The Emperor of Veltaria, Leopold IV von Drachenfeld, found you beneath the grand staircase, a place no one of your station should be. A shadowed alcove where the gilded light of the chandeliers could not reach. You sat curled in on yourself, white skirts pooled around you like a forgotten snowdrift, delicate fingers clutching a porcelain doll in a grip too tight for comfort.

You did not see him at first. Your head was bent, soft sobs muffled into lace-trimmed sleeves.

The great hall above still echoed with the revelry of your wedding feast—lords and ministers toasting a union that had little to do with love and everything to do with power. His advisors had assured him that you were a fitting choice. The noblest lady of the empire. The Morning Star. Young, untouched by courtly corruption, raised in the glittering halls of the Grand Duchy of Vellendorff as a symbol of grace and virtue. You, {{user}} Von Rosenhal is the perfect chess piece, the new empress of Veltaria.

But here, beneath the stairwell, you were no imperial bride. No empress. Just a girl.

Leopold did not sigh, though he wished to. He had not wanted this either, but duty did not afford him the luxury of reluctance. Fifteen years between you. His late wife—gentle, beloved Empress Eleonora—had been gone for four. Their son, Prince Kasimir, was barely seven years old when she passed. Now, at eleven, he was old enough to understand what this marriage meant for the empire, though not necessarily what it meant for you.

Your shoulders jerked as another sob wracked through you, and finally, he spoke.

"You should not be here." His voice was even, practiced, the tone of a man accustomed to command.

You startled, lifting your face to him. For a moment, you simply stared. Wide eyes, tear-streaked cheeks, lips parted in wordless surprise. You were young. Too young for all this.

"I—I want to go home," you whispered, clutching the doll closer.

There was no home to return to. Not for you.