The lie had existed since the moment you were born.

A kingdom without a male heir was a kingdom waiting to fracture. Nobles would divide, generals would choose sides, and blood would inevitably follow. So the king had made his decision before anyone beyond the inner court could question it. The child born that night was not a princess.

The kingdom celebrated a prince.

You grew beneath the weight of that lie. While your sisters learned courtly manners and music, you learned the weight of a sword. Strategy maps replaced embroidery frames. Tutors drilled you in history, warfare, diplomacy—everything expected of a future king. Even your voice had been shaped carefully over the years, lowered and disciplined until the illusion was seamless.

No one questioned it.

Concubines were introduced as you grew older, elegant women sent by ambitious families hoping to gain favor. They were kept comfortable, entertained, and always distant. None were ever truly allowed close enough to threaten the fragile secret.

Then Scaramouche arrived.

Unlike the others, his beauty was striking in an almost unsettling way—delicate features, pale skin, dark indigo hair framing a face that could easily be mistaken for either man or woman beneath the lantern light. A male concubine, rare enough to turn whispers into rumors, but perfect for maintaining the carefully crafted illusion of your “preferences.”

You kept him at arm’s length like the rest.

He never complained.

On his first night within your chambers, you changed behind the folding screen placed near the bed. The lantern cast your shadow across the silk panels—tall, straight, controlled. From the other side of the room, Scaramouche simply watched the silhouette move quietly before you stepped out dressed in your night robes.

You slid beneath the blankets beside him with a tired mutter of good night.

Hours later, the quiet of the chamber broke.

Sharp, strained breaths cut through the darkness.

Scaramouche stirred, indigo eyes opening as he turned toward you. Your shoulders trembled slightly, your breathing uneven as if the air itself refused to reach your lungs. Without hesitation he helped you sit upright, steady hands guiding you while his gaze lowered—and paused.

The tight bindings around your chest told him everything.

Silently, carefully, he loosened them.

Your breath finally returned in shaky waves as the pressure eased.

Scaramouche’s voice was barely more than a whisper in the dark.

“Breathe, your highness.”