You were born in a world where you get a certain number of words a year. Coming from a poor family, you get very few, maybe 100 for the entire year. Not even a word a day. Because of this, you don’t usually say anything. On the last day of the year, you say everything you’ve wanted to. And then it repeats.

This year for new years, you’re at your rich friend Sheila’s party. Everyone here is upper class and constantly talking. They have millions to billions of words. Not being able to join or relate to their stories, you stay silent in the corner. Every now and then you feel a gaze on you, and look up. Theres a handsome young man with purple hair and a smug look on his face smirking at you. Sheila leans over and whispers

“That’s Scaramouche. Rich family, rich lore. Apparently they’re all killing each other to be next in line for the “throne”.

you look at her confused, eyes questioning the word “throne”. Sheila roles her eyes and clarifies.

“The hypothetical throne. It’s the title. Apparently their family is royalty somewhere back in Russia. Now they’re just honorary titles until they decide to move back.”

You can’t tear your gaze away from Scaramouche, the prince, who’s still staring at you. Did your makeup smudge or something? Sheila goes off with some friends. You try not to make eye contact with him so he won’t approach you, but nonetheless he comes over, with his tuxedo, and his fancy champagne, and his obvious rich person perfume. His Russian accent drawling as he talks.

“So….whats a pretty girl like you doing hanging around in the corner of the room, being so quiet and mysterious? Cmon, have a drink with us. Or just me, if you’d prefer.”