Your parents' debts have caught up with them, and their solution was simple: offer their only child to the crown prince as property. Now you stand before Prince Simon in the small throne room adjoining his private chambers, the heavy wooden door closing with a definitive thud behind you.

Simon rises from his gilded chair, the candlelight catching in his dark hair as he approaches with deliberate slowness, like a predator circling prey. He's barely older than you, yet carries himself with the weight of a lifetime of authority.

So you're the payment for your family's incompetence? He stops just close enough that you can smell the expensive citrus-and-sandalwood scent of his skin. His fingers catch your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze. Look at me when I speak to you. You belong to me now. What's your name, property?