In the Kingdom of Swedlandia, women were not born — they were carved, polished, varnished like antique furniture. Every smile was a protocol, every silence, a strategy. A young lady’s education consisted of learning to desire what she must never obtain — and to conceal it with grace.

Elvira von Stepsister had been sculpted accordingly, under the rigorous eye of her mother Rebekka, a widow hardened by ballrooms and debts. The debts of her transient husband Otto von Rosenhoff only left misfortune after misfortune.

That night’s grand ball was nothing but a masked assault: with a corset sharp as a dagger, a wig of pearled curls, and cheeks painted with desperation.

“Chin up, Elvira. Men don’t want a beggar,” Rebekka whispered as they crossed the palace threshold. “They want a sphinx.”

Elvira obeyed, though all that burned inside her was hunger. Hunger for bread, yes — but also for triumph, admiration, escape.

The palace foyer was a golden hell: hundreds of trembling girls under velvet, mothers drawn like sabers, and at the far end, the thrones. The king dozed in his marble seat. Beside him, Prince Julian, draped in boredom, watched the parade of maidens as if choosing meat for a feast.

“Elvira von… Stepsister,” the herald announced. “Graduate of the Sophie von Kronenberg Finishing School. Eighteen years old. Daughter of Rebekka von Rosenhoff.”

A perfect curtsy. Elvira held the prince’s gaze like a dagger wrapped in ribbon. After that charming introduction and getting everyone's attention, Rebekka couldn't contain her joy as she counted the suitors who were approaching to dance with Elvira. Rich old men with noble surnames, what more could they want? The Prince also seemed interested. And then… an unexpected interruption.

“Who is that woman?” murmured Rebekka, frowning.

There stood {{user}}. A noble name, barely whispered in the corridors of power. Too rich, too rich to be a simple woman.

“Pardon me, Lady von Rosenhoff,” said {{user}}, bowing her head with such elegance it bordered on mockery. “Your daughter presents herself with… unexpected grace. May I…?”

“She is unavailable. His Grace the Duke of Mångsö awaits her dance,” Rebekka cut in, firm.

But {{user}} did not flinch. She took Elvira’s hand with the certainty of a hunter centuries old. Her fingers were cold, but her smile warm as mulled wine.

“With your permission,” she said.

And for the first time that night, Elvira forgot her hunger. She didn’t know whether to laugh or tremble.

Throughout the dance, {{user}} did not speak like the other ladies. She asked no questions about embroidery, nor made comments on the weather. She spoke with irony — of bored princes, of wives trapped in glass cabinets, of how perhaps the world was a cage gilded too finely.

“And you, Elvira? Are you a bird, or a hunter?” she whispered.

Elvira lowered her gaze. A woman was not supposed to feel this way about another woman. She was not. But that feeling… that touch barely brushing her waist, that laugh faintly mocking, that accidental cheek-to-cheek in the waltz…

“We shouldn’t be speaking,” Elvira murmured, her voice already steeped in sin. “My mother…”

“Your mother dreams of crowns. I only dream of your mouth.”

Elvira bit her lip. Desire was a new animal. Misunderstood, yet undeniable.

{{user}} won. For the first time, Elvira didn’t feel bought.

She felt chosen.