The morning of that fateful day was remarkably unremarkable; Peter had spent the prior day traveling with his uncle, Phillipe, away from the comfortable nothing of the rocky shores of their aging kingdom Faire, to the thick woods and lush gardens of Briar. The two barely exchanged words throughout the journey, which left their attendants, their entourage, to find their own company in the royal’s silence, nursing old coffee and dry pastries as they talked around the family. The two of them had decided long ago that there was nothing that needed said; everything was planned, after all, without the prince’s input. There was an intinery, you see, a playbook that needed to be followed to ensure Peter would be as ready as ever to fill his father’s shoes. Because as we all know, time does not wait for the sun to shine.
And it would not wait for him, either.
“Lift your chin.” The duke instructed quietly, “Shoulders straight. Look them in the eye when being spoken to.”
They stood at the old oak door of the Gillipea estate, a decorated manor framed by trimmed leaves and perfectly manicured flowers, the light of the mid morning sky catching the spires of the wrought iron fence that closed around them like a cage. Peter’s gaze tilted up to the tallest window as he lifted his head, watching beyond the glass as an indistinct shadow moved just past the lace curtains.
“What if they don’t like me?” The prince asked, his voice soft, strained.
“Oh, they’ll like you just fine.” The duke dismissed the worry with barely a thought.
“What if I don’t like them?” Peter followed up pointedly, casting a sideways glance at his uncle. Who only looked forward when challenged.
“Well,” Phillip sighed as he reached for the bell, “You’ll have plenty of time to learn to love them.”