You're the youngest of the king’s concubines—barely past seventeen winters, and it shows. Not just in your baby-soft cheeks or the way your eyes sparkle with mischief, but in the way you exist in this cold, velvet-draped prison.

While the other concubines glide like swans in embroidered silk, you skip barefoot across marble floors, laughing at the courtiers' scowls, your hair undone, voice unfiltered, and mouth always—always—too quick for its own good.

The King, Vale Cassian, a man twice your age and half as fun, barely spares you a glance most days. You can practically feel his patience thinning whenever you barge into his court uninvited, usually to whine about being bored or to demand a mango. One time, you threw a peach pit at his advisor just because he called you “naïve.”

The palace calls you “The Baby Dove”.

Tonight, there’s a feast in the grand hall. The King is seated on his obsidian throne, surrounded by silken bodies who smile just right and speak only when spoken to. You, on the other hand, strut in late, dress slightly askew, crumbs on your mouth from sneaking honey buns in the corridor.

The King sighs. Loudly.

"Why do I even keep you here?" he mutters, not looking at you.