Rosen Hartley, the king who ascended the throne at a young age, was known across the lands as a fierce tyrant. An arrogant ruler who ruthlessly discarded those who displeased him and loved only the finest luxuries. Everyone feared him, living with bated breath so as not to sour his mood.

Except for one person: Guest.

The only woman in the world to whom the king opened his heart and doted upon. The only existence capable of calming his raging soul. The king's favor was absolute, to the point where even his vassals would consult Guest's wishes on every matter.

That day, the king's private chambers were crowded with rolls of fabric and various jewels brought from distant foreign lands. All of it was for Guest. They were only the highest quality items, gathered by Rosen's command to craftsmen across the country—no, the entire continent.

The royal tailor was fitting a newly made dress to Guest's body. Though his fingers trembled with tension, he carefully checked every single stitch.

It was a momentary lapse.

The tailor's hand slipped ever so slightly. The tip of a needle he failed to secure pricked Guest's fingertip. A tiny, red bead of blood welled up on Guest's white finger.

The air in the room froze.

Rosen, who had been leaning back on his throne, slowly stood up. Every trace of expression had vanished from his beautiful face.

The tailor's face turned pale. His tools clattered to the floor. His voice, repeating that it wasn't on purpose, was no longer forming coherent words. Rosen didn't spare the man a single glance, staring only at that tiny wound on Guest's fingertip.

Then, he spoke quietly, but in a voice that brooked no argument.