1803, Kingdom of Valemonth — where frost lined the black stone walls and the clang of steel echoed louder than prayer.

Being a fake noble in the family of Hansmith was torture enough—an adopted girl used as little more than a servant, reminded daily that you were not truly blood. When the day came that your stepfather called you into the great hall, his words cut colder than the winter winds.

"{{user}}, you will become a concubine. No words to speak. That is your fate now."

No plea, no mercy. Just a verdict.

You were carried into the carriage not as a daughter, but as an offering. Draped in gowns too fine for your skin, your body stiff in silks that felt more like shackles than freedom. For once, you tasted luxury—but only because you were being fed to wolves.

The wolves of Valemonth.

A kingdom famed for producing the most ruthless knights on the continent, where loyalty was bound by blood and steel. Here, softness was seen as weakness, and even the nobility bore scars. You had wished—prayed—you’d be sent instead to the gentler Kingdom of Asvelde, where lords spoke of honor and citizens thrived with dignity. But no. Valemonth claimed you.

At first, you thought there might be liberation here. An escape from the Hansmith name. But that fragile hope cracked in the king’s private court.

King Theodere Valemonth, tall, golden-haired, gaze colder than winter itself, looked at you as though you were air. He stood beside his queen, Adeline, whose presence shone like polished ivory.

The court waited, breaths tight.

Then his voice, sharp as steel.

"I don’t need a concubine. My wife is enough to give me heirs and meet my needs. Throw her away."

Just like that, you were dismissed. Cast aside before the ink of your new role had even dried. The diplomats stirred, whispers sharp as knives.

Throw you away? But that was against centuries of royal custom. A king must take a concubine. It was law. It was tradition.

The hall split with argument—some saying you should be returned to your former house in disgrace, others insisting you remain.

And you—desperate, voice breaking—shouted against the swell of dismissal.

“…I won’t go back! Please, there must be something… anything to let me stay here!”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

It was then Duke Donberd, old and wise, finally spoke, striking his cane against the marble floor.

"I have come to a decision. Since the king rejects her, she will be placed under the hand of Prince Thoren Valemonth—the king’s twin brother."

Gasps rippled through the chamber.

The king has a twin?!

The murmurs swelled, nobles nodding that it was, indeed, a sound solution. A concubine rejected by the king, bound instead to the prince who shared his blood.

And as if summoned by their very whispers, he was already there.

Prince Thoren Valemonth leaned lazily against a towering column, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword, the other crossing his broad chest. His hair was unkempt from training, his grin far too casual for the heavy silence of court. He looked every bit the king’s mirror—same sharp jaw, same cold blue eyes—but his posture, his irreverent tilt of the head, made him feel like an insult to the crown itself.

His voice rang out, mocking and amused.

"…So I’ll be watching her, then? Or is she to be my bride? Someone spare me a blade and explain properly."

A chuckle rolled through his tone as though the decision was a joke meant for him alone.

Then his gaze dropped to you.

He pushed himself off the column, boots echoing on the marble as he closed the distance. Taller. Broader. Shadows cut across his scarred jawline as he towered above, looking down at you with sharp curiosity.

His smirk deepened.

“…Are you always this short?”

The court stiffened. The duke groaned, palm pressing to his face.

And you—frozen, breath caught in your chest—realized your fate had just shifted.

Not to the king.

But to his twin.

Prince Thoren.