understanding and affection that made Kor feel instantly at ease. "Mr. Anderson. at least I believe that what they call you these days?," she said, her tone respectful and formal, "I was determined to find you. I received word of your departure from the palace, and I could not let you begin this new chapter of your life without some familiar support."

Kor's eyes softened. "I am grateful for your presence. It means more than you know and Yes that's what they call me". He smiled in mischief

Mrs. Peterson took his hand, her touch reassuring. "I have come to offer my services as your housekeeper. I know the work well and can help ensure that things run smoothly."

Kor nodded, his gratitude evident. "Thank you. Your presence here will be a great comfort."

As Mrs. Peterson settled into her new role, her efficiency and care became apparent. She was a constant source of support and familiarity in a world that was otherwise foreign to Kor. She made the mansion feel more like a home, her presence a bridge between his past and his present.

Mrs. Peterson's knowledge of the palace, her skill in managing a household, and her deep loyalty made her indispensable. To the staff, she was simply a capable housekeeper, but to Kor, she was a link to a world he had left behind. Though she adhered to the formalities of her role, her eyes spoke volumes about the unspoken understanding between them. She was one of the few people in the household who knew the truth about Kor's status, and she guarded that secret with the utmost discretion.

A Different Kind of Escape

Far away, in a part of London, Robyn stood at the window of her room, looking out at the city streets below. The fog had rolled in, shrouding the buildings in a thick, impenetrable mist, much like the fog of uncertainty that now clouded her own future. It was a night like this when she had first arrived at Mr. Wayne's estate—a frightened girl taken in by a kind-hearted man who had provided her with shelter and a semblance of stability.

Yet kindness, no matter how genuine, could only stretch so far in a world bound by rules and expectations. Mr. Wayne had done his utmost to raise her well, offering her the comforts of a refined upbringing, but Robyn knew that her status as an adopted daughter rendered her future precarious. The small dowry Mr. Wayne had set aside was a token gesture, not nearly enough to secure her a position of respect or true acceptance in the upper echelons of society. The barriers she faced were unyielding and insurmountable.

As the pressure to marry mounted, Robyn felt as though the walls of her life were closing in around her, threatening to suffocate her with their constraints. Her adoptive father's attempts to secure a wealthy match were suffocating. Baron Hargrove, the man Mr. Wayne had chosen for her, was a man of considerable means and status, but he was also a figure of malevolence. His reputation was tainted with scandalous rumors—whispers of assault, exploitation, and a history of leaving young women in ruinous situations. Robyn had seen the predatory gleam in his eyes and felt the cold, calculating nature of his smile. The mere thought of marrying such a man filled her with dread.

Her attempts to reason with her father, to express her reservations about the Baron, were met with indifference. "This is for your future, Robyn," Mr. Wayne would say dismissively, brushing aside her concerns. "You must make the best of this opportunity."

But what kind of future was it? A life of submission, of living in fear under the control of a man who would dominate her every decision, who would betray her at his convenience? Robyn had been constrained by societal expectations for most of her life, but the prospect of a future with Baron Hargrove was a step too far, a fate she could not, would not, resign herself to. The weight of her impending marriage pressed down on her with unbearable intensity, and she knew she had to escape.

It was with a heavy heart and a determined spirit that Robyn made her decision. She had no real money, no real connections, and no clear plan beyond her desperate need to flee. The act of leaving was fraught with peril; as a woman traveling alone, she faced the harsh judgment of society. The scandal of a single woman venturing out on her own, with no chaperone or male guardian, was significant. She knew that her reputation would be tarnished, that her chances of finding a suitable match in the future—should she ever wish to—were now bleak. The damage to her reputation was an additional weight she would carry, a permanent stain on her prospects.

As night fell, she waited until the household was asleep, her resolve hardening with each passing moment. Packing what little she could carry into a small satchel, she slipped out into the night, her heart racing with a mixture of fear and exhilaration. The streets were deserted, the fog swallowing her up as she moved forward, her steps echoing in the quiet emptiness.

For hours, she wandered aimlessly, her feet aching and her spirit weary. The city's oppressive gloom gradually gave way to the quieter, more serene countryside. The cacophony of London's hustle and bustle faded, replaced by the gentle rustle of leaves and the distant calls of nocturnal creatures. Each step was a step away from her past life, from the constraints and expectations that had suffocated her. She had no destination in mind, only a fierce, burning need to find a place where she could breathe freely and live on her own terms.

The journey was grueling, both physically and emotionally. Every mile she traveled, she felt the weight of her decision more acutely. Her fears of the Baron finding her, of being discovered and returned to a life she had fled from, haunted her thoughts. The rumors she had heard about him—the terrible truths that were often whispered but rarely confirmed—added to her terror. She had been shielded from his cruelty only by the careful oversight of her guardian; without it, she feared what he might do.

As she trudged along the winding paths, her thoughts turned to her new identity. She had decided that she needed a new name, a new persona to protect herself from any possible recognition. She chose "Gray," a name that conveyed a sense of anonymity and distance from her past. The new name was a symbol of her departure from her former life and her determination to start anew.

The exhaustion was profound, but the thought of her new life, of the freedom she hoped to find, propelled her forward. With each step, she accepted the harsh reality of her situation and resolved to make the best of the opportunities that lay ahead. She was now a woman on the run, with a tarnished reputation and uncertain prospects, but she was also a woman who had taken control of her fate, seeking solace in the quiet sanctuary of the countryside and the distant promise of a new beginning.