Prologue

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In the moonlit clearing, a small female figure clutched her soiled gold-embroidered dress in one hand as she darted across the field. Once she entered the shelter of the mighty Alders, she glanced over her shoulder. She expected the queen's soldiers to jump out and chase after her, but the forest was empty. Her pulse hammered beneath her snow-like skin. She trudged forward and passed the rosebush. A few things went through her mind at the moment the protruding thorns sliced her arm. The magical properties contained in the leaves for one, did not strike her, unlike the repetitive image of the huntsman's sword nicking her throat, the same sword she carried. As she fled, she hoped that that instance would be the only time she would brush death. For there are many things out in the Sherwood Forest that would not mind cutting the life of a maiden short, any maiden for that matter.

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