Date: The 14th Day of the Month of Frost, Year 1098 of the Imperial Calendar.
Location: The Merchant District, Capital City of Aethelgard.
The morning sun did not bring warmth to the household of Merchant Kael; it brought scrutiny.
In the year 1098, in the sprawling capital of Aethelgard, beauty was not merely an attribute. It was a currency. It was politics. It was survival. And in the cramped, dust-mote-filled room on the second floor of a modest timber house, seven-year-old Aanya was learning that she was the most valuable coin her family possessed.
"Chin up. Higher. No, not that high, you look arrogant. Lower. Perfect. Hold it."
The voice of her mother, Elara, was sharp, like the snapping of dry twigs.
Aanya held her breath. She stood on a small wooden stool in front of a polished bronze mirror that was slightly taller than she was. Her legs ached. She had been standing there since the temple bells rang the sixth hour, and now the sun was already high enough to cast harsh beams across the floorboards.
"Mother, my ankle hurts," Aanya whispered, her voice small and melodic, like a wind chime.
"Pain is temporary, Aanya. Posture is forever," Elara snapped, not looking at her daughter's face but at her reflection. She held a brush made of soft boar bristles, obsessively smoothing a stray lock of hair that had dared to curl out of place on Aanya's head. "Do you think the Emperor's wives slouch? Do you think the Empress complains about her ankles?"
Aanya lowered her eyes. "No, Mother."
"Look at yourself," Elara commanded, her tone softening into something that wasn't quite affection, but rather the reverence a jeweler might hold for a particularly large diamond. "Just look."
Aanya looked.
Even at seven years old, it was undeniable. She was an anomaly of nature. In a district where children were often covered in soot, with knees scraped from playing in the cobblestone streets and hair matted with sweat, Aanya looked like she had been sculpted from moonlight.
Her skin was pale and flawless, translucent enough to show the delicate blue veins beneath her wrists. Her eyes were large, framed by lashes so thick they cast shadows on her cheeks, the irises a deep, arresting shade of violet—a color so rare it was usually only seen in the royal bloodline. Her hair, black as a raven's wing, fell in a heavy, silken curtain down to her waist.
She was breathtaking. She was perfect.
And she hated it.
"You are a gift from the Gods," Elara murmured, applying a scented oil to Aanya's elbows. "The fortune teller said it the day you were born. 'She will walk on gold. She will wear the sun.' We cannot waste this, Aanya. Your father has leveraged the shop, the house, everything... just to keep you pure."
Aanya didn't understand what "leveraged" meant, but she understood the heavy feeling in the air. It was the smell of desperation.
The house they lived in was respectable, located in the middle-class merchant district. They were not poor—they ate meat three times a week and wore cotton—but they were perpetually terrified of sliding backward. The line between the merchant class and the slum rats was thin, separated only by a few bad trade deals or a harsh winter.
Aanya was their ladder. She was their escape plan.
"Is it done?" A gruff voice came from the doorway.
Kael, her father, stood there. He was a man of forty, though he looked fifty. His face was lined with the stress of a man who juggled debts like a circus performer juggles knives. He wore a merchant's tunic that was well-mended but fading at the seams.
"Almost," Elara said, finally putting down the brush. "She looks radiant today. The herbal bath is working."
Kael walked into the room, his heavy boots thudding on the floor. He didn't hug Aanya. He didn't ask her if she had slept well or if she wanted to play. Instead, he walked around the stool, inspecting her like a customer inspecting a racehorse.
He grabbed her chin, tilting her head left and right.
"Her skin is dry near the nose," Kael criticized, frowning. "Are we not paying that alchemist enough for the moisturizing cream? That jar cost me three silver coins, Elara! Three!"
"It's the winter air, Kael. I'm doing my best," her mother defended herself, her voice rising in panic. "I'll apply more goose fat tonight."
"See that you do," Kael grunted, letting go of Aanya's face. He walked to the window, peering out at the busy street below. "The tax collector came by yesterday. He says the Emperor is planning a grand selection in ten years. A definitive one. King Darius is unsatisfied with his current harem. He wants fresh blood. He wants the most beautiful woman the continent has ever produced."
He turned back to Aanya, his eyes gleaming with a terrifying intensity.
"That is you, little one. You understand, don't you?"
Aanya nodded obediently. "Yes, Father."
"We are investing everything in you," Kael said, pacing the small room. "Your tutors, your diet, your clothes. Your sister, Riya, wears your old rags. We eat porridge so you can eat fruit imported from the south. You carry the weight of this entire family on that pretty face of yours. Do not fail us."
"I won't," Aanya said. She had said it a thousand times. It was the only answer allowed.
"Good. Now, go to your studies. The etiquette tutor is expensive, and she charges by the minute."
The "studies" took place in the parlor, the only room in the house that was kept immaculately clean for guests.
Madame Rousseau was a severe woman with a stick made of hickory wood. She taught Aanya how to pour tea without making a sound, how to walk as if she were floating, and how to smile without showing her gums.
