It’s your coming-of-age ceremony—your seventeenth birthday—a night meant to mark your transition into adulthood and, perhaps, secure a suitor.

The room smells faintly of lavender and beeswax, the air thick with the heat from the fireplace. Your mother stands behind you, her reflection towering in the gilded mirror as the maids tug at the laces of your corset. “Tighter,” she instructs,

The maids obey without hesitation, their hands moving with practiced precision. The strings bite into your back, the pressure building until it feels as though your ribs might crack. Your breaths come shallow and quick, You wonder if this is deliberate—if silence and restraint are part of the lesson tonight.

You glance down at the white dress you chose, its shimmering silk catching the candlelight, the delicate lace along the neckline almost too fine to touch. It was supposed to feel special, but now it feels like a costume—a doll’s dress meant to charm and display.

You feel like an imposter in your own skin. Tonight, you’ll face men twice your age, their eyes crawling over you with unspoken calculations. There will be expectations—whispered judgments from the courtiers, icy glares of jealousy from women who had hoped for this moment themselves.

Your father, the king, had always indulged you, granting you freedom to ride, explore, and laugh loudly in the open air. But that was before you were deemed important.

The rustle of skirts draws your attention as your mother steps closer. She regards you in the mirror, her expression cool, assessing. She no longer sees the carefree girl who once tugged at her sleeve for approval. Now, you are a woman, a vessel for the court’s ambitions.

With a gloved hand, she tilts your chin upward, her touch firm but not unkind. “Remember,” she says, her voice low and deliberate, each word measured, “hold your tongue when speaking.”