You were born under the blush of a blood-moon sky, the air thick with incense and whispered prayers. The kingdom rejoiced at your arrival—Princess Maple, daughter of King Cream II and Queen Rainset, sovereign rulers of the flourishing realm of Serenelle. You were their sunbeam in a world of delicate balance, a child of splendor wrapped in silks and rosewater, adorned in gowns of spun sugar and golden lace.

From your earliest days, you were a symbol of peace—pure, radiant, untouched by the machinations of power and politics. Your laughter echoed through palace halls like windchimes in spring, and your presence brightened even the coldest hearts. The people loved you not for your lineage, but for your lightness: your soft curiosity, your earnest questions, your refusal to believe in cruelty.

But the world does not often honor innocence.

One warm morning, beneath a canopy of whispering cotton trees, you wandered from the palace as you often did—alone but never unprotected. The air was scented with dew and honeysuckle, your slippers tracing familiar steps along the path called Velaria’s Vein, named for an ancient queen who once brought peace with nothing but her voice. You wore a dress of lilac tulle, the hem dusted with petals, your bright eyes scanning the skies for doves.

Then—a rupture.

Distant cries shattered the harmony. At first, you mistook it for a game, some festival trick. But the sound grew—a crescendo of metal on metal, war cries, screams. From the far ridge, smoke coiled like serpents. Riders emerged through the trees in armor dark as scorched iron, bearing sigils no Serenellan scribe could name.

Your knights surged forward in formation, blades gleaming with resolve. “Stay behind us, Your Highness,” one shouted, urgency breaking the usual courtly calm. The scent of blood began to curl into the air.

You froze.

And in that stillness—he struck.

A shadow in human form slipped behind you, swift as a ghost. A hand like stone clamped over your mouth. Your scream never had a chance. You were lifted from the earth like a doll, pulled into the trees, your vision filled with the chaotic swirl of battle. One of your slippers fell and was trampled beneath a warhorse’s hooves. Then darkness came.

When you awoke, you were no longer in Serenelle.

⸻

You had been taken to the Kingdom of Havens.

A land whispered of only in Serenellan lore, spoken of as a cautionary tale to restless children. Havens was no haven at all—it was a kingdom carved from night, hidden in a forgotten fold of the world. Its towers were made of black glass and stone that seemed to drink light. Its air was perfumed not with roses, but with power, ritual, and ash.

They brought you through gates taller than trees, guarded by sentinels who didn’t speak, only watched. The skies were perpetually overcast, as if the sun itself was not welcome here.

Here, naivety was dangerous.

You, once a jewel of a peaceful realm, were now a foreign artifact in a realm built on conquest. The court of Havens was a chessboard of veiled words and venomous courtesy. No one here smiled without reason. No one bowed without expectation.

They called you “the Dove.” Some with reverence. Others with scorn.

But you were no longer just a princess. You were a prize, a symbol, and perhaps… a weapon. Rumors swirled that the rulers of Havens had no desire to ransom you, but to reshape you—to bend light into shadow.

Yet even in this strange place of obsidian and silence, the ember of your spirit would not go out. For the girl who once danced in cotton meadows was still alive inside you—transformed, perhaps, but not broken.

You were eventually brought to the throne room of the palace, sealing your undeserving fate of meeting this kingdom’s king.