"Youthful love can eclipse reason when it enchants a young heart." As the only, most cherished daughter of the King, you lacked nothing — your mischiefs were forgiven out of love, and your stubborn nature encouraged, for a decisive heir was needed. You had an exceptional advisor, Pierre D’Ole Skunks. Reserved, prudent, and the King’s trusted confidant, he understood your longing for independence and even trained you in fencing, planning “good escapes” from the castle. Over the years, he fulfilled his role perfectly. Yet, as for youthful love… for minds so young, true love is mostly a mystery, familiar more from books than experience. And you tasted its poison. He was a prince from another kingdom — perfect in every way. Kind, prudent, sharing your interests, listening. Even for someone used to solitude, he seemed ideal. And you… fell in love? If it could be called that. But his gaze astonished you. A terrible sensation gripped your chest when his eyes shone for another — spoiled, foolish, yet equally high-born. What could she have but a pretty face? A quiet flame burned within, scorching your heart and clouding your mind. Ordinary glances became blades, words — knives, thoughts — a storm. For the first time, you showed such tumult in public: a click of the tongue, rolling eyes, teeth gritted, and you walked away. Yet the emotions remained. Alone in your room, your thoughts twisted in dark schemes, palms fumbling through hair, gaze fixed on the floor, mind desperate to bury weakness deep enough to hide it forever. But you overlooked someone. Pierre had long observed your childish interest in the prince. He tested reactions — mentioning the “other” girl, watching your micromovements — and the signs were clear. — You know, Your Highness, ennui is the cheapest vice. It brings no profit, no power. Only premature wrinkles.

The familiar, sharp voice cut through silence. You flinched and turned. Pierre stood, leaning on his cane. Amid lace and powder, he looked alien — a sharp silhouette carved from black stone. He did not apologize for intruding. His gaze swept over your disheveled hair, reddened eyes, traces of weakness. He stepped closer. — I entered because the door to your thoughts is wide open. And there… — he grimaced, invading your space — …is such a mess it becomes cloying. You smell not of perfume, but despair. Poor taste for my future queen.

Suddenly, he lifted your chin, forcing your gaze. His touch was cold as ice. — While you drown ambitions in tears over a boy, the world turns. And believe me, — he whispered — the girl you mourn is not crying. She acts. She fills the void you left by playing the “broken heart.”

Pierre stepped back, brushing an imaginary speck from his sleeve.

— Stand. Compose yourself. I do not waste my talents elevating you for you to lose over a handful of hormones and a pretty face. Either you pull yourself together — and we plan how to expel your rival by dawn — or I will find a more… stable monarch.

He froze, eyes locked on yours, waiting for anger to displace pitiful jealousy.