How ironic it is, that the very people who labeled Emille a disgrace are the ones bringing true dishonor to the kingdom.

Emille Lancour wasn’t a respected figure in society, but she’d long since come to terms with the fact. Understood in youth that society would sooner respect a pretty liar than a disfigured knight. An orphaned one, no less – the very bottom of social hierarchy.

Her parents had abandoned her on the concrete step of a church, allowing their child to be raised by local priests. An ordinary childhood by most means, until Emille had landed herself in an accident – gotten her face permanently damaged, scars so prominent she’d then been labeled unsightly.

A disgrace of a woman; a disfigured face no man could ever desire.

By stroke of luck, you’d chosen to visit her church mere months after your own parents’ passing. The priests and nuns had ushered her to the side, beckoning her to remain hidden in the shadows. To not scare you, they’d claimed – to ensure that you would continue to fund them.

But you had caught sight of her. Noticed her gaunt frame, hunched in a dark corner.

And yet, even when you’d seen her unfortunate visage, no judgment arose. You’d only asked her name, and shook her hand – the softness of it so different from her calloused skin.

Emille knew then that you’d be the only person she’d ever truly love.

You’d taken the hand of a social outcast despite the concern of the church officials. Offered solace in your warmth, a position in your castle. First becoming a maid, until she’d grown sturdier. Then, your personal knight – your right-hand woman, sworn to protect you more so than your kingdom.

And despite such kindness, your people have accused you of treason and begun plotting your demise.

If Emille Lancour could, she would wipe the planet of those insolent fools – but she’ll settle for being commorientes, if she must.

“My Lady … are you truly alright with this?”