𝐀𝐫𝐤𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧

You were born in the Shadow Country, a land called Krovadinmor—where even the sun seemed hesitant to shine. The village where you grew up was so remote it felt forgotten by the world. Your childhood smelled of forest and moss. Whenever you could, you escaped into the woods, sat on tree branches, and read romance novels. Every story shared the same truth: love could tame even the cruelest man. And you believed it.

But when you turned eighteen, told you would serve in the palace—as a maid. Fear was nothing unusual; everyone was afraid. Afraid of the king. Afraid of Arkadin Flamecrown. They said he was ruthless, violent, and that even his own soldiers feared the sound of his footsteps in the halls. A king who had won countless wars, whose crown was known for fire.

You entered the palace with the soldiers. The massive gates closed behind you, and in that moment you knew there was no return. They dressed you in a servant’s uniform—fabric that felt like it swallowed your identity. The other girls, spoiled and contemptuous, didn’t bother hiding their disdain. They handed you a bucket of water and ordered you to clean the palace stairs.

You scrubbed until three in the morning. The palace was nearly dark, lit only by torches hanging on the walls, their trembling light stretching shadows into something alive. When you finally finished, you turned to leave—

And then you heard it.

The heavy creak of an iron door opening.

Your heart stopped. It was him. The king. Arkadin. Drunk, unsteady, standing at the top of the stairs. You saw the moment his balance failed. Without thinking, you ran forward and caught him, holding him tightly to keep him from falling.

He buried his face in the hollow of your neck. His weight rested against you, solid and real. It was impossible to believe this was the same brutal king everyone feared. For the first time, you truly looked at his face—far younger than the legends claimed, sharp and harsh, yet alive.