It was supposed to be a three-month adventure.
Just three months.
Twelve weeks of sailing, flirting, possibly discovering a cursed artifact or accidentally becoming the temporary god of a wine cult in the Eastern Peaks.
But somehow, Prince Nathaniel Ashford—second son of the Empire, professional flirt, and chaotic human disaster—was now approaching month thirteen of his "voyage".
"I blame the scenery," he muttered dramatically, biting into a honey pastry the size of his head. "Too many beautiful sunsets. Too many generous widows. And far too many people who've never heard of taxes."
He leaned back against a tree in the sleepy village square of a place called Gardenia. Which, honestly, sounded like a perfume and smelled like goat.
It was the end of the vast continent. Literally. One more mile and he'd be walking into the sea with a wine bottle and a shrug.
He had a sunburn, no shoes, a wildly inaccurate travel journal titled Memoirs of a Magnificent Bastard, and a hangover that could kill a small horse.
In other words, he was thriving.
Or he had been—until she appeared.
Vivica Devonshire.
He spotted her across the square like some damn fate-forged lightning bolt to the chest.
Long raven hair caught in the breeze like a dramatic novel heroine. Emerald green eyes sharp enough to slice through egos. And a tall, elegant figure that made his brain temporarily forget how walking worked.
He tripped over a watering trough.
"Shit—fuck—ow—are you kidding me?" he hissed, dusting goat droppings off his silk vest (unbuttoned, of course).
She hadn't seen him. Yet.
Good.
He ducked behind a flower cart like a spy. A very loud, very blond spy.
"That's Vivica Devonshire," he whispered to the nearest villager, who was actually a chicken. "Vivica fucking Devonshire. The untouchable."
He remembered her. Of course he did.
Even he hadn't dared flirt with her at Belle's birthday ball all those years ago. Back when he was still an awkward rich teenager, a gangly twelve-year-old that didn't even understood what flirt means but did it anyway… and she looked like she could murder someone with a single word.
Beautiful. Deadly. Beautiful. That was what he thought back then. On repeat.
And Killian had been staring at her like she held the secret to the universe.
Nathaniel, being semi-suicidal but not stupid, had backed off.
"I flirted with a queen bee or whatever," he muttered under his breath. "But her? Nah, that's where I draw the line. Because that girl? She's the kind of trouble that doesn't just leave a scandal behind. No, she buries it in some remote graveyard and slaps a warning sign on top, daring anyone to get close."
He peeked over the flower cart again.
Vivica was talking to an old woman, smiling politely, handing over some herbs.
Wait.
Herbs?
"Hang on a sec—what the hell is she doing here?" he hissed. "Isn't she supposed to be in Kroux? Studying books and stabbing people with scientific words? Is this a fever dream? Did I eat a hallucinogenic root again?"
The chicken clucked.
He crouched lower, heart racing—not with lust (okay maybe a little), but mostly with the horrifying realization that this might be one of those plot twist moments.
Because if Vivica Devonshire was here, then something was definitely up.
Maybe she was undercover.
Maybe she was exiled.
Maybe—hells forbid—she was here to kill someone.
He couldn't decide whether to run or to approach her like a half-drowned romantic hero washed ashore.
"Do I say hi?" he muttered. "No. Yes. No. Maybe? What's the protocol for beautiful girl you sort of knew once and didn't flirt with because you feared for your life and your brother's heart?"
She turned.
Their eyes met.
Time slowed.
She blinked.
He froze.
She furrowed her brows. The do I know you or are you just another man with commitment issues kind of look.
Nathaniel panicked.
He dropped flat behind the flower cart like a coward.
"Fuuuuuuuuuuck," he groaned into a crate of daisies. "I'm not ready for this. I need a bath, a comb, and six more hours of mental preparation."
But the damage was done.
Because Vivica Devonshire had definitely seen him.
And from the way she raised one elegant brow and started walking over, he knew with every chaotic bone in his body—
This village just got a lot more dangerous.
And Nathaniel Ashford?
Might just have met his match.
**
Nathaniel Ashford, barefoot prince, accidental adventurer, and self-declared God of Charm, was many things.
But prepared for Vivica Devonshire's death glare?
Not one of them.
"Fancy seeing you here," he said with the world's most forced grin as she stared down at him—him, the imperial prince, crouched behind a flower cart with a daisy in his hair and a chicken pecking at his knee.
Vivica didn't flinch.
Her emerald eyes flicked once over his disheveled form and landed back on his face, deadpan. "Your Highness."
Oh no. No nickname. No smile. Just flat, polished ice.
"I—uh—was doing my daily yoga," he said quickly, springing up and striking a pose that looked like he was being exorcised. "Sun salutation. Very spiritual."
"I see." She blinked. "And the chicken?"
"Emotional support."
A long pause.
The wind rustled.
The chicken betrayed him with a very loud fart.
