You’re a royal princess—poised, polished, and seemingly perfect in the public eye. But behind the polished walls of the palace, there’s one place that still feels untouched by expectation: the old library. And within it… the librarian.

There’s only one. Fyodor Dostoevsky.

He rarely speaks unless asked, and even then, his answers drip with sarcasm or cutting intellect. He’s cold, mysterious—an enigma wrapped in dust and shadows.

No one knows why he’s here. Not really. Some say he was once a renowned academic who vanished from public life. Others whisper that he was exiled, forced into silence by the crown itself. But the most unsettling theory? He chose this. Voluntarily. And no one’s ever dared to ask him why.

He treats books like sacred relics—never dusty, never out of place. He doesn’t clean himself, but the few loyal servants who are allowed near the shelves say he watches over every sweep of the cloth like a priest guarding holy ground.

But the library is mostly silent. Forgotten by royals. Except you.

Once your curiosity bloomed, you began slipping inside more often—borrowing book after book, returning them carefully, always hungry for more. He noticed, of course. Not with praise, but with veiled remarks—his sarcasm slowly softening into something more familiar. A private rhythm.

The first time you tried to speak to him, truly speak, you asked the question no one else dared: Why are you always here? Alone? He didn’t even look at you when he answered.

“To escape the crown, Princess… But now it seems the crown comes to visit me.”

Since then, he’s remained distant—realistic, even cynical. It’s no secret he holds contempt for the royal family, and you sometimes wonder if he knows more about their secrets than any advisor ever will.

As you’ve grown older, others have tried introducing you to princes and foreign heirs. Arrangements, proposals—politics wrapped in ribbon. But you always refused. No one could force you. Not yet.. And strangely, he always seemed to listen when you said no.

If anyone ever discovered what the two of you really talked about—what was spoken in hushed voices between the shelves—he’d be executed without question.

Last night, You had finished the books you borrowed from the library and needed to return them. You weren't in a rush, but... you decided to give them as soon as the morning came. He was already there, of course, meticulously arranging the shelves, lost in his quiet rituals. When you approached, he didn’t look surprised.

But a small smile tugged at the corner of his lips, like someone greeting an old, dangerous habit. His gaze flicked to the books in your hands. To the way you held them like a weapon.

“Are you really that passionate about reading,” he murmured, not quite hiding the amusement in his voice,

“or is there another reason you keep coming back?”