"A laugh is a vulgar thing," Madame Rousseau lectured, tapping the stick against her palm. "A lady does not laugh. She offers a soft, mysterious smile. Laughing creates wrinkles around the eyes. Laughing distorts the symmetry of the face. Try again."
Aanya sat perfectly still, holding a porcelain teacup that was empty. She curved her lips upward by exactly three millimeters.
"Better," the tutor noted. "But your eyes look dead. The Emperor wants a wife, not a corpse. Put some light in them! Imagine you are looking at a chest of gold."
Aanya tried to imagine a chest of gold. She felt nothing. Instead, she imagined a sweet bun. A warm, steamed bun filled with red bean paste. Her stomach rumbled quietly.
"Disgraceful," Madame Rousseau hissed. "A lady's stomach never makes noise. It shows a lack of discipline. We will skip the afternoon snack as punishment."
Aanya's heart sank, but her face remained a perfect, unmoving mask.
By the time the tutor left, the sun was beginning to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and bruised purple. Aanya was finally released.
"You may rest for one hour," her mother called from the kitchen. "Do not go outside. The air is too dusty."
Aanya retreated to her room, but she didn't rest. She went to the window.
This was her favorite part of the day. The only part that belonged to her.
Her room was on the second floor, overlooking the back alley that separated the merchant district from the lower wards. It was a narrow, cobblestone lane where delivery carts passed and where the neighborhood children played when their chores were done.
Aanya pushed the wooden shutter open just a crack—wide enough to see, narrow enough so her mother wouldn't notice.
Down below, life was exploding.
She saw children her age running through the mud. There was a boy with a stick pretending it was a sword, chasing a girl who was shrieking with laughter. They were dirty. Their clothes were patched. They looked hungry.
But they were laughing.
Aanya pressed her cheek against the cold wood of the window frame. She touched her own face. It was soft, smooth, and perfect. But it felt like a prison wall.
Why can't I go down there? she thought, a lump forming in her throat. I don't mind the dust. I don't mind if I get a scrape. I just want to run.
She watched as the children down below started a game of tag. One boy, slightly older than the others, perhaps ten years old, was faster than the rest. He had messy hair that stuck up in every direction and a grin that seemed to split his face in two. He vaulted over a crate, stole a hat from another boy, and danced away, laughing.
He looked... free.
Aanya felt a strange pang in her chest. It wasn't just jealousy; it was a deep, hollow longing. She was the "Future Empress." She was the "Goddess of Aethelgard." But she was also the loneliest girl in the world.
"Aanya!"
Her mother's voice shrieked from the hallway.
Aanya slammed the shutter closed instantly, her heart pounding. She spun around just as the door opened.
Elara stood there, holding a bowl of green, foul-smelling paste.
"What were you doing?" Elara asked suspiciously, sniffing the air. "Did you open the window? I smell street filth."
"No, Mother," Aanya lied, her hands trembling behind her back. "I was just... looking at the sunset through the glass."
"The glass is dirty. Stay away from it," Elara commanded, walking forward. "It is time for your evening mask. This one is made of crushed pearls and cucumber. It will keep your skin tight."
"But I'm only seven," Aanya whispered. "My skin is already tight."
"Prevention, Aanya. Prevention!" Elara scooped a handful of the cold slime and slapped it onto Aanya's cheeks. "You must be perfect. Flawless. The Emperor has thirty wives. Do you know what happens to the ones who lose their beauty? They are sent to the Cold Palace. They are forgotten. Do you want to be forgotten?"
Aanya closed her eyes as the cold paste covered her eyelids. "No, Mother."
"Good. Now lie down. Do not move your face for two hours, or the mask will crack."
Aanya lay on her bed, her body rigid. She stared up at the ceiling she couldn't see, listening to the muffled sounds of the children playing outside. Their laughter was fading now as night fell.
She thought of the boy with the messy hair. She wondered what his name was. She wondered if his mother put crushed pearls on his face, or if she just kissed him goodnight.
Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, threatening to ruin the mask.
Stop it, she told herself. Don't cry. Crying makes your eyes puffy. Crying makes you ugly.
She swallowed the tears. She forced her breathing to slow. She became the statue her parents wanted her to be.
Downstairs, she could hear her father arguing with a supplier about the price of silk.
"I cannot pay you yet!" Kael was shouting. "But wait until she is grown! Wait until the Emperor sees her! We will be swimming in gold! I promise you, she is an angel! She is our ticket to heaven!"
Aanya lay in the dark, the "ticket to heaven" covered in green slime, feeling very much like she was already in hell.
She drifted into a restless sleep, dreaming of running through the mud, scraping her knees, and laughing until her face wrinkled.
But even in her dreams, a shadow loomed over her. A golden shadow, shaped like a throne, waiting to swallow her whole.
And she had no idea that the boy with the messy hair—the boy she had watched from the window—was currently sitting on a rooftop three streets away, holding a stolen apple, looking at her window, and wondering who the sad princess behind the glass was.
Fate had not yet woven their threads together. But the spindle was turning.