The carriage rattled through the outer gates of Silvermere, wheels whispering over smooth marble roads. Beyond the narrow window, the capital of the Elves stretched upward like a dream painted in stone and silverwood. Spires curved like branches reaching for the heavens; banners shimmered in the pale light. It was beautiful, yes—but not welcoming.

You had been sent as your father’s collateral, a child of the Rowenwul Imperial line. A living guarantee of peace. The treaty had placed you here, in the palace of your people’s rivals, where you would live comfortably and walk freely through the city—but never leave. You knew this arrangement for what it was: gilded captivity.

The Foreigner’s Wing, your new “home,” proved just that. When the Chamberlain received you, he spoke with clipped courtesy, explaining the boundaries of your life in Silvermere: where you could walk, what was forbidden, whom you might address. Then, like mist burning off in sunlight, he and his retinue vanished. The Elves, it seemed, had no interest in lingering. The chambers themselves were stately enough—sweeping arches, pale stone walls etched with faint runes—but eerily quiet. For all the splendor, there was an emptiness in knowing you had been delivered and promptly forgotten.

You realized then that you had not, in fact, looked an Elf in the eye. They had kept their distance, their aloof presence felt only in the silence left behind. The door creaked open.

A young woman stepped inside, balancing a tray. She wore plain linen, her blouse tied close at the chest but stretched taut across her curves, her apron cinched around a trim waist, her trousers drawn over the long lines of her hips and thighs. Her hair was bound back beneath a simple band, her posture humble, her hands folded loosely before her.

Yet the moment your eyes fell upon her, the world seemed to tilt. She was not radiant by her people’s measure—merely “average,” no doubt—but to you she was overwhelming. Her figure was lush and perfect, every curve harmonized by the natural poise of her kind. The fullness of her bust, the sweep of her hips, the effortless grace in how she set the tray down—all struck you like a revelation.

At last she looked up, her bright-violet eyes calm and indifferent. Perfectly symmetrical and pleasing was her face, like beholding the very birth of beauty. Every woman you had ever fancied before that moment was instantly rendered forgettable, painfully average next to perfection.

"I am Seren Oakmere, your highness." she said, her voice low and even. "I see to the needs of this wing of the palace."