“Princess… Princess, rise and shine, my dear princess.”

The voice was warm, trembling with gentleness, though age cracked it at the edges. A wrinkled hand tugged softly at the blankets of the girl still curled up on the bed. The chamber smelled faintly of lavender and old wood, the heavy curtains blocking out the rising sun.

Leila stirred. She turned to her side, trying to hide her face in the pillow as if the simple act of turning away could delay the day itself. She was sixteen—still with the softness of youth, but her eyes, whenever she opened them, already carried the weight of someone much older.

The woman standing over her gave a patient sigh, her back aching as she leaned forward.

“Ahem.”

Her throat-clearing was louder than necessary, sharp as a command. With practiced efficiency she whisked away the quilt, exposing Leila to the cool morning air.

Leila blinked awake, her lashes fluttering, her lips pressing into a line. She said nothing—obedience had been carved into her through years of quiet survival. She slipped off the bed and padded across the chamber, her bare feet brushing the cold stone floor as she made her way to the basin. The water was icy. She bent forward and splashed it on her face without complaint.

The nanny exhaled slowly, lowering herself onto the sofa beside the window. Her back throbbed as it always did, a constant reminder of age and of years bent in service. She rubbed at it with one hand, willing her body into cooperation for another long day.

Once—once she had dreamed of resting in a green countryside, far from stone walls and duty. She had imagined waking to birdsong instead of obligation, tending a small garden, breathing freely. But dreams had never been kind to her.

Her name was forgotten by most now. To the palace she was simply “the old nanny,” the woman who clung stubbornly to her role. They whispered about her, the way people whisper when they think age makes someone deaf. That she was too rigid. That she had never married. That she had died a virgin without knowing a man’s love.

She heard them. She remembered. And she remembered him.

The soldier. The one who had kissed her once, years ago, before leaving for the great war. He had not promised her marriage. He had not even confessed love. Perhaps he had never intended to return to her at all. Perhaps she had only been a fleeting comfort before his death. She had wondered about that night for decades—if he had cherished her or if she had merely been convenient.

She had long since chosen not to care. Because he had died, and she had lived.

And the truth she had learned was bitter: men who claim to love yet never show it are fictions meant for storybooks. In real life, love shines through in nervous eyes, in hands that tremble with the effort of reaching out. Real love makes a man gentle, no matter how hard his heart once was. Anything less is not love at all.

Her gaze softened as it returned to Leila.

Not for her own sake did she still serve. Not for her late mistress, either—not anymore. Though she had once hated the crown princess, the woman who had ruined her life and reduced her from a count’s daughter to a servant, still she had cared for her faithfully. Because hate corroded the soul, and the nanny had already lost everything worth destroying.

It had been on that woman’s deathbed that she had been given her last, binding command: “Raise her well. Love her as her mother.”

And so she had.

Leila, the last surviving princess of the Khair Empire. The girl born with a doomed fate. The girl promised to Emperor Lev—the King of Werewolves.

The nanny’s lips pressed into a thin line. She had no love for werewolves. They had taken everything once. They had burned, slaughtered, enslaved. She still remembered the smell of blood on the wind when the war had turned against humankind. But what could one old woman do against history?

So she had raised Leila, hiding her away in a tower, shielding her from eyes that had forgotten her existence. Shielding her, but not saving her. Because no one could save her from what was coming.

Leila wiped her face with the linen cloth beside the basin and turned back toward her caretaker. Her eyes were calm, though too calm for her age. She said nothing, simply lowered her head in the respectful acknowledgment the nanny always required.

The old woman nodded once, satisfied.

That obedience had kept them both alive.

But today, something in the air felt different. Heavier.

The nanny sat back against the sofa, her hands folded in her lap. She remembered her cousin—the late empress, Leila’s mother—as a girl. They had grown up together, dreamed together, planned their debut into society together. She remembered laughter under candlelight, the kind of laughter that made promises without words.

And she remembered betrayal.

The empress had stolen everything. Her soldiers, her land, her birthright. All gone in a single stroke of treachery.

And yet, in the end, she had died young, leaving behind only this fragile child.

Karma had taken her, as karma always did.

But karma had left the nanny with a burden. And a love she had not expected.

Because somehow, against all reason, she loved this girl as if she were her own blood.

Her back tensed, her eyes stung, though she would never let Leila see. She forced herself to straighten.

“Come,” she said, her voice gruffer now. “There is much to be done.”

Leila nodded again, silently.

The tower chamber, with its worn furniture and faint smell of herbs, was suddenly suffocating. Outside, the world moved on, forgetting the princess locked away. But today, for the first time in years, the world was coming for her.

And Leila, though she did not say it aloud, already knew: tomorrow she would belong to the King of Werewolves.