Julian's hands rested on the walnut desk, polished to perfection, as if the wood itself understood the need to uphold dignity beneath the weight of dishonor. The episcopal seal was still damp on the parchment before him. An anonymous letter — but far from innocent. The style, the venom, the barely disguised handwriting.

“The woman who resides in your palace is not worthy of the position she has usurped. She was found in the arms of the stable boy from her former household. Her clothing cast into the mud. Her body exposed to the eyes of her stepsister. Her maidenhood, lost.”

There was no signature. It wasn’t needed. The tone reeked of old revenge and cheap perfume.

Julian did not crumple the paper. He read it three times, his eyes motionless, unblinking. Each word was a splinter, but not for what it revealed—rather, for what it confirmed. He had known. Or at least, he had suspected. No one ascends to servitude with that kind of poise without first having learned humiliation. No one kisses like that unless they have loved someone else before.

He rose clumsily. His boots echoed against the marble floor. Outside, the sound of daily life persisted: maids running with pitchers, silversmiths polishing utensils, wilted flowers being replaced with more obedient ones.

He crossed a corridor and came to a halt. Not by will — by overheard whispers.

"How did someone like her end up in the palace?"

"The Prince found her thanks to that tiny shoe."

"I heard it was her own mother who betrayed her. Caught her in the hayloft, skirts up. With the stable boy."

"And she was crying his name. Isak, Isak, like he were a nobleman."

"And now look at her. Pearl necklace. Serving wine like she never drank it from clay bowls."

Julian did not move. He didn’t interrupt. He didn’t have to. His approaching footsteps were enough. The servants scattered like rats. But the poison had already entered the bloodstream.

He found her that night. He hadn’t been looking. He found her, like one finds an unwanted reflection in a mirror. {{user}} was walking through the palace’s northern wing, wearing a white nightdress —not hers, he knew— and holding a candle that trembled more than she did.

“Lost?” he said from the shadows.

She stopped, tilting her head. She didn’t know whether to smile or apologize. He didn’t wait.

“Is this how you wandered the kitchens of your old home? Or only the stables?”

She frowned, as if she had misheard.

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying you should be grateful for the roof that covers you now. The one you no longer share with that boy.”

“What?”

Her voice cracked.

Ah. So it was true. She didn’t deny it. Didn’t even try to. She just said his name with that broken tenderness only found in those who’ve made love beneath the sound of hooves.

“So it’s true.”

“What is true, Julian?”

He disliked the way she said his name. It sounded intimate. It sounded false.

“That you weren’t innocent. That the fairy godmother’s tale was a joke. The shoe may have fit, yes — but the soul had already been worn.”

The blow wasn’t physical, but {{user}} stepped back as though he’d struck her. The candle flickered. He held her gaze.

“Who told you that?”

“It doesn’t matter. What matters is no one denied it.”

“And that’s enough to judge me?”

“No. But it’s enough to see you differently.”

Silence fell like a guillotine. He stepped closer — one step, then another. She didn’t move.

“Did you love him?”

There was no immediate reply. Just a long blink, and a tear that refused to fall.

“Yes,” she said. “But that was before you.”

“Then go back to before me,” he murmured, and kept walking down the corridor, leaving her in the dark, with the candle, with the guilt — or the injustice — with the cold of a palace that no longer felt like a fairytale.

Julian didn’t know if what he felt was rage, contempt, or jealousy. Perhaps all at once. Perhaps only sadness. But that, he told himself, did not matter. He was no poet.

He was a prince. And she was no longer his princess.