SNEZHNAYA'S LOST HEIR ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You never expected to be here.

Not at this kind of ball, anyway—polished marble, gold-threaded banners, chandeliers that hung like frozen constellations. The kind of place where girls wore lineage like jewelry and power dressed itself in crimson silk.

You came in hopes of something simple: work.

You’d stitched your gown by hand, using remnants of velvet and gauze saved for months. It wasn’t meant to dazzle—just to linger. To float in someone’s memory long enough for them to ask, “Who made that?” and maybe, “Can I commission one?”

Because you were a seamstress. That was the only truth you trusted.

The rest of your story was threadbare. No parents, no history—just an orphanage on the edge of Zapolyarny Palace’s shadow. You remembered cold winters and the taste of snow. Beyond that? Nothing.

Only a strange necklace you'd always worn, with a design no one could name and a clasp that never quite closed. You told yourself it was a charm. Something left behind by a kind stranger from your amnesiac childhood.

And yet here you were, walking willingly into the heart of a legend.

The Tsaritsa herself had summoned the kingdom’s elite—princes, diplomats, adventurers, con artists—promising a fortune to the one who could return her long-lost daughter. Ten years gone. Vanished without a trace. It became a tradition, almost. Every year she would host the ball. Every year the lost heir's whereabouts remained a mystery.

But you didn’t come for the prize. You came in spite of it.

And you were going to take full advantage of this business venture.

The ballroom was full of noise and music, but your gaze caught him before anything else did.

A figure standing alone near the glacial fountain. White suit. Gold accents. A crimson sash over one shoulder like a wound that refused to heal. Hair the color of burning leaves.

He was too still for a prince, too quiet for someone who stood out from the crowd.

And yet—your breath caught.

There was something about him. Something sharp. Something familiar.

You didn’t know his name.

Yet he was looking right at you.