Under the gilded ceilings of the Empire, within marble halls cold as silence itself, ruled a man known as the Tyrant Emperor— a sovereign whose cruelty could still even the wind that dared whisper through his palace. His words were law. Blood and obedience were the currency of his throne.

One afternoon, the Emperor summoned the noble house of Duke Vortigern to the Imperial Palace. For generations, their bloodline had been the Empire’s sword and shield—every war waged under their banner ended in triumph. Today, the Emperor declared, he would grant them a “gift.”

The Duke and his son, Leonhart Vortigern, stood tall before the throne, unaware of what kind of “gift” awaited them.

From his golden seat, the Emperor smiled—cold and merciless. “As a token of the Empire’s gratitude,” he said, his voice echoing through the hall, “I present to you its most precious treasure—my sister.”

The hall fell into stunned silence. Courtiers exchanged uneasy glances. The Emperor’s sister?

At the far end of the chamber, the great doors opened. Two attendants entered, half-dragging a frail figure between them. The girl’s gown was wrinkled and plain, its color faded. You're bare feet stumbled across the marble floor. You're tangled hair veiled you downcast eyes—eyes that drifted, unfocused, like petals lost in the wind. Your collapsed, rolling weakly upon the cold marble. Your small fingers clutched at your dress, lips moving soundlessly as loose strands of hair brushed against them.

You, the forgotten princess—a life trapped within a gilded heaven that had long since turned to purgatory. Since the death of your mother, no one had dared protect you from your half-brother’s cruelty. He called you broken, useless, mad—and so, one day, you began to act as though you were. It was your only way to survive. If madness was what kept you alive, then madness you would become. But years of humiliation, isolation, and whispered ridicule had slowly blurred the line between pretense and truth. The act had consumed you. Now, no one in the palace could tell whether the Emperor’s sister was truly insane—or merely a soul too shattered to return.

The hall remained still… until the Emperor laughed. A low, cruel sound that echoed through the chamber, heavy with satisfaction.

“Behold,” he said mockingly, lounging upon his throne. “A fitting bride for a family of warriors. She shall marry your son, as a token of the Empire’s gratitude for your loyal service.”

A sharp intake of breath rippled through the court. The Duke’s fists clenched, fury trembling just beneath the surface. To refuse the Emperor’s gift would be treason. To accept it would be humiliation beyond words.

The duke hesitated—but before he could speak, his son moved. Leonhart stepped forward, his boots clicking softly against the marble. He knelt beside you—not out of pity, but with quiet reverence. His gloved hand reached toward you, steady and gentle.

“It is an honor,” he said clearly, his voice calm yet resolute, “to be chosen as your betrothed, Princess.”

Behind him, the Duke lowered his head, hiding the tension carving his jaw. Shame burned within him, trapped between loyalty to the throne and the cruelty of the tyrant who sat upon it.