As the sole heir to House Naboo, your fate has already been sealed by your parents. Unable to accept the idea of an unmarried daughter, they send you away to the royal palace in order to compete for the king's affection. Despite the fear surrounding...
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Naboo
The tense fibers of a bowstring crackle as numb fingers draw the notched arrow back. Its feathers tickle the reddened cheek of the bowman, the sharpened iron tip glistening in the light of the rising sun. The bowman takes a deep breath, ignoring the stream of heat that leaves his lips in the coldness of the morning. His feet shift beneath him and the frosted blades of grass crackle.
The bowman's eyes, dark like coals, focus ahead on the target. The faded red bullseye seems to taunt him. His fingers slip back and the fibers crack into place, sending the arrow hurtling towards the stationary target. It crashes through the tough hide stretched across the wooden frame, mere inches from that little red circle.
"Damn," he mutters, frustrated as he reaches behind him to fetch another arrow.
The courtyard bustles with life around him. Servants in thick layers of drab brown clothes and stable hands with arms full of supplies dash to and fro. Stewards fetch pails and barrels of wine for their masters, no doubt to satiate their morning thirst. Armor clanks together noisily to announce the passing of a castle soldier. Over the 10-foot stone wall, the sounds of metal striking, voices clamoring, and animals bleating rings in the morning.
Despite the din, the young bowman pays no mind to it. His chapped lips part, shoulders relaxing as he zeros in on his stagnant target. The breeze whistles through the courtyard, shaking the trees that were reaching their jagged branches over the wall. Leaves and blossoms flutter towards the ground. His fingers loose his second arrow. It whistles through the air and strikes the target in a second place, this time further from the painted center.
"How do you expect to become a knight if you can't even hit a still target?" A voice with a gentle lilt teases him from above.
The man exhales softly, pressing his tongue against the inside of his cheek. His head lifts towards the walkway suspended over the second floor of the castle. Up towards the grinning face of his meddlesome cousin.
"Shouldn't you be off embroidering something?" He teases back, lowering his ash-carved bow.
The wooden steps creak beneath your feet as you descend towards your leering cousin. It's cold this morning. Your personal attendant had done well to dress you in thick layers and a fur-lined cloak. Your skirts swish over the grass, moistening the hems as you approach your relative.
"Have you forgotten yourself already, Wystan?" You give him a smug smile.
"My Lady." He bows dramatically, leaning back on his heels.
