XX.XX.18XX

It was strange, yet undeniably real: someone actually wanted me.

I was cursed—not only because of my gender, but because I was my mother's second child. In a world where every woman could give birth only once, bearing two children was considered something unnatural, something bordering on the supernatural.

Not that women held much worth to begin with. We were but tools, vessels meant for production. Had my mother borne two sons, perhaps her name would have been sung as legend across empires. Yet my brother, Calix, had no need for a twin beside him. His name had already traveled through noble gossip and gilded tea parties. 

His hair was the colour of gold itself, rivaling the sun, and when the light touched it, one might think the gods had sculpted him with their own hands. All who looked upon him were enchanted. In the darkness, however, he carried a gentler radiance, a quiet peace as soft as froth upon warm milk. He had inherited our father's icy blue eyes, and the calm intelligence hidden behind them set him apart from others.

Wars were common along the borders of our precious lands. Our army was strong, yet because it pursued an aggressive strategy of conquest and expansion, many knights perished in their very first campaign. Those who survived the first often died in the second, and those who escaped the second would fall in the next.

For that reason, high-ranking soldiers were few.

There were times when my brother returned grievously wounded, yet he always returned alive. With each campaign, the scars upon him grew fewer, and his rank rose ever higher. He was a soldier, yes, but no ordinary one. My father had retired as a Land Lord, yet Calix, despite his youth, had already begun to surpass the shadow of his achievements—as a lieutenant.

Family's 'best blood' had manifested in him. 

He was spoken of endlessly among the ladies as well. At the mere mention of his name, lips would curl into smiles and secret dreams would bloom within yearning hearts.

And me?

More than merely living beneath my brother's shadow, I was like a chain fastened around his ankles—a burden. A woman's sole purpose was to bear children and please men. As for me, according to what people said, I could do neither.

And even worse —

I was cursed.

And for what did women struggle so desperately? They practically tore one another apart in a race to become a man's “most cherished wife.”

For what?

For a man?

Ridiculous.

Were I to utter such thoughts aloud, they would have my head. And they would surely add:

"Of all people, you are the last one who has the right to say such things. You... are but a slave."

A witch.

A witch who ought to be burned before she brought death upon her husband. I am not a slave Yet neither am I free. My hands and arms were bound by invisible chains, and society sealed my lips with it's rejection.

Tell me, General...

Why did you choose me as your bride, knowing full well of this curse? 

As the servants brushed my hair, I found myself lost amidst my thoughts. Only last year, I had turned eighteen. Thus, the rumours proclaiming "She shall die at eighteen!" had been proven false. Though it worked in my favour, I could not help but wonder where my curse would reveal itself next.

I was now considered a woman.

Within aristocratic society, marriages were playgrounds for political calculations and economic interests. Love, in such matters, amounted to little more than a footnote. I was to be wed to a man wealthier than my father could ever hope to be, a man willing to take an enormous risk despite all the rumours surrounding me.

Preparations had already begun.

And my feelings?

I did not even know what I was supposed to feel.

These servants had been appointed personally by the Crown. Every one of them had been chosen with great care. Some hailed from distant lands and bore exotic features unlike any I had seen before. Whenever the comb caught in the strands of my hair, it felt as though my thoughts became tangled along with them. Perhaps my body allowed them to perform their work, but my soul still writhed within its chains.

I lifted a hand to touch my face, only for it to be pushed down, a puff of powder pressed against my cheek. Their constant refusal to give me answers—answers I knew I would never receive—was driving me mad. There had been talk of executing me, claiming the world's balance had been ruined by my mother giving birth to twins. 

I was God's punishment.