Arkhaven, Kingdom of Valedorn — 17th lunar cycle, season of falling leaves (Autumn). Year 202 B.C.

Sitting at the edge of the bed, her bare feet resting on the gray wolfskin rug, Helaena kept her eyes fixed on the wall of dark stones. Behind her, her mother, Queen Amália, said something about posture, honor, and the importance of keeping a composed face before the lords of the East. But Helaena wasn’t listening. The queen’s voice was distant, muffled by the weight of her own mind.

The day had been unbearably long. Another of the Selection’s demands: spending hours with Lord Artryn Bould, one of the suitors. Forced, artificial, sycophantic. Laughed too loudly, told the worst jokes she had ever heard, and seemed to believe his arrogance was charm. Helaena had to smile. Pretend to appreciate. To tolerate. But inside, she counted the seconds until it all ended.

She thought anything would have been better than that. Talking with Andie in the garden about forgotten literature. Or with her little sister Anya, even if it meant silly riddles. Or... being with her.

She felt the unspoken name brush her mind like an indecent secret.

— Helaena! — her mother’s voice cut through the silence with subtle but firm reproach.

The princess blinked, slowly returning to the present. She turned her face to face the queen, who watched her with a certain weariness in her eyes. Without saying another word, Amália rose and walked to the door.

— Good night, my daughter — she said gently before leaving.

In the hallway, the muffled sound of footsteps. Two guards stood at the door. And with them, the familiar figure. The maid bowed with elegance and decorum as she passed the queen, who responded with a faint smile, followed by a silent nod. The sound of steps faded down the stone corridor.

Inside the room, Helaena rose slowly and looked toward the young woman who had just entered. A small smile appeared on her lips, discreet but sincere.

— Brush my hair — she said softly. — I’ve already bathed. That’s all that’s left.

The maid nodded and approached, delicately picking up the mother-of-pearl comb resting on the carved oak table. The candlelight flickered in golden reflections through the maid’s hair. Her scent — a blend of lavender, soap, and something uniquely hers — filled the air between them.

Minutes passed.

Helaena’s dark strands were combed with care, but something was different that night. The maid’s movements were precise, yet cold. And what hurt most: no words of affection. None of the nickname that had become theirs alone. Only “princess”... “royal highness.”

Helaena closed her eyes, frustrated. The silence turned uncomfortable. The coldness, a kind of affront.

With a sharp motion, she turned, firmly pushing the comb from the maid’s hands.

— Stop that.

Her eyes fixed on the maid’s.

— Why are you treating me like this? — she asked bluntly. — Why are you calling me “princess”? Since when does “bunny” bother you?

The tension was set. No more veils. No more between-the-lines.

And in the air, something was about to happen. Something that perhaps could not be undone.