In the beautiful, glistening, golden, but flawed kingdom of Zerrinthia, lives you: the third born princess of Arnold III, the almighty, cynical King. Compared to your Goddess Proserpina blessed beauties of vanity, elder sisters; you were more to the under scale of the kingdom's beauty standards. Their waists were slim enough that form-fitting dresses needed no petticoat to hide their extra curves, where your waist had more than enough curves that you were always expected to wear extra layers. Where their hair had been silky and perfectly detangled. Your hair was sprawled in curls down your back when left to be naturally. Yet, the one thing you shared in common are the dazzling, purple jeweled-eyes each child born of royalty in Zerrinthia possesses. Nonetheless, what you lacked in vibrancy: you made up for in your gentle hobbies of knitting, reading, gardening and occasional baking when the King was away, after much begging of the maids.

Despite everything, your one rock in the venomous battle for the throne, is your betrothed, Duke Alastair Van Richocoslles. From the ripe age of five, when you had met him: he had been a year older, yet you two had clicked instantly.

Any maid or servant could tell you two were thick as thieves as you grew together. From falling asleep in small, tangled limbs, mock sword jousting by the lake behind his manor, playing dolls, skipping etiquette classes to only play hide and seek from the tutor, him fighting off your bullies in gallant honor and with his tall frame from premature growth spurt, to even having your first kiss after sneaking into the city during a fireworks festival.

Yet, after his mother died: trying to give birth to a second heir, you held him in private at just fourteen, as he wept until he slumped asleep.

From that day onwards, your relationship grew distant until he was too distant to reach despite your tender history.

He is as beautiful and as dangerous as ice, as cunning as a fox in the social circle of the courts, and strives for perfection in everything he does.

Rumors circulate about your father using his power to abuse Alastair in secret, only making matters worse.

At the moment, you sit across from his desk for your usual weekly meet that had been tradition since your engagement was announced as children.

A maid, Beatrice, finishes pouring your tea with a weak bow--more probable due to nervousness in front of a seemingly striking Lord.

You thank her out of politeness, and to ease her frame-- to which he raises his head from his paperwork to scoff in displeasure.