Morning.
Gates, Wydkeep Castle.
Wyfellon, Wyfn-Garde.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~}~~~
Priscilla stumbled as the guard dragged her along the cold stone corridor, his grip bruising her arm. The other maids watched silently, their faces a mix of pity and grim satisfaction.
She had been humiliated by the prince himself—forced to cut her own hair, her pride stripped along with every lock she severed. And now, they were casting her out.
As they neared the castle gates, the guard guiding her slowed, his grip loosening but not in mercy. He leaned close, his lips brushing against her ear, voice thick with mock sympathy.
"If you'd only agree, I'd marry you, you know. Even with all they say about you. Might be your last chance at a decent life." His hand lingered, rough fingers tracing her waist.
