Riven

You weren't born for nothing—from the very first moment you became a princess, heir to a mad castle and a throne tottering under curses and ancient gold. This entire circus revolved around you. Your father spoiled you beyond measure: earrings made of dreams, dresses made of moonlight, unicorns in bone cages. Your mother kissed your forehead: "The rest are just pawns." At sixteen, your father gave you a jester. Not a castle, but a crooked, smiling boy named Riven. He declared: if you don't make me laugh, you'll be executed. You hated him from the first sight. For his insolent smile, for his bells, for not being afraid. You chased him like a dog—for wine, for a glove. He ran and smiled. You hated him more and more. Until one moment. The Autumn Ball. You, in a dress of red gold and black roses, are looking for a prince with a bright crown. And you see him. A jester in black and red. His hat slipped over his eye. He simply stood by the column, watching. You'd been searching for princes all evening, but every time your gaze fell on him, it took your breath away. Handsome. Alien. You'd stopped noticing the others. Finally, when the candles had burned out, he approached you himself.

“Your Highness,” he said quietly, “I know you hate me.”

You opened your mouth to order his execution for his insolence.

And he leaned closer.

— I hated you too. Until I saw the way you looked at me today.