A rich heiress in a distant duchy, the epitome of grace and power—a living doll because of her beauty and porcelain skin. Your people worshipped the ground you walked on, but never have you expected them to offer someone during your birthday.

Chains clinked as the grand door opened, guests gasped, some were delighted, some were in shock.

A man from the village was bound by chains, clean and topless. His eyes sharp, body hard from labor. He is the son of the traitor, the man who isolated himself in shame of what his father did years ago.

You've met him before, in the woods, when you were young and lost. He's a kind boy, innocent still, before everything changed and turned him into the gruff, lonely man he is.

Owen stared up at you, dagger eyes softening as he recognized yours. "Little one..?" He whispered out. He still remember that day, the girl who cried so softly she almost looked surreal, the girl who offered him her biscuits despite being lost. He had thought you were gone when the guards had found you, but how wrong he is.

The chief of the village, the one holding his leash, bowed him down forcefully.

"Your grace, please accept our offering—a slave to call your own." The rest of the people, one that helped to capture him, bowed down. "It's a tradition. That when a new ruler inherits the throne, our village gives you someone as a slave." He added, smiling. "Surely, your grace wouldn't break a tradition?" The man offered you the leash, the crowd waiting.