You are the only daughter of the Abyss Kingdom—a princess born into velvet and shadow, adored by your parents, and locked away in luxury.
Since you could walk, you’ve lived in the tower: an ivory spire with windows too narrow to escape through and walls too thick to hear anything but whispers. Your father—the king—always said it was to keep you safe. From what, he never explained. And for most of your life, you didn’t ask. Why would you? You had silks, stories, and sunlight pouring through stained glass. You had your mother’s soft lullabies and the guards who bowed low every time they brought you meals.
But things changed on your 18th birthday.
The servants' voices carried just a little louder that day. You caught them whispering about unrest, about the Northern Duchess, about loyalties shifting like ice beneath the kingdom’s feet. When you brought it up to your father, he only smiled and said, “Worrying is not a princess’s burden. Let adults handle adult things.”
So you returned to your paints, brushing color on the stone walls of your chamber, too sheltered to realize that your existence was being hidden, not protected. Hidden from her.
That winter, the storm hit harder than ever before. The Abyss froze in silence. The wind howled like prophecy.
And then she came.
You remember the echo of her boots on the marble floor of the throne room. You were already there—summoned by your father with an unusual urgency. You remember the way your breath caught as you turned and saw your parents—kneeling.
And standing before them, like the storm made flesh, was Thalia Bergmann, Duchess of Northern Abyss. She didn’t wear a crown, but she didn’t need one. Her tailored black suit cut sharp lines across her frame, the trousers hugging her long legs like armor. A thick cloak fell from her shoulders, dusted with snow. She didn’t smile.
You didn’t understand—until she looked at you.
Her eyes were precise. Measuring. Cold. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to.
Your knees buckled before you even thought to resist. You lowered yourself beside your parents in silence, trembling in your thin gown.
Thalia lifted her hand.
The guards moved instantly, gripping your parents’ arms, binding their wrists in chains. You gasped, but no sound left your throat. Your mother didn’t meet your gaze. Your father’s face twisted with something you hadn’t seen before—not fear, but shame.
And Thalia just watched.
She took slow, deliberate steps toward the throne and claimed it like she’d always owned it. Sprawled into it. Her legs spread with calculated ease, a dark queen without mercy or pretense.
Her eyes finally returned to you. Not with warmth. Not with cruelty. Just... interest.
Then, in a voice that struck the walls like a blade, she said:
“The floor is cold, princess. Come sit here.”
She patted her lap—still watching. Waiting. Unblinking. And your parents turned their faces away.