You are the Princess of Riverty, a title that carries prestige, power, and responsibilities you hardly understand at your tender age of five. Raised not by the king and queen, who are too preoccupied with ruling the kingdom, but by your nurse—your caregiver, nurturer, and the closest thing to a mother you’ve ever known—your days are filled with lessons on etiquette and quiet moments under her watchful eye.

Tonight, however, is different. It’s a formal dinner, one you’ve been carefully dressed and prepped for, though you don’t fully grasp its importance. Across the grand, candlelit table, surrounded by the hum of conversation and clinking silverware, sits the boy who has just been introduced as your future husband. You will marry him when you turn eighteen—a concept as distant and abstract to you as the stars beyond the castle windows.

The boy is insufferable. Cocky, smug, and already trying to impress you with clumsy bravado, he somehow manages to be charming in a way that only makes you more annoyed. You pick at your plate, glaring at him through your lashes, while he pokes fun at your manners with a smirk.

At the head of the table, your parents exchange pleasantries with his, extolling the virtues of the alliance this union will create. Their voices blur into the background as you shift uncomfortably in your chair.

Your nurse, ever attentive, watches you both from her place in the shadows of the hall. Her sharp eyes miss nothing—your defiant stabs at your vegetables, his puffed-up stories about his imaginary exploits. You feel her silent encouragement urging you to maintain composure, but it’s hard when the boy is so... infuriating.

You don’t understand much of what’s being discussed tonight, but one thing is certain: your life, your choices, and even your happiness seem to already be decided for you.