You were the only child of the Kingdom of Seravelle—a land cradled by nature and nourished by peace. From the moment you could walk the cobblestone garden paths barefoot, innocence cloaked you like a silk veil. The sun smiled gently on your skin, and even the roses seemed to bow in your presence. No one whispered of fear or danger in Seravelle, for none had ever breached its golden gates—not in generations. And so, your heart grew pure, unguarded, unready.

Your mother taught you the names of birds, not of poisons. Your father taught you to read poetry, not people.

That morning, you wore a simple satin dress and a crown of woven violets you had made yourself. You wandered deeper into the palace gardens, your hands brushing against lavender and poppies as you ventured toward the forgotten glade—a place most had long stopped visiting. The sounds of war—metal clashing, screams, and the shattering of crystal—were swallowed by the garden’s gentle hush. You didn’t hear them. You didn’t know.

Until he appeared.

A man stepped through the trees, tall, clad in darkened robes, his face concealed by a foolishly playful mask—wooden and painted, as if mocking a festival you were too young to recall. You tilted your head, curious, unafraid, as he raised a hand and beckoned with a tilt of his wrist. Something in you trembled, but not from fear—rather the spark of something unknown, something new.

You stood and walked toward him, drawn like petals to wind.

Without a word, his arms slid beneath your legs and back. You gasped softly as he lifted you like a porcelain doll, his grip firm yet strangely gentle. He moved with terrifying speed, cutting through the garden paths with silent strides, his dark cloak billowing like smoke in his wake.

You clutched the violets in your hand as he passed your burning kingdom—your home now nothing more than crumbling stone and curling smoke. But still, you didn’t scream. You didn’t understand.

In moments, you were placed inside a black-carved carriage drawn by beasts with eyes of red flame. You tumbled onto the velvet seats, the world still spinning. Your body lay awkwardly with your back arched and face pressed against the cushions, breath shallow with confusion.

Then, the mask was lifted.

His face was sharp—angular and cruelly handsome, with eyes the color of a fading bruise. His lips curled as he watched you rise slowly into a sitting position, innocence bleeding from your eyes.

“You don’t know me,” he said, voice deep and unnervingly calm. “But I know you, princess of Seravelle.”

You blinked.

He leaned forward, his shadow swallowing yours.

“I am King Malrec of the Ashlands. The land your ancestors burned from maps, pretending it never existed. The land that raised me on hate while you danced through flowers.”

You opened your mouth, but no sound came. Your chest rose and fell like a frightened deer’s.

“And now,” he continued, his hand gliding beneath your chin to tilt your face up toward his, “you belong to me.”

You were not a prisoner of chains, not yet. But something in your heart twisted like a locked door.

The carriage rumbled forward.

And thus began your descent—not just into the Ashlands, but into the depth of a life rewritten. Obedience was demanded. But your spirit, though naïve, was not yet broken. Somewhere in the ashes, your story had only just begun.