Vivica looked… unimpressed.
And then, with that same unsettling grace that could probably kill a man with a spoon, she turned on her heel.
He panicked.
"Wait, wait, wait—Lady Vivica, hold up!" He jogged after her, flustered. "Can we talk? Maybe catch up over tea? Or, uh, wine—no, you're sixteen. I mean, fruit punch? Or... you could just glare at me with that perfect, disapproving stare while I monologue like a tragic hero?"
She stopped.
Sighed.
And finally—finally—looked him up and down again like a very exhausted teacher stuck supervising detention.
"There's a tavern," she said. "Try not to trip on the way there."
Nathaniel beamed.
**
It was humble. Wooden beams. Smelled like stew and sweaty farmers. Someone in the corner was playing a lute badly.
Vivica sat across from him like a statue of royal judgment in a linen dress and a single dagger on her belt. She sipped her tea with the slow, precise motions of a woman who had witnessed war.
Nathaniel, meanwhile, was vibrating with the energy of a puppy who just spotted steak.
"So," he began, leaning forward, propping his chin on his hand. "Lady Vi—"
"Vivica."
"Yes?"
"I'm not a lady in this village, Your Highness."
"Ah. R-Right. Well then, feel free to call me Nathan! Killian calls me that." He smiled. "So, uhm… what's a dangerously competent heiress like you doing in a sleepy goat village like this? Don't tell me you came here just to seduce me... ehehehe."
That was awkward.
Cringe.
Invisible birds soar overhead, their wings brushing the air with a silent, ethereal grace.
She didn't blink. "I came here for field research."
Nathaniel nodded solemnly. "Same. I was researching whether my liver could survive wine in nine languages. It can. Mostly."
She took another sip.
He tried again. "You know, I almost didn't recognize you. You're more beautiful than I remembered."
"I remember you didn't speak to me at all."
"Because I wanted to live, Vivica."
Finally, a twitch. A corner of her mouth nearly moved. Like a smile that changed its mind at the last second.
He leaned back, victorious. "Aha. That was almost a laugh. I saw it. Don't deny me this win."
She arched a brow. "This is how you flirt now?"
"Oh, Vivica, darling, I haven't even started. That was just the warm-up. I've got puns, poetry, even a backup dance if the mood strikes."
"I will stab you."
"I'll die beautifully."
A pause.
She took a spoonful of stew and said nothing.
Nathaniel was undeterred. "So, about that academic thing… weren't you supposed to be in Kroux still?"
"I was. I left early."
"Burned it down, didn't you?"
"I did not."
"Lied on your thesis and escaped in the dead of night?"
"No."
"Emotionally destroyed your professors until they begged you to leave?"
Her spoon paused.
"I'm not confirming that," she said.
He grinned wide. "There it is. I knew it. You're still terrifying and perfect."
"You're still dramatic and barefoot."
"I'd argue it's a lifestyle choice."
She gave him a long look.
Then, softly, "You're not staying, are you?"
It was the first serious note. The tavern felt quieter. Even the terrible lute paused.
Nathaniel hesitated, swirling his drink.
"I don't know," he then responded honestly, leaning back in his chair with the dramatic air of a philosopher-poet who had never once paid his own bar tab. "I left to find myself. And maybe get kissed in twelve dialects. But… I didn't expect to find you."
Vivica sipped her tea without breaking eye contact.
The silence stretched.
He fidgeted.
"Feel free to react anytime. Swoon? Throw your drink in my face? Soft gasp?"
She set her cup down with terrifying precision. "You have a leaf in your hair."
He reached up, panic flashing. "What? Where?!"
She didn't look away. "And possibly jam on your chin."
He grabbed a napkin and wiped furiously. "That's battle jam. I earned that rescuing a goose from a wine barrel."
Another beat of silence.
She folded her hands neatly. "You said you were searching for meaning. And ended up in Gardenia."
"It's scenic!" He defended. "Lots of soul-searching. Internal growth. Very spiritual place. And excellent bread."
Vivica raised a brow. "Your ride was a stolen cart of onions."
"That was part of the growth."
He leaned forward again, voice softening. "Maybe I'll stay a little longer. See what the research scene in sleepy villages is like. Help you study herbs. Ruin your experiments. Possibly get stabbed."
Vivica blinked slowly. "By me?"
"Obviously."
She stirred her tea. "Only if you keep talking like this."
"I can't help it," he whispered, grinning. "Your silence brings out my worst poetry."
Vivica did not react.
The tavern's lute player hit a wrong chord and gave up entirely.
Still, in that odd stillness—between the faint clink of porcelain and the soft summer breeze sneaking through the window—Nathaniel stared at the stoic, perfectly unreadable Lady Vivica Devonshire.
And thought, with alarming sincerity…
Maybe this was the beginning of his next great misadventure.
One where he might actually get emotionally wrecked.
In the best possible way.