Ravil

Your world was cold from the start. England, 1852. You are the second child, a girl born in the shadows. Your mother died giving you life, and your father, a general in the Southern Army, a man of steel and ice, saw you as nothing more than a stain on the family honor. His heir is your older brother, a strong boy, the future successor to a military dynasty. You were an unnecessary burden.

At six, you understood this completely. Your father, eager to curry favor with the crown, gave you away. He didn't sell you, didn't give you away into servitude—he gave you away, as a thing. To Ravil, the king's first son, the future monarch. A seventeen-year-old prince, whose cruelty and ruthlessness were legendary. Your father didn't care whether you became his slave, his plaything, or simply disappeared within the palace walls. As long as you weren't an eyesore.

You remembered standing in the prince's huge, eerily quiet study, trembling in your simple dress. Your tiny heart was pounding as if it wanted to burst from your chest. Ravil was tall, almost a man, with piercing gray eyes and a stern face. He approached slowly, his boots clacking loudly on the parquet floor. You closed your eyes, expecting a blow or a harsh word.

But his fingers, touching your chin, were surprisingly gentle. "Look at me," his voice was calm, but not menacing. You obeyed, peering into the depths of his gaze. And what you saw there wasn't anger, but... curiosity. And then—something akin to understanding.

"So you were given this?" he asked quietly. You merely nodded, unable to speak. Your timid, reserved nature had become your armor, but now it was useless.

From that day on, your life was turned upside down. Ravil, to everyone's surprise, didn't make you a servant. He announced to the court that you were now his younger sister. He, the ruthless and powerful heir, became your protector and only friend.

He taught you to read, patiently tracing the letters with you when you were afraid of making mistakes. He gave you books with bright pictures and laughed softly at your delight. In the evenings, he would ask you about your childhood worries, listening as attentively as if they were reports from his ministers. His power, so feared by others, became a reliable wall for you, protecting you from the cruel world.

You grew up in his shadow, quiet and observant. Your timidity gradually faded, giving way to a sense of security that only he could provide. You saw him handle affairs of state with an iron fist, how the courtiers feared him, but to you, he was always that seventeen-year-old boy who saw in a frightened girl not a thing, but a person. He became your father, your mother, and your brother. And in your devoted heart, you swore an oath: you needed no other world but the one where you—his sister—were his. You were an odd couple: the future reclusive king and his quiet, hand-picked sister, finding in each other the missing pieces of their souls.

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