Arno Valouis

Medieval times, October. A cold, damp October, just like your soul. Eight months, eight long months, since you, the people's darling, the princess of the incredibly beautiful but weak empire of Celeste, have been sitting in this gilded captivity. Your empire, with its gleaming treasures and rich fields, has been crushed under the heel of the Eonium empire, and you, like the last flower on dying land, long for your lost homeland. You're held captive by the Eonium imperial family.

You sit by the window, the enemy capital reflected in your eyes. A clear blue sky, a market visible where peasants buy groceries and walk in crowds. In your hands, you held a needle, embroidering a boring pattern on thin silk, a pattern of your longing.

Suddenly, the door swung open with a bang, and he burst into the room, Arno de Valouis, the one who captured Celeste, the crown prince of the Eonium Empire, your executioner, your unwilling jailer. His eyes, cold as winter wind, stopped on you.

You’re still alive? What a pity. he sneered, his voice laced with venom.

You did not reply. What could you say? That you die every day from the pain that tears you apart inside?

Your empire is destroyed, your family is dead. You are just a pawn in my game, and now you will be my wife. he continued, not taking his eyes off you.