At the stroke of noon, the bells of San Cordellion's grand cathedral rang out across the capital.
Their voices rolled through the city in layered waves—deep, resonant, and unignorable. Each toll seemed to ripple through stone and glass alike, echoing between narrow streets and towering spires. The sound drifted through marketplaces and across tram lines, over rooftops and into open windows, marking the hour with a kind of sacred finality.
Inside the Royal Palace of Colorada'Sierra, the bells felt distant.
Muted.
Smothered beneath a far more immediate atmosphere.
Princess Stephanie Goldenleaf's chamber had transformed into a haze-filled sanctuary, where thick clouds of smoke gathered lazily along the ceiling like storm clouds refusing to rain. The sunlight filtering through her tall windows struggled to pierce the fog, reduced to soft golden beams that sliced through drifting layers of pale gray.
The room smelled rich—earthy, sweet, and tinged with something almost electric.
Oscar leaned forward slightly in his chair, lighting another blunt with a practiced flick of his lighter. The flame danced briefly before catching, and a thin ribbon of smoke curled upward, joining the already crowded ceiling.
"Alright…" he muttered, glancing down.
On the table before him sat a rune-powered scale, its surface etched with delicate glowing symbols. At its center rested a small pile of Emberblossom Haze, the purplish buds shimmering faintly under the soft light. The embedded lacrima screen flickered, then stabilized into clear, glowing numerals.
"Okay," Oscar said, tapping the side of the scale lightly. "That's one ounce of Emberblossom Haze."
Across from him, sprawled comfortably along the couch, Stephanie took a slow pull from the blunt before exhaling toward the ceiling. Her emerald eyes followed the smoke as it joined the drifting haze above.
"Yeah…" she said, her voice mellow but edged with annoyance. "I'm gonna need it."
She shifted slightly, propping her chin against her hand.
"I've got a whole day of talking to lame nobles ahead of me. Either they're trying to suck up to my father or—" she rolled her eyes "—some noble idiot thinks I'm just waiting around to accept his marriage proposal."
She took another drag, slower this time, letting the smoke linger before releasing it in a long, frustrated exhale.
"I swear, it's like they all rehearsed the same speech in front of a mirror."
Oscar smirked faintly but didn't interrupt.
Stephanie leaned back into the cushions, her long golden hair spilling around her like liquid sunlight, catching what little brightness filtered through the smoke.
"'Oh, Princess Stephanie, our families would be so honored—'" she mocked in a dramatic tone before dropping it entirely. "Gods, I hate royal life."
Her voice softened slightly, but the frustration remained.
"It's like living in a gilded cage. Everything looks beautiful, everything feels expensive… and none of it is actually mine."
She stared at the ceiling for a moment.
"I want something real," she added quietly. "Something… not scripted."
While she spoke, Oscar had already reached into his bag again.
From its depths, he pulled out a thick leather-bound journal.
The book looked ancient.
Its cover was worn and cracked, the edges softened by years—maybe decades—of use. Faded gold embossing hinted at designs that time had nearly erased, and the spine bore the subtle creases of something opened countless times. The pages inside were yellowed and uneven, some corners folded, others stained faintly as if they had traveled far and wide.
This wasn't just a book.
It was a record.
A map.
A legacy written in ink and obsession.
Oscar flipped it open gently, his fingers brushing over the pages with something close to reverence. Inside were detailed sketches of cannabis strains—some mundane, others fantastical beyond reason—paired with handwritten notes describing their origins, effects, and the environments in which they thrived.
Stephanie's voice faded into the background as Oscar's focus sharpened.
His amber eyes scanned the pages like a scholar revisiting sacred texts.
"Oscar." But no response.
"Oscar, are you even listening?" she asked, flicking ash lightly as she passed the blunt toward him.
He blinked, snapping back to the present, and accepted it.
"Yeah," he said casually, taking a pull. "I hear you."
He exhaled slowly before glancing at her.
"And honestly… if you hate your gilded cage so much, why don't you just run away?"
Stephanie stared at him.
"…What?"
Oscar shrugged, flipping a page.
"I read it in some fantasy novel once. Princess runs away, starts a new life, finds freedom, all that good stuff."
He said it like he was suggesting she try a new café.
Stephanie let out a dry laugh.
"Yeah. Sure. Sounds easy when it's written in a book."
She sat up slightly, her expression sharpening.
"Where would I even go? I've never been outside the capital without an escort. I don't know how to survive out there, Oscar."
She gestured vaguely toward the window.
"And even if I did—how would I live? You think I can just walk into a city and say, 'Hi, I'm secretly royalty but I'd like a job please?'"
She shook her head.
