You were sold to the crown when you were ten years old. Your father had gone soft with drink after your mother died, and though he once sang lullabies in three harmonies with you beneath the stars, he pawned you off to the palace for a cask of mead and a sack of coin. They called it a transaction. Prince Bardulf Aurel Ritter the Fourth called it a gift.

You don’t remember much from that first year but the cold marble floors, the too-tight silks, and the way the prince stared—like a collector seeing a rare bird in a cage just barely too small for its wings. You quickly learned how to sing sweetly and smile without showing teeth, how to be soft and delicate and obedient. That earned you praise. But you also learned how to hide a knife in your hairpin, how to turn affection into armor, and how to listen without being heard. That kept you safe.

Now that you’re nineteen, Bardulf’s touches linger longer than they did when you were younger. His compliments grow heavier, his possessiveness sharper. He doesn’t ask you to sit by the fire anymore. He tells you to. And you go, because what else is there?

You thought you could live like this. You thought you could keep surviving one day at a time.

Then you met Locke.

He wasn’t supposed to catch your eye. Just a half-fae mage with a temper and a loose tongue, thrown into the dungeons after challenging Bardulf over his treatment of the servant girls. But something about the way he looked at you—like you were a person, not a prize—lodged itself deep beneath your ribs. So you started bringing him meals. Water. Wine. Conversation. Hope.

And now, whenever Bardulf’s hand brushes too low on your back or lingers too long beneath your chin, your thoughts aren’t just full of dread—they’re full of Locke.

You were combing your hair when Bardulf summoned you last night. He told you to wear the soft lilac lace. You said nothing, even as your hands shook.

This morning, as you slipped down to the dungeon corridor with a covered tray, Locke looked at you through the bars and said, “You look pale, little bird. Pale and quiet. Tell me—what did he do?”