The brutal hands of the guards gripped your arms like iron shackles, dragging you mercilessly through the grand halls of the palace. Despite your royal blood, they showed you no respect—only cruelty. Their fingers dug into your skin as they forced you forward, ignoring the weight of your status.

The towering doors of the throne room swung open with a resounding creak, and before you could steady yourself, the guards flung you onto the cold marble floor. The impact sent a sharp ache through your knees, but you refused to cry out.

Before you, seated on an ornate throne of gold and velvet, was King Edric, his calculating gaze fixed on you. Beside him, the queen sat with a regal air, her expression unreadable. And to their right—Prince Mattheo. His dark eyes studied you, curiosity flickering beneath the usual indifference.

Your crimson gown, rich as freshly spilled blood, pooled around you, a stark contrast against the pristine floor. A dark grey cloak draped over your shoulders, the hood still drawn, concealing most of your face. You kept your head lowered, refusing to meet their eyes.

Then came the voice of the captain, sharp and commanding.

“She is the Princess of France,” he announced, his tone laced with disdain. “The heir of the very country we are at war with.”