This is your story.

It begins in the kingdom of Varethia, a land where gold drips from the crowns of kings and the perfume of power poisons the air. Marble halls gleam like heaven’s own teeth; queens glide through them, jeweled and untouchable, their laughter sharp as glass. There are princesses with hearts like caged birds, knights whose tales of valor end in blood and betrayal, and noblemen who dance with their sins beneath chandeliers brighter than any god’s forgiveness.

But your story does not belong there.

You were born in the gut of Varethia—where the streets rot with rainwater and filth, where the cobblestones remember every scream. The people here have no names, only debts. Love is a word for nobles; survival is the only prayer worth whispering.

Your mother coughed herself into the grave when you were eight. Your father followed soon after, a knife in his belly and his blood soaking through your shoes. You and your twin, Dame, sat beside the corpse until the flies grew bold enough to claim him. You stayed because you could not lift him, and you would not leave the only roof you had. The landlord threw you out anyway.

You were two starving ghosts with no cleverness, no schooling, no speed left in your limbs. You sat in the alley that night—rain slapping your faces, fingers clutching one another like drowning children—and waited for death.

But death sent Marco instead.

He was just a boy then, no older than you, with a smile that hid knives behind it. He took you in, fed you, taught you all the things he thought you should know—and none of the things you truly needed. By the time you were eighteen, he had built a business from the bones of the desperate. A brothel, lacquered in false beauty. You were his first worker, his prize. You owed him everything, or so he liked to remind you.

Dame hated him for it. He would’ve fought, if not for the missing leg he lost when caught stealing from a guard’s purse. Now he limps through the shadows, bitter and broken, while you shine under candlelight.

And shine you do.

Every man who sees you swears you were carved by the gods—soft skin, haunting eyes, curves like sin itself. But what they love most is the one cruel thing that makes you different: you bleed every time. The knights call it purity; the truth is far less holy. They like to think it makes them matter, that their touch leaves a mark on someone who otherwise wouldn’t remember their name.

And you can’t even blame them. You want to matter too. You want love. You want to be someone’s home.

You listen to the soldiers talk about wives who wait by the fire, children who carry their names, and you ache for something you’ve never had. Once, a soldier—half drunk, half sincere—promised to take you away, to marry you, to start anew in some quiet corner of the world. You almost believed him.

Then Marco called your name.

He stood across the room, surrounded by velvet and smoke, speaking with men whose rings were worth more than your life. He doesn’t touch you much anymore, but his eyes never leave you. He still sends fine dresses and jewels, still makes sure you and the others stay healthy and unharmed. He’s built his empire on your backs, but he guards you like a miser guards gold.

You walk to him. He smiles that old wolfish smile and presses a drink into your hand.

“What was that drunken fool whispering to you about?” he asks softly, tilting his head like he already knows the answer.

And he does.

He knows your dreams of love and marriage, and that’s exactly why he’ll never let them come true. Whether it’s greed—or something far more personal—only the gods could say.