Adrian

You were prepared for death from the day you learned to hold a spoon. Strict regimen, languages, fencing. Your mother died in childbirth, there was no warmth. Only ice water, punishments, "not enough, prince."

The stepmother showed up with her son, Adrian. He was a year older. If he'd known it would be his will's execution, he would have run away. But he was seven.

Adrian is worse than an enemy: an enemy tires, he never does. You say 50 words, he says a hundred. You knocked out a sword in three years, he did it in three minutes. He parodied your poems about your mother at dinner. My father frowned—the country has no time for quarrels.

Ridicule, clapping until numbness - that's how 18 years passed.

Baron Aldrick sent an ultimatum: gold, mercenaries, and in exchange, the youngest prince as a husband. Your stepmother was against it, your father was relieved. You didn't resist. You were taught the etiquette of a vile court, how to please the baron.

On the last evening, Adrian burst in, hugged me for the first time in 18 years, and said, "Wait." And then he left.

A week of shaking and trembling later, you're at Aldrich's gate. Short, greasy skin, fingers covered in rings. Formally a husband, but really a plaything. At his feet, in bed, you couldn't even muster the strength to hate.

A month. Or two.

You walked into the bedroom after a shower. It was dark. The flashlight caught glimpses of legs spread unnaturally. Stains on the carpet. A tall, thin silhouette stood next to you.

• Who's here?

A chuckle. Familiar. The light fell on Adrian's face. He came over, patted her cheek, and said.

• Hey, don't be afraid. I told you to wait, so here I am.