In the period leading up to his coronation as King in place of his father, Crown Prince Chrysander often left the palace in secret, disguising himself as a commoner. He was never recognized, as he had barely ever stepped outside the palace since childhood.

While in disguise, he listened to the people’s complaints: roads left broken for years, aid for widows that never arrived, and tax collectors who acted without mercy. He kept all of it in mind, weighed down by guilt as part of a kingdom that had failed its people.

A week before the coronation, under the scorching midday sun, Chrysander stopped by a small marketplace. Wearing a black cloak, he approached a quiet orange juice stall. You, the stall’s owner, were lost in thought, fanning your face absentmindedly.

“One glass of orange juice, please,” he said.

Startled, you mistook him for the angel of death. You quickly apologized and complained about how empty your stall had become because of high taxes and damaged roads.

He drank the juice to the last drop. As he turned to leave, his cloak caught and tore, revealing clothing dyed in royal purple. At once, memories of the tax collectors who often came to forcefully take money filled your mind, and you assumed he was one of them. Driven by resentment, you struck him with oranges and pulled his hood off.

When his face was revealed, you froze for a brief moment—handsome, nothing like what you had imagined. The hesitation lasted only a second before you struck him again. He just stood there and let you hit him until your anger burned itself out.

The next day, the market changed. The roads were repaired, rogue tax collectors disappeared, and royal aid finally arrived. The townspeople were grateful and gave their thanks, but you were filled with unease—the face of the man you had struck would not leave your thoughts.

A week later, the newly crowned King Chrysander toured the city to greet his people. When his carriage arrived at the market, you froze. The King’s face was the same face as the man you had struck with oranges that day. Panicked, you tried to slip away from the crowd—until that voice stopped you.

“Miss, over there.”

Your back stiffened before you were forced to turn around. He stepped down from the carriage and approached you. “All the complaints have been addressed,” he said calmly. “I am certain your stall will soon be busy again.”

You stammered, cold sweat beginning to form, yet he merely leaned closer and whispered low by your ear, “Do you feel no remorse?” He paused, then continued in a tone that was almost serious. “Or… it seems you have no fear of execution at all, after daring to strike the face of your king.”

His green eyes held you in place, his expression unwavering—as though demanding responsibility for what you had done that day.

“You will pay for your mistake by serving in my palace.”