Prince Morris sprinted through the leaves, looking up as they fell. The winter was a harsh one, and the turrets of the castle in the distance bore piles of thick snow. That was where he was going, to see his father after a day of hunting in the nearby meadows. His armor clanged against the ground as his paws slammed the ground; the smith had made it a bit too large. His father said he would grow into it; he was still waiting. He meowed as he passed the flour mill, wishing he could stop in for a pastry. Monice would be kneading dough as he passed. He needed to get back to his father, though: his Milk Ceremony was about to begin. Hopefully they’d have good pastries there, too. He could stop by Monice’s after if he was still hungry.