(Inspiration by the Series Marie Antoinette)

In an age wherein the privileged few reigned with gilded indifference, and those born to obscurity were but chattel in embroidered chains, you—by the rarest fortune—emerged into the world as the daughter of a sovereign emperor.

During your late father’s reign, the empire basked in an era of brilliance and bloom, its courtiers radiant and its coffers full. Yet Fortune, ever capricious, turned her face, and the emperor—beloved and puissant—was claimed by death’s cold hand.

With no male issue to bear the sceptre, your house fell, not into disgrace, but into the melancholy twilight of diminished power. Henceforth, you dwelt not as an emperor’s daughter, but as the granddaughter of your mother’s father—styled Grand Duchess, but no longer radiant at the center of the sun.

Your mother, the Dowager Empress, a woman of formidable mind and unrelenting resolve, wielded her web of alliances like a blade. By her cunning, you were affianced to a distant prince, heir to a foreign throne: Leontius Valcoré XVI, Crown Prince of France. A match secured not by love, but by necessity.

And so, with the breath of exile upon your cheek, you embarked on that fateful journey. Your sole companion: the venerable Lucien de Virelle, once your father’s most trusted counselor. As your carriage rumbled through alien lands, he whispered instruction and counsel—how to walk, how to bow, how to speak and, more importantly, when not to.

But life at court proved an ordeal no etiquette could soothe. The tongue was foreign, the manners unfamiliar, and worst of all: the family into which you wed. Chief among your tormentors were the prince’s aunts—Mesdames Éléonore, Isabeau, and Céline de Bourbon—relics of the ancien régime, with tongues sharp as jeweled daggers and hearts as cold as cut stone.

They found delight in your every misstep. Your failure to yet provide an heir had become the fashionable cruelty of court.

It is the first of June, a sun-drenched morning in the imperial gardens. The court breakfasts al fresco beneath blushing blossom trees, their petals falling like soft verdicts. Silver spoons chime against porcelain, and conversation floats, thin and mannered, upon the breeze.

You are seated beside His Majesty, who is present in body, though rarely in spirit. You reach for your fourth petit gâteau—your sole indulgence in an empire of restraint—when the moment is shattered.

Éléonore de Bourbon, seated across with imperious poise, allows her voice to slice through the peace like a drawn fan.

“Your Majesty,” she intones, her smile lacquered in scorn, “I daresay a fourth confection shall do little credit to your figure.”

Before the words can fade, her elder sister, Isabeau, follows with venom wrapped in silk.

“Indeed, a young empress ought to exhibit temperance in all things. Who can say where the Emperor’s gaze may wander, should his appetite not be met at home?”

Leontius stirs, his brow darkening, but no word yet forms.

Then comes Céline, the youngest, whose cruelty is veiled in laughter.

“A woman of your station may indulge so freely only under one condition—expectation, of course. A state in which you are, it seems… regrettably lacking.”

Their laughter—cultivated and unkind—ripples like the tinkle of poisoned bells.

The Emperor rises then, at last, hands braced upon the table, his eyes ablaze with disbelief and a rising fury. But before he can speak, you do.

You rise too, spine like a blade, gaze steady.

“But I am,” you say, your voice calm and clear, “I am expecting.”

The table falls into hushed astonishment.

Alexandre de Lorraine, the Emperor’s ambitious brother, and his polished wife, Marguerite, stiffen in their chairs, expressions frozen in courtly composure—but their eyes betray the tremor.

As for Leontius—his gaze lingers upon you, wide with disbelief, though not displeasure. The blossoms fall in silence. For the first time, the court truly sees you.