"I wouldn't last a week."
Her tone softened again, frustration turning inward.
"And let's not forget money. The allowance my father gives me is barely enough to breathe without permission."
She leaned back again, exhaling sharply.
"So yeah. Running away? Not exactly an option."
The silence that followed wasn't heavy—just thoughtful.
Then, as if deciding she didn't want to sink deeper into that line of thinking, Stephanie tilted her head toward the journal in Oscar's hands.
"…What's that book anyway?"
Oscar's expression changed instantly.
The annoyance, the casual humor—it all softened into something warmer.
Something personal.
He moved from his chair and sat beside her on the couch, holding the book between them.
"This," he said quietly, "holds the key to my dreams."
He flipped to a page filled with detailed illustrations.
"Every strain in here… it's not just weed. It's history. Culture. Magic."
He tapped one entry.
"Cloud Jumper. Indica. Grows in high-altitude cliff regions where the air's so thin most people can't even breathe properly. The high? Feels like your body's floating. Like gravity forgot about you."
Stephanie leaned in slightly, intrigued.
Oscar turned the page.
"Throat Fucker God."
Stephanie blinked.
"…That's the name?"
Oscar grinned.
"Legendary hybrid. Hits so hard it burns on the inhale—hence the name—but the high? Euphoric chaos. People say it feels like your mind's being dragged through lightning and velvet at the same time."
Stephanie snorted.
"That is the dumbest name I've ever heard."
"Yeah," Oscar admitted. "But I still want to try it."
He flipped again.
"Zealous Thunderfrost. Pure sativa. Grown in storm-prone tundras. Supposedly sharpens your thoughts so much it feels like your brain's moving faster than time itself."
Stephanie's eyes widened slightly.
"You're serious about this."
Oscar nodded, his voice quieter now.
"I want to travel the world. Find these strains. Experience them for myself."
He looked down at the book.
"But dreams like that… they cost."
His jaw tightened slightly.
"And right now? I can't afford it."
What he didn't say hung between the words.
Not yet.
Not until the right moment.
Stephanie reached over and gently took the journal from his hands, flipping through it with growing fascination. The pages whispered softly as they turned, each one revealing something new, something impossible.
For a while, neither of them spoke.
They simply sat there, wrapped in smoke and shared silence, letting the haze settle around them like a comfortable blanket.
Time drifted.
The bells had long since faded.
Then—
A low, unmistakable growl echoed through the room.
Stephanie blinked.
"…Wow."
She turned her head slowly toward Oscar.
"By the Rainbow Star… someone's got the munchies."
Oscar rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly.
"I skipped breakfast," he admitted. "Had to catch the guard shift change."
He glanced around.
"You got any snacks?"
Stephanie opened her mouth.
"No, but I—"
A knock cut her off.
Sharp and deliberate.
"Princess Stephanie," came a composed voice from beyond the door. "His Highness, Prince Jareth Goldenleaf, requests entry. May we enter?"
Stephanie froze.
Then immediately leaned forward, whispering harshly—
"Crap, it's my older brother. Quick—hide!"
Oscar was already on his feet.
"Where?!"
"The closet!"
She rushed him across the room, throwing open the doors to her walk-in closet.
Inside was chaos.
Dresses hung everywhere—some neatly arranged, others half-fallen from their racks. Shoes littered the floor, and fabrics of every color imaginable created a maze of silk and lace.
Stephanie shoved him inside.
Oscar stumbled, landing face-first into a pile of clothes.
"Oof—"
"Sorry!" she hissed, already closing the door.
"Just one minute!" she called out toward the entrance.
Inside the closet, Oscar lay buried in fabric, surrounded by the faint scent of perfume and silk. He shifted slightly, trying to get comfortable without knocking anything over.
Outside, Stephanie hurried to compose herself.
She quickly changed into something more presentable—smoothing her hair, adjusting her posture, wiping any lingering signs of smoke from her expression.
Beyond the door, Prince Jareth Goldenleaf stood waiting.
Tall and composed, with neatly styled golden hair and sharp green eyes that mirrored his sister's—but lacked her warmth. He wore formal royal attire trimmed with subtle gold embroidery, his posture straight and unyielding.
At his side stood a single knight guard, clad in polished armor.
Jareth's gaze drifted downward.
A thin stream of smoke curled from beneath the door.
He sighed.
"…Of course."
Finally, the door opened.
And a dense cloud of smoke poured out into the hallway like a living thing escaping confinement.
The knight immediately coughed.
"Mother of chaos—!"
Jareth simply closed his eyes briefly, pinching the bridge of his nose as the haze rolled past him.
Then he stepped forward.
Into the storm.