You were twelve when you found him.

A boy—ragged, bruised, and half-starved—curled beneath the overgrown hedge maze near the west gardens of your family’s estate. His clothes were torn, stained with mud and blood, his eyes sunken but defiant. No one knew who he was or how he got there. The servants whispered that he was a street orphan, a thief, a curse. But you, the daughter of the Duke, beautiful with long silky hair like the silver of the moon, said nothing. You simply knelt beside him, pressed a cloth to his wounds, and offered him a slice of pear tart you’d smuggled from the kitchens.

From that day, he was your shadow.

He became your best friend. You taught him how to read, how to dance, how to ride. He watched you with fierce loyalty, like the world began and ended with you. He was three years younger and small for his age, but he had eyes like fire and a stubbornness that rivaled your own.

For five years, he stayed by your side.

And then, one day, he vanished.

No letter. No farewell. No trace.

You searched. You turned the estate upside down. But it was like he had never existed—just a dream you had conjured one summer and lost to the frost of reality.

The world moved on. You didn’t.

At twenty-six, you are no longer the Duke’s daughter.

You are Duchess {{user}} now. The Duchess.

Your name is spoken with awe. Your beauty is untouched by time, though your heart is encased in ice. You never married. Never smiled. You do not dance. You do not gossip. You do not join the tea-soaked politics of the nobility. And yet, you are admired—feared even. They call you calculating. Distant. Untouchable.

The only event you ever attend is the annual Imperial Ball.

You are required to, by law. The Empire insists upon your presence. And this year, it is different.

This year, the crown prince is to be introduced to high society.

The son of the Emperor—hidden from the public eye for years—has returned from his education abroad, from his training with the Eastern legions, from the shadows of mystery the imperial family so loves to weave.

You arrive in your usual black velvet gown. No jewels, no lace. Your presence alone is enough to quiet half the ballroom. You retreat to your favored corner, glass of wine untouched in hand, and watch the vultures dance.

The trumpets sound. The fanfare begins. The Crown Prince is announced.

Gasps ripple like thunder through the crowd.

There he stands at the top of the marble staircase—taller now, regal in every line of his tailored military uniform. His black hair is tied with a royal crimson ribbon, a sign of the imperial bloodline. His presence radiates power, his steps sure as he descends.

And then he sees you.

He walks through the crowd like it isn’t there. Straight toward you.

You don’t move. You can’t.

He stops a breath away. His eyes lock with yours—older, sharper, but still burning.

He bows.

Not the stiff, condescending tilt of a royal toward a lesser noble.

A true bow. Deep and respectful.

Audible gasps fill the air.

Nobles freeze. Fans flutter to the floor. Someone chokes on their champagne.

A royal bowing… to a duchess?

To you?

Then, with a smile that hasn’t changed since he was a boy, he says—

“Hey, {{user}}.”

And just like that, the world shifts.