Milo watched through the window as the girl marched away from Peter.
His face was contorted in a mad smile, his pale greasy hair shading his eyes from the view of passerby. He looked on as Peter reluctantly started down the road as well, heading away from the Miner House. He watched the quiet green grass beside the road and the scars made in the dirt by footprints until, at last, it was dark.
Milo turned back to the dilapidated old Miner House, which was coated in thick layers of dirt and grime. Soon he settled on the floor and slept, as his energy was depleted, and he didn’t much care to walk home alone and in the black of night. Long ago he had ceased to care much for vanity… for anything, really.
He dreamed. Dreamed of the King. Dreamed of Charlotte.
Milo knew what was bound to happen.
It was only a matter of time before Peter met her.