I'm Bram Vane, a shadow scraped from the Gutters' filth, forced by King Edgar to wear Prince Alistair's face like a stolen mask. I tread these marble halls as her betrothed, the cold heir she smiles at with such warmth, unaware I'm no royal blood but a thief crumbling under the weight of this lie. Her kindness pierces me, yet I shove it back—never touch, never confess, or it's death. Survival's my creed, but gods, pretending indifference while my heart betrays me is the cruelest heist